Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5240492.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A
      Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Tywin_Lannister/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Tywin_Lannister, Sansa_Stark, Tyrion_Lannister, Cersei_Lannister, Joffrey
      Baratheon, Pycelle_(ASoIaF), Kevan_Lannister, Catelyn_Tully_Stark, Harwin
      (ASoIaF), Varys_(ASoIaF), Oberyn_Martell, Jaime_Lannister, Margaery
      Tyrell, Randyll_Tarly, Sandor_Clegane, Genna_Lannister, Roose_Bolton, Fat
      Walda_Frey, Flement_Brax, Ramsay_Bolton, Theon_Greyjoy, Wyman_Manderly,
      Brynden_Tully, Jon_Snow, Jon_"The_Greatjon"_Umber, Barristan_Selmy,
      Daenerys_Targaryen
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe_-_Arranged
      Marriage, Older_Man/Younger_Woman, Graphic_Description, Violence, Canon-
      Typical_Violence, Physical_Abuse, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse,
      Miscarriage, Child_Death, Character_Death, Original_Character(s),
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Sexual_Assault, Heavy_Angst, First_Time, Loss_of
      Virginity, Forced_Marriage, Pregnancy, Torture, Aftermath_of_Torture,
      Revenge, Execution, Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-23 Completed: 2016-01-11 Chapters: 32/32 Words: 225759
****** Pride and Pack ******
by AllTheDances
Summary
     Originally posted: 2013-01-01 to 2013-12-25
     An alternate universe where instead of Tyrion, Tywin Lannister
     marries Sansa Stark himself.
Notes
     *Note: Please (please, please, please) heed all the tags included in
     the summary. I will try to warn where I can, but trust that this
     story contains an ample amount of graphic depictions of (as well as
     allusions to) underage sex, emotional manipulation, sexual, verbal,
     and physical abuse, torture, violence, etc. Please be aware of your
     own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*
     This fic started with a prompt from the kinkmeme - Prompt: Fingering;
     Tywin feels the need to ensure that his investment in the Stark girl
     is still... intact. - and grew from there. The first chapters are
     smaller in length, but ramp up pretty quickly. The thing is complete
     and, from what I've been told, 'Quite the fucking roller coaster.'
     So, I hope you enjoy it.
     Cheers!
     Relic
     **This story was originally posted from 2013-01-01 to 2013-12-25,
     removed 2015-02-23, and returned for good right now.**
      Some of this story was initially beta'd by dealbreaker19 and
     IceEagleYisuri, but has since been reworked. Any errors are mine
     alone.
***** Prologue: Assured *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Even though he is observing her solely through his peripheral, Tywin
Lannister’s authority is unquestioned.
"Lady Sansa, I will make this brief." His words hold nothing of the malice she
is used to from others in his family, but even a simple statement makes her
tremble before the Hand of the King. "You understand we are to be wed on the
morrow?" He continues, yet somehow the words don't cross the air as a question,
more of a demand requiring acknowledgement.
"Y-yes my lord." It is all she can do not to weep at that cold bit of honesty.
However, Sansa has spent nearly all of her tears already, last evening, after
she as a bride had been set aside by an atrocious boy-king only to be retrieved
by his grandfather.
"Good," that same grandfather says. "I am sure you understand the importance of
this union." His glare is of such intensity he might as well be holding a blade
to her throat, his curt intonation further digging of that steel. "It is, of
course, of benefit for both House Lannister and House Stark to be bound by
marriage. Our sons will rule both the West and the North, of that you can be
assured." There is no greed in his tone; it holds no arrogance, no sentiment,
but is crafted entirely in certainty.
Cutthroat indeed, her mind rattles out. Lord Tywin's certainty is palpable to
her, a stab of something solid through her guts, and the thought of spawning
children with this man terrifies her in a way that makes her feel as though her
life is ending.
Out of habit, away from any notion of mortal danger, Sansa is about to correct
him, politely, remind him that her brother Robb rules in the North and only his
sons will hold that claim, when Lord Tywin's eyes flash from formal to
something she cannot name, then back to clinical and unforgiving.
"However," he drawls, but in a way that is nowhere near lazy. "I require
assurances of my own.” Again his voice is devoid of any emotion, and it cuts
through the treacherous path her thoughts were walking. “I have heard varying
accounts of your treatment in your time here and, while I'm sympathetic, I
neither have time nor patience to investigate every grievance in order to
determine both your plight and your virtue."
Sansa hears only the word 'virtue' and, by their own volition, her courtesies
attempt a gentle defense. "I have not been dishonoured, my lord-"
"So you say, my lady." There is no reprimand. "However, trust is a game best
left to those of a simple mind." Only judgement.
Sansa blinks fast as though struck, and she has been, in a way. Here sits one
more person who regards her word as a noble-born lady as all but worthless. It
does not prevent her mouth from trying to stutter out something helpful.
"I-I can be... A Septa can..."
But speaking to Lord Tywin Lannister about matters of a feminine nature is as
easy as igniting snow into flames.
A sharp look ends her stuttering attempts at clarification.
"Again, my lady," he says carefully, an impact on every syllable. "My trust
begins and ends with my own vision, I will be attending to the matter myself."
Attending the... matter... himself?
"My lord, that's highly improper..." The words are flung before she can
consider them. She has just called The Great Lion of Casterly Rock improper, an
infraction that will surely see her put to death. Lowering her eyes, she offers
sincerely, "I apologize my lord-"
"There's no need to apologize." His own sincerity rings with equal parts
annoyance and impatience. Lady Sansa meets his eyes as he speaks further. "You
are correct, but your choice is to either allow my examination, and we will
marry tomorrow; or don't, remain a lady of the court, and be left to the whims
of your king."
Suffering humiliation privately or publicly is not much of a choice, but
considering she has already endured the latter, she feels she could surely
endure the former. Ultimately, the conclusion of each scenario is horrid, marry
Tywin Lannister or become a mistress to Joffrey; this is simply the lesser of
two evils.
...She hopes.
Sansa squares her shoulders, swallows her hesitations, lifts her chin and
speaks with hastily mustered confidence. “Carry on my lord.”
His expression gives nothing away. He regards her for several more heartbeats,
for a foolish moment she hopes that he can see what he needs from there, until
he motions for her to step closer - a wave of two fingers, like he is ordering
a servant to refill his wine. The notion is beneath her, but her feet for get
their station and move of their own accord.
As she approaches his side, he stands briefly to push back his chair a slight
distance from the table. Sitting back down he envelopes her wrist in his hand,
not ungently, and pulls her until she is standing in front of him, their knees
almost touching.
Without preamble, Lord Tywin says, “Please remove your smallclothes, my lady.”
The pleasantries do not detract from the staggering vulgarity of the request,
and it makes Sansa's heart freeze momentarily for the shock of it.
She is looking over his head, focusing on a random point on the wall behind
him, trying to school the blush she feels creeping up her neck. Tears pool in
her eyes before she blinks them back and remains intent on that spot on the
wall. She proceeds to bunch her skirts up and over her hands in order to get to
her undergarment. Sansa finds she has to look at what she is doing if she wants
to strip the article quickly, and in doing so, she notices Lord Tywin looking
away.
She considers that if she were to perform this same task with an audience of
Kingsguard, they would certainly be watching her every move. Lewdly, in fact.
And that truth only makes Lord Tywin's modesty more confusing - considering
what he is about to do.
Tywin regards her again when he has heard her skirts still, and gives a near-
whispered thank you.
She feels his hands rest on her hips - not groping or pawing at her - gripping
her through the fabric of her skirts until he has her lifted and sitting on the
table. When he places his fingers around her ankles she inhales quickly through
her nose, surprised at the sudden intimacy.
“Lady Sansa look at me. " His tone is even, but softer; she follows his order.
“It may seem to the contrary, but I promise you,” his voice shifts to something
she considers rather ominous, “your character will not be brought into
question.”
In a juxtaposed gesture, he starts rubbing small circles where his thumbs are
resting.
Sansa understands quite well that to question her reputation would mean
questioning his, but it is hard for that to sink in when she is registering
only the feeling of his hands. They are soothing, andthat is most frightening
of all.
Propped on the table her vantage point is higher. It is something new to look
down on anyone, let alone Lord Tywin. She would not say she feels any more in
control, but the perspective is refreshing. He is still looking at her with
unbidden intensely, but at this angle the green of his eyes isn't as fierce.
Sansa finds it in herself to let her legs relax some in his clutch. His thumbs
are still drawing little circles, she wistfully interprets that as appreciation
for her efforts. 
Tywin lifts her ankles slowly, allowing her to brace her hands behind her for
support. When she is fully stable, he places each of her feet on their
respective chair arms.
Her knees fall together naturally, still covered by her gown. She has lost eye
contact with him because of her new position, but she doesn't need to see him
to know that his face is stoic and his glare is made of pure intimidation.
Sansa feels his hands start to move from her ankles upward, gathering her
skirts as they go. He makes no move to spread her legs once the fabric is past
her knees, he just keeps pushing until it has bundled at her middle, then
removes his hands. She is left with the back of her gown still under her, and
that suits her just fine; the indignity of the forthcoming deed is enough, she
would rather not sit bare upon the table top as well.
Settling into the lull of silence in the room, Sansa can feel the warmth of his
breath where her legs are pressed together, then the brush of his hands
trailing from her ankles, up her calves and shins, rounding out until he is
palming her knees.
Lord Tywin's palms are hot, but steady...
Lady Sansa knows what is to happen next... 
The pressure he applies to spread her legs is restrained. She does not fight
him, simply follows his lead, and her thighs open wider as his hands move
smoothly down the fleshy inner span, then stopping midway. They make eye
contact again, and while he is not as flushed as she is, his eyes remain
placid, she can see plainly that his breathing has deepened.
A certain kind of power is obtained when you see a god waver. Lord Tywin
Lannister, for all his supremacy, is only a man, and if someone were to have
told her this, before, she would not have believed it. Witnessing it for
herself, though... Trust begins and ends with one's own vision.
She is the one watching him now. Memorizing every twitch of his mouth and blink
pattern he makes as he visually assesses her most private of areas. When he
takes in her gaze again he doesn't even move his head, he simply flicks his
eyes to meet hers. His intensity has deepened and he looks as though he is
about to consume her completely, as any lion would its prey.
Sansa finches. Not entirely out of fear.
Tywin keeps his left hand on her thigh and slowly moves his right toward the
heat at her center. Refocusing his attention on that part of her, he uses his
middle and forefinger to part her folds.
Sansa swallows back the mortification that threatens to surface, instead
choosing to watch his jaw clench, and the edges of his mouth almost hint at a
smirk - the look reminds her of someone who has just won a wager.
He flicks his stare at her again as he removes his fingers from the lower edge
of her folds and absentmindedly moves his hand back to her thigh. It is when
she half moans, half gasps, that he realizes the backs of his knuckles have
brushed the little nerve bundle at the top of her slit.
It is now her turn to breath heavily.
Lord Tywin takes his cue from her reaction, every movement with a purpose, at a
speed that ensures she is not only watching him, but understanding his actions
as well. He first raises his hand to his mouth and licks the pad of his thumb,
then returns it to the center between her legs, his fingers splaying in the
little patch of coarse auburn hair, his thumb sliding over and around that same
sensitive bump.
The noise that is ripped out of her is so primal, it is nothing she has ever
heard before. She doesn't even know it is her that has made it, until the echo
off the walls is thrown back into her ears. But before she can even think about
it, before she can think about anything, her head lolls back on its own and her
chest pushes out the air her throat then forms into another moan.
She is at the mercy of the man touching her... and he knows it.
His thumb moves in a steady cadence, circling her sensitive flesh then dipping
into the folds where his fingers were before. It is wet there like she has
never experienced. 
She is getting overwhelmed, a tingling heat is building low in her belly and
his thumb now feels slick. It is moving easily in and over her cleft, and that
good feeling is crashing into the first one.
The hand he has kept on her thigh is now noticeably kneading into her skin and
muscle. What would normally be an uncomfortable grip is now just another
sensation added to the mix. When it seems he notices his grasp on her, he
loosens it, and she quickly presses her own hand over his as if to instruct him
to continue. He twines his fingers with hers instead. An act that forces her to
look at him for true.
His face is no longer wooden, it has an element of some thing she can only call
vulnerability, and in catching her looking, he untangles both his hands and
uses a quick fluid motion to lift her, turn her, and set her down again on his
lap.
She is facing outward, her back against his chest, her legs on either side of
his. She is trying to regain her bearings when his hand is back at the slick
wet heat of her. He is doing no more than holding his palm and fingers against
her, his other hand is clamped onto her hip and is pushing and pulling her
pelvis in a motion and rhythm that reestablished the aching throb settled
deeply inside her.
Her hip will have bruises, of that she is sure, but the discomfort is, again,
nothing more than an enhancement to what she is already feeling.
Sansa puts her hands out in front of her, gripping the edge of the table at the
onslaught of what has been building since Lord Tywin first touched her. As her
vision blurs and her hearing blocks out everything except the blood rushing in
them, she anchors her arms and pushes back, grinding herself on his hand and
his lap, looking for every possible point of friction she can find.
Through it all, as she spirals into the best feeling she has ever had, she can
hear him groan her name, feel him buck up into her arse, meeting her desperate
grinding with his own.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Composure comes back to her in allotments: hearing, vision, control of her
extremities. Her fingers are still digging into the table in front of her and
she can see where the waxly polish of wood has been scraped in her frenzy.
When her breathing steadies and evens out, it is then that she accounts for the
man behind her: His arms have wrapped themselves around her middle, not
restricting at all, just holding there, and his forehead is resting on her
upper back. She can feel the humidity of his ragged breathing through the
material of her gown.
through it all, as the world slides back into place, Sansa pieces together the
understanding that whatever she experienced, he must have as well. She cannot
put a name to it, and rather prefers it remain unknown, for the fact it came at
the hands of Lord Lannister utterly conflicts with how she feels about it.
Sansa moves to rise, mustering as much dignity she can to wriggle off Lord
Tywin's lap. He offers no resistance save a grunt when she moves, his arms
unfolding themselves from around her. Yet she notices his hands stay close, his
fingers touching her dress so lightly she wouldn't have known they were there
if she had not swayed into them as she rose.
Standing, her back to him, positioned between him and the table, she uses one
hand to steady herself and the other to sweep flat the skirts of her gown -
trying her best brush away the dawning indiscretion and be as presentable as
possible for her walk back to her chambers.
She straightens, making no effort to leave.
Sansa takes a few moments before testing her voice. "Your assurances have been
met, my lord?"
She would never admit that Lord Tywin is pleasant, but the voice of his soft
reply indicates perhaps an edge of satisfaction.
"Yes, my lady."
Feeling somewhat triumphant, Sansa allows herself an inward smile as she dares
to walk away without his leave, sparing not even a glance behind her.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He watches her, her impeccable posture and careful steps, and continues to
stare at the door once she is gone. Tywin wants to admonish himself for being
so weak, for losing control, but he cannot seem to be bothered.
He is brought out of his contemplation when he notices a small white square on
the table in front of him. It is only on closer inspection that he notices the
square is actually fabric, with a small ribbon that has been tied in a delicate
bow. He is confused only momentarily until he allows himself to smirk,
genuinely, in recognition.
There in front of him, folded daintily, as only the thoughtfulness of a maiden
would make them, are the smallclothes of Sansa Stark.
Slipping the gift from the table and running his thumb over the intricate
stitching, he speaks knowingly to himself.
"Assured, indeed."
                                       .
                                      ..
                                      ...
 
***** Vows I *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
The sounds of the world around her warbled into coherent sentences as Lord
Tywin spoke his vows.
Sansa had said nothing since the evening prior. Not when she was summoned to
the King, not when the Queen Regent broke her fast with her in the morning -
then proceeded to give her a graphic description of what would happen when she
and her father consummated their marriage. She was dressed and preened in
silence. Even the best efforts of the maids assigned to assist her failed to
make small talk.
Nothing.
Reality hit her hard and fast when she left Tywin Lannister's presence the day
before. This was not a dream. This would be something that would be
irreversible; the old lion would not offer her concession for her fear or
apprehension. Her marital duty would be seen through and she would be his wife
for true.
Glancing out over all those gathered in the sept, sweating where they sat, and
yet Sansa felt cold. Her ears had been ringing since she woke up, her throat
felt scratched and near closed, and she could not for the life of her focus -
on anything.
Until now.
Her body selected that particular time to snap back to the moment at hand. She
found herself staring into the ornate, yet muted doublet of the man speaking
his vows - she did not have it in her to tilt her head the short distance it
would take and look him in the eyes.
Once finished, the septon cued her to speak, to take the vows that would bind
her to the Lord of Casterly Rock in the eyes of the gods.
She spoke not one word.
At first it sounded like a dramatic pause, but it quickly stretched into
something uncomfortable. When the crowd started to murmur and titter, she saw a
leaning movement in the doublet in front of her, then felt the warm steady
breath of a mouth beside her ear.
"I respect you for challenging the law, my lady, but make a fool of me and no
law will save you."
It was a monotone whisper; not malicious or with an air of violence, simply a
matter of fact. She looked at him then, realizing two things. The first was
that it would make no difference if she said her vows or not, the law meant
nothing when you were being married to a man that could afford to have them
work in his favour. Also, she noted, Lord Lannister was not sweating either.
Sansa aimed her eyes at the throat of the old lion and spoke her vows clearly.
When she was draped in a cloak of crimson and gold she had to fist her hands to
stop them from shaking, but her internal fright was interrupted by hands on the
sides of her jaw, tilting her head upward. It wasn't until she felt a brief
press of cool soft lips that she knew the ceremony was sealed and done.
Her grip was tight on the arm Lord Tywin offered her before they walked out of
the sept, causing him to look at her as if to assess her intent.
Her intent was nonexistent. She had just been married to the most intimidating
man in recent history.
She was terrified.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The feast, like the ceremony, was grand and befitting Tywin Lannister, but to
look at the man you would get the impression he found the whole thing a tedious
exercise. Being on display and open to the falsities of courtiers and plied for
favours from the same men who would damn him to all seven hells if given the
chance.
The bride and groom were placed next to the King, his betrothed, and Queen
Regent at the high table - a perfect altitude to watch the progression of their
guests' inebriation.  Tywin drank only very watered down wine and was genuinely
intrigued that his wife opted for the same. He made the assumption that she
would gladly be diving into her cups, drinking through this event that she had
no control over. Needless to say, he found her Tully sense of duty impressive.
To her right sat Tyrion, who had been covertly eyeing her since the moment they
were seated - like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
And that moment was when Lord Tywin was facing yet another lord, this one
trying to augment the terms of a loan.
"Mother!"
At least he was enjoying the evening enough for everyone. Sansa turned and
blushed hot and red at her new son. "My lord," she said, the words smooth off
her tongue, but they in no way swayed her discontent. She could wrap her mind
around so very few things in the past handful of days; however, being mother to
Tyrion Lannister, and grandmother to Joffrey, were not anywhere near
comprehension yet.
Tyrion's demeanour softened at her obvious discomfort. "You look beautiful my
lady," he offered sincerely.
She smiled small and tremulous at the compliment before thanking him in a voice
that matched.
He took a moment to consider her, a small rove of his mismatched eyes, before
returning his attention to the wine and food before him.
Sansa could not help but acknowledge the similarity of mannerisms between Lord
Tywin and his son - though she wasn't about to bring her observations to
light. Course after course was set in front of her, then removed. She lost
count and interest after ten. Her attention withdrew to her mother and how she
should have been there, on this day, her wedding day, above them all. Sansa
felt truly alone in a room full of people - at the feast to celebrate her own
marriage. Her melancholy would never show on her face, but her eyes must have
been painted pictures.
"Don't worry, my lady. Everyone here knows this was not a match of your
family's making." Tyrion had leaned toward her so his voice would not carry.
"My family are traitors, my lord. Marrying Lord Tywin is an honour. One for
which I am grateful, and should not be pitied." It was clear, concise, and said
with all the sincerity one would find in a loaf of bread.
Tyrion quirked his brow, making his facial wound shift grotesquely. "You
misjudge me, my lady. My pity is never given freely, but earned fervently by
the most deserving."
Sansa could not tell if she had been insulted outright or pitied further, or
both.
Tyrion looked as though he was about to say something else - his expression had
again changed to one of kindness and understanding - when he was over-spoken by
his father, and their king.
Sansa turned in time to see Lord Tywin speak and nod at Joffrey.
"Of course, Your Grace," her new husband said, clipped and efficient. Though,
when his eyes met hers she could plainly see an air of suspicion, and it
confused her. Before she could dwell on it, the king spun to her with his hand
outstretched.
"My lady, grant me your first dance."
She immediately looked to her husband; not for protection, but because it was
expected of her to first gain his approval. To which he offered her the same
curt nod he had given the King. Sansa took the arm of her once-betrothed, a
gesture she had performed many times before. One she could only hope this time
would not culminate the way it usually did - in pain and humiliation.
King Joffrey was graceful and fluid, leading her through steps and turns she
had known since she could walk. It was when they were almost side by side that
he drawled in her ear, "I'm considering a reinstatement of First Night, just
for you, my pet."
Sansa's naturally pale complexion turned ashen as the words fluttered to the
part of her mind that understood such things. She could feel herself go clammy,
but had enough inner strength to keep her world upright when she was spun to
face him. She assumed Lord Tywin wouldn't abide his grandson's wishes, but she
also knew that assumption, on any scale, in context to the Lannisters, was a
deadly proposition in and of itself. Yet it was the King's cruel smile that had
her truly defeated. Dancing and mortally wounded - as though she were being
beautifully lead into the midst of battle and certain death. There would be no
rescue, no hero for her story. Sansa was at the mercy of a boy who hated her,
and a man who was indifferent. The only remaining person she had a remote
notion of comfort with was a half-man who was regarded, by the men who
controlled her, as favourably as an illness.
She moved her feet and turned her body as the music dictated, then sunk further
into the depths of despair and regret. She should have left with the Hound;
she should have left at her father's orders.
A sharp, hard pinch at the small of her back brought her back from her
thoughts.
"You look bored. Do you not enjoy dancing with your king?"
The grip of his fingers tightened painfully, Sansa had to concentrate on
smiling and not shedding the tears she knew were welling from the hurt.
Joffrey sneered maliciously, leaning in to catch her ear. "Good girl. Keep
smiling and I won't have you fucked by my horse before I take what's mine."
She could only stare and smile blankly at him and hope - hope to whatever gods
listened to traitors - that she would be able to crawl into the warm dark den
buried deep in her memory, the one she sought refuge in every time the King
made her an example, and remain there for the duration of whatever he had
planned for her tonight.
At least the twisting pain of his fingers was dulling.
After a few more steps, both Sansa and Joffrey came to a sudden stop. She
thought he had backed her into a wall, but she was still in the middle of the
floor - surrounded by others who were dancing - and the wall behind her was
warm... and breathing.
"Your Grace, I have yet to dance with my bride."
The voice was serene, but held a dominance that Sansa could see King Joffrey
wither under. The King did not acknowledge Lord Tywin with words, he simply
pushed Sansa away - which only pressed her harder into the man behind her - and
walked back to his place at the high table. Large hands placed themselves on
her shoulders and motioned her to turn around. When she faced Lord Tywin, she
had to look up far more than she had with Joffrey. He was certainly a large
man, tall and broad at the shoulders; Physically imposing in a way that was
clandestine, but it was nothing compared to the look he carried naturally.
True intimidation. There was no real need for arrogance when the air about you
spoke of innate superiority. 
Lord Tywin did not smile at his wife, he barely seemed to notice her, but when
he settled his hands to their respective places and led her in the same dance
steps she followed with Joffrey, she could see that his eyes were not like
blades anymore. Absent was the suspicion. It was like the sharp corners had
been rounded somewhat, and as she continued peering up at him, her own wooden
smile lost its rigidity.
Her grin was a tiny and genuine thing, as though she were truly enjoying
herself with her husband.
He did notice that. Of course he did.
As Lord Tywin scrutinized her expression, looking for fault and insincerity,
she held it - and found it was something that did not need to be forced. His
facial features remained unchanged - she hardly expected they would - but what
surprised her, almost to the point of fumbling her steps and stopping her
altogether, was feeling Lord Tywin's thumb rubbing soft, light circles over the
spot on her lower back where Joffrey's touch contrasted in hard cruelty.
The dance turned her then to face the high table. Sansa observed the King and
his new betrothed speaking in close proximity. Joffrey's initial focus on
having her suffer all but forgotten. Sweeping further down, Cersei was watching
her with a glare Sansa was sure that if it were a tangible weapon would have
killed her where she stood. Her vision then panned to Tyrion. He was looking at
them, her and his father, wearing a look that spoke nothing of contempt or even
his usual mockery. It was peaceful in a way, almost pensive. Keeping her gaze
Tyrion nodded at her, a small shallow movement, and Sansa felt a rush - like
she wanted to weep, or shout for joy.
In that one rudimentary act of communication, Lord Tyrion told her she was
safe.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Vows II *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Lord Tywin escorted his new wife back to their chambers in the Tower of the
Hand, and could not help but notice that her own delicate hand had gone from
gripping his arm to shivering on it. Outwardly though, her face was placid, her
nervousness penned mostly on the inside.
Good.He Thought. In time she'll learn to completely pin back the physical
traits of fear. Those same thoughts were edged in light admiration of the girl.
They walked in silence and continued as such when they stepped through the door
of their apartments. However, Lord Tywin did not stop in the sitting room, did
not offer his bride wine or the opportunity for conversation, he merely kept
walking to the bedchamber.
This was a duty that must be performed in order to secure further acceptance of
their marriage.
Stopping short of the side of the bed, Lord Tywin turned to Sansa and spoke as
if she were one of the lords he had been tolerating during their feast.
"You are aware of what we must do." It wasn't a question.
Regardless, Sansa's lips stuttered out an affirmative as her mind recalled what
Queen Cersei had prepared her for as they broke their fast that morning.
"My father is a severe man, he'll not tolerate resistance or insubordinate
behavior."The Queen had spoken with equal parts venom and disinterest. "He will
not love you. He will never love you. His ability to do so began and ended with
my mother."
Sansa did not think it possible, but the Queen had turned even more sinister,
her voice a pale imitation of friendly. "You will spread your legs and he will
fuck his way through you, little dove. You will bleed and breed, like every
wife before you."  And just as quickly Queen Cersei had worn a smile, sweet as
honey, and patted Sansa's hand like she was her oldest friend.
She was startled back to the present as Lord Tywin raised his own hand to
caress her cheek and jawline. It took every bit of her inner strength not to
flinch at his touch, but she simply could not forcibly will her muscles to stop
their light spasms.
Moving both hands to her hair, he took little time in undoing the complicated
curls, braids and fastenings. He seemed momentarily fascinated with her
tresses; splaying and running his fingers through the length of them, twirling
a lock in his palm.
She watched him, observed the way he raked his eyes over her. There was nothing
in them like she had seen before in the men at court that looked at her, it was
more like she was being determined of value. In an instant, whatever softness
Lord Tywin displayed moments earlier was replaced with a coldness she had only
witnessed when her father was in the midst of a transaction. But she supposed
that was exactly what she was: chattel.
Reaching for the base of her throat, he unclasped her Lannister cloak and set
it aside. Lord Tywin flexed his jaw then - almost as though he wanted to say
something - and turned her around by the shoulders to face away from him. As
his fingers worked through the laces of her gown he could see she was now
trembling visibly. It was no secret how he was precieved by others, knew he was
a man to be and was feared, but he felt this type of reaction bordered on the
ridiculous.
Lady Sansa had been bred well enough to know what was expected of her on her
wedding night, in her marriage bed; for her to quake like this was an
implication, as he saw it, that he was some sort of degenerate.
The scene was raising his ire.
When he was finished with the gown, he unceremoniously dropped it to pool at
her feet. At which point he was more than disappointed in Sansa's frivolous
display. Instead of turning her to unlace her shift, he simply reached around
and yanked at the ties. The rougher he pulled the more she shook, and by the
time the ribbons were torn apart, she was softly, yet audibly weeping.
He did not care. This was her duty.
Tywin Lannister had been wrong, and it infuriated him. His bride was no more
than a foolish girl. His daughter was right in that Sansa was lacking -
intellectually and otherwise. How she had ever pulled herself through their
initial meeting was beyond him. Some mummers act he supposed, perhaps to ensure
a marriage to him instead of Tyrion.
That line of thought only served to ply fuel to his burning anger.
He all but ripped the garment down and away from her body, her smallclothes
catching his fury along the way. Her hair had swished back, long and full,
before he could straighten again and all he wanted to do was grab a fist full
and teach her what fear really was.
Lord Tywin pulled off his doublet and outer-tunic in angry yanks and pulls, was
working at the laces of his breeches with the same single minded furor. He was
mentally determining if he wanted to follow through with his own duty and bed
the girl face to face or save himself some grief and fuck her face-down, so her
sobs and tears could soak into a pillow instead.
Either way there would be blood on his cock and he would be done with it,
with her.
It was when he pushed her roughly toward the bed - her knees bumping the edge,
forcing her to catch herself on her hands - that her hair parted and he finally
saw...
He stopped dead. Cock hard and in hand, only just pulled outside his breeches,
still wearing his under-tunic and boots. The molten pit of malice inside him
was all at once extinguished, replaced with an ever-expanding field of
understanding...
His new bride... His wife was covered in a latticework of scars and bruises.
Some old, as far as he could tell, some fresh - as confirmed by a small trickle
of blood, surely caused by his callous disrobing of her.
She wasn't afraid of her duty, as was evident anytime they were facing each
other and the few times they had conversed. She was self conscious of what had
been done to her, of what he would think of her, of her flawed exterior, and
more likely anxious of what he was going to do to add to what she had already
suffered.
These were the things he was steered away from when he questioned rumors of her
mistreatment.
Do they think me such a blind old man, that I won't see?! Even his inner voice
was furious.
These were acts she endured here, not from her childhood, not from her family,
and for a searing moment he looked her over more closely, seeking the telltale
ravages of Gregor Clegane. But knew from experience that if that were the case
he'd not have to look hard, nor would this girl likely be alive for him to see.
His fingertips acted on their own, softly tracing some of the silvery ridges.
"I'm sorry, my lord..." He could barely understand her hoarse voice as she
whispered her words into the bedding. "It's... They're ugly..."
He spoke as he carefully lifted her upright and turned her to him, now noticing
blooming rounds of colour on her ribs and finger-shaped bruises encircling her
upper arms.
He crouched down slightly until he was eye-level with her. "Who did this?"
Decades of schooling his voice was the only thing masking his rage.
"No one, my lord."
Her voice was no longer quivering; her eyes still held tears, but she was no
longer crying. Her appearance was decidedly icy.
His was utterly wrathful.
"Do you think me stupid, girl? Look at me." His words were measured, his tone
was made of calmest seething she had ever heard. "Tell me who did this."
"I can't-"
He couldn't help it, he gave her a swift, solid shake. "Names!"
Lord Tywin wore a posture that she was sure sent grown men running. 
"The... Kingsguard." It was the tiniest of rasps, her newly found courage
abandoned as fast as it was gained.
He just glared at her, the deliberated frenzy in his eyes told her he was still
waiting for an answer, the one provided was not enough. It was an effort not to
make water on herself.
"Trant, Blount, Moore, Greenfield, Oakheart."
They were the first, and all she had the heart to remember currently.
"When did this last happen?"
Lord Tywin was shaking a little now, just a rippling of muscle under the skin.
Either way, his fury was consuming him, she knew this. Sansa looked at him
then, squarely, her voice clear and not at all confident.
"Last evening... after our... consult."
"At whose command?"
He didn't have to ask, he knew exactly who this savagery belonged to. But
she only shook her head. Her big blue eyes stared at him with a fearful
intensity derived of experience. Sansa may have been young, but she heeded
every lesson learned through pain and loss: information kills. She would not
name anyone that would force him to choose.
The girl's consideration was halting, he knew exactly what she was doing by
saying nothing, and it caused a tightening in the depths of his chest - one
that was both familiar and forgotten.
The vivid green eyes she was looking at, and were looking at her, suddenly went
blank. She had never seen eyes change like that. It was as though she had
become invisible and Lord Tywin was now focusing on the wall behind her. The
only other set of eyes she had seen wear that look were her father's, when she
was forced to view...
The lion's eyes were dead. That realization made the back of her neck prickle.
In that moment Sansa unequivocally feared the man standing in front of her. She
watched as he moved about the room without speaking. Tucking in his under-
tunic, tightening the laces on his breeches, and shuffling through the contents
of a wardrobe.
She was at too much of a loss to even move.
Lord Tywin was standing in front of her again, still looking at her with
unseeing eyes, still not saying a word. He shook out a sleep gown, rolled it up
from the hem and waited.
Sansa didn't quite know what to do, but an instinct from her childhood took
over and she raised her arms above her head - and instantly felt foolish. It
was short-lived though, as that was exactly what Lord Tywin was waiting for. He
gently worked the garment over her and waited until her arms were properly
placed before he swept her up in his own - careful to avoid touching her most
recent lashes - and laid her almost tenderly on the bed.
With absent eyes peering through her, he brought a cover across haphazardly,
tucked her in, brushed his fingers over the crown of her head and said in a
calm, faraway voice, "Sleep."
Without another word to her, Lord Tywin turned, picked up his sword belt and
walked out.
The last thing she heard was the outer door of the apartments shutting loudly.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tyrion would later tell Sansa of how his father stormed back into the hall -
wearing a half-tucked in under-tunic, shoddily laced breeches and a poorly
secured sword belt - accompanied by what looked like an entire regiment of
Lannister soldiers.
"A madman invading a dinner party." He had chuckled in his telling of events.
And how Joffrey made a snide remark about just how quickly the Lord of the Rock
returned from bedding his wife; which was answered by the old lion picking the
boy up by the ear - his crown falling onto the table with a loud clank - and
dragging the King bodily to a standing position in front of him.
Tyrion made sure to accentuate that part of the story by flailing his hands
side by side, as though they were Joffreys feet, looking like some poor
woodland creature's death throes.
He would also tell Sansa of Lord Tywin stating, in a voice that would brook no
opposition whatsoever, that the King would need to fill spaces in his personal
guard. And with that, his men dragged the entire kingsguard out to the bailey -
his father did not have the patience to take them any further - only to exact
justice swiftly.
Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were executed there and then without preamble, the rest
were stripped bare and flogged bloody.
Not a single knight, soldier, lord, or king made a move nor spoke a word to
stop the Great Lion in his single-minded vengeance.
Tyrion did not know what happened after they re-entered the keep, Lord Tywin
took Joffrey and Cersei into another room and had a private
discussion. Although he did know for certain there were noises of slapping and
weeping, as he would tell her peering over his cup of wine - and through a
smile that was there, but hidden.
Tyrion would also be rather forward in letting her know that his father was
motivated more out of anger from being slighted by proxy than any kind of
chivalry, but he would equally insist that the gesture was one of caring.
At least to the capacity of Tywin Lannister.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Vows III *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
When Tywin returned to their rooms he walked through the sitting area to the
bedchamber only to find it empty. Lingering bloodlust was causing his body to
react by getting angry, but it dissipated once he traced his steps back into
the sitting room.
There, radiating in the firelight, was a spill of auburn hair over the armrest
of the opulent bench stationed there.
Sansa had been shivering when Lord Tywin left, and the fire was greater in the
sitting room, so she took a covering and lay curled upon the layers of furs
cushioning the ornately carved and gilded oak. She had only hoped to warm up
before going back to bed - and sleeping as she had been told - but the heat and
the exhaustion from the day caught up with her, and coupled with the seat of
the bench which was both deep to the back and long enough for her to lay
unencumbered, it felt as though it were embracing her, she slumbered where she
lay.
His wife was peaceful and Tywin considered leaving her be, but thought against
it just as quickly. Crouching down in front of her, Tywin gently shook her
shoulder.
"My lady, wake up." 
Rousing maidens was an activity in which he was sorely out of practice. The
thought, at first humourous, turned bitter in his mind. Instead he stood,
scooped her up, coverings and all, and walked carefully back to the bedchamber.
Her head was in a natural position on his shoulder and, through her sleep, she
wrapped an arm around his neck. This act was also a bittersweet memory. It had
been a terribly long time since he had been at the receiving end of this type
of affection - one of the participants being asleep or not.
When he laid her down carefully on the bed, he took a moment to look, to
really see her. And she was beautiful. Truly her mother's daughter; a queen of
love and beauty. Even without the courtesies and impeccable demeanour, even
sound asleep, this girl was something to revel in. Tywin was in mid-thought, a
folly for his own chastisement later, and hadn't noticed Sansa awake in the
groggy way sleep tries to lure you back, looking at him.
A deliberate, delicate kind of scrutiny...
More precisely, she was looking at the flecks and lines of blood staining his
light-coloured under-tunic.
"Are... Are you injured, my lord?"
Tywin frowned at the girl, but refrained from his customary admonishment to
instead follow her gaze in an effort to understand her question. "No, my lady,"
he said coolly, then caught her gaze.
In his eyes she saw there lived a glitter, no longer so terrifyingly dull, they
housed a tiny spark, something illuminating the gold found there, and it made
Sansa gulp a breath.
Lord Tywin then leaned in close, like one would to convey a secret... or a
promise... and said in a tone that contrasted fully with the fire in his eyes,
"They will never hurt you again."
It was the truth. Tywin removed the heads of Blount and Trant himself, and
while his actions were spurned by the fact that his grandson and Kingsguard
thought themselves able to bring harm to something that belonged to him, Sansa
viewing it as an act of gallantry would only work in his favour.
That nominal shift in their dynamic carried a tiny bit further, and he was
taken rather aback when she moved to a position on her knees, on the bed before
him, and pressed her forehead to his chest as her fingers twisted tightly into
the fabric of his tunic. She was crying softly, he could hear, as she sputtered
out a wet thank you.
The old lion brought his hands to her hair, stroking down and through it.
Something that, again, came from a far away recollection. The inclination to
offer comfort was one he thought long ago buried. More so, the need to. He did
not love this girl, but the desire to protect her was becoming something more
than words recited in a ceremony.
She was his.
Tywin shook his head as if to rid himself of the thoughts that were prompting
him to feel anything at all. He could not lose his head to this girl. Comfort
her, yes. Care for her,  mayhaps - in time. But he could never lose sight of
the fact that she was only a means to an end; to be used for her only real
worth: heirs, and the North.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
His fingers were still tangled in auburn when Sansa started to pull away. Tywin
removed his hands and let her settle back on the bed, watching her wipe her
eyes and cheeks with a swatch of her sleeve as she went, her fit of weakness
thankfully short-lived.
Lord Tywin made his way slowly around to the opposite side of the large piece
of furniture, stopping to strip himself of the rest of his clothing before he
joined her on it. He was sat up higher beside her, his back resting against the
bolsters. 
Her nervousness returned to her like a wave.
Sansa could not watch him undress, did not feel ready for the truth of it all.
She stared straight ahead, focusing on the posters at the end of the bed,
shivering all the while. She knew what the Hound looked like after he had
killed - something wild in his eyes. Lord Tywin was different, like stilled
water, his outward demeanour betrayed nothing, and to her, that was far scarier
than a giant man with an unpredictable temper.
"Look at me, my lady."
Sansa instantly snapped her head to the side in compliance, but her eyes were
darting around the details of his face. She could not concentrate and it made
her look like a frightened animal; more so when she flinched. Lord Tywin had
curled his hand around hers and twined their fingers. She had been far too
distracted with her perception of his manner and did not notice his arm
moving. 
Swallowing audibly, all she could think about were Cersei's words, '...You will
spread your legs and he will fuck his way through you...' Sansa didn't even
know what the statement truly implied, all she knew was that it sounded like
more intentional hurt she would endure. She understood then in another awful
wave, that this was something she had never been prepared for. Her mother and
septa had told her she would do her duty by her husband when she was married,
that there would be blood the first time she laid with him, but there was never
any tutelage regarding what her duty was exactly... Or what it was exactly that
happened in a marriage bed.
I want my mother... Her inner self despaired.
So caught up was she in her own private terror that when Lord Tywin spoke,
Sansa's mind, despite itself, was trying to comprehend what he had said as some
sort of lecherous command.
It wasn't. Her husband had asked her about Winterfell.
She couldn't help but stutter out an answer. Still dazed, Sansa half
anticipated him to chide her for being stupid, for not properly regarding her
lord husband - as was her duty. But Lord Tywin did no such thing. He simply
asked her what she remembered of her beloved home. Told her to describe details
of both the place and its people. After a while he asked another question; this
time inquiring about her siblings; their names, their personalities and the
like. 
In answering him, Sansa felt a bit of sorrow, speaking of people and places she
knew she would never see again - especially now that she was married to a
Lannister. ...The Lannister. However, at the same time, the more questions she
was asked, the less she shivered, and the less she considered her surroundings
- and company. She was almost completely at ease when she felt his thumb move
in little circles in the side of her hand. Just as before when they were
dancing, when his thumb drew circles on the small of her back, she was coming
to find that particular touch soothing - a cast off pacification from her life
before the South. A notion that rung absurd when she really thought about it,
considering the person offering such consolation.  
Observing from her peripheral, Sansa took careful stock of that same person.
Lord Tywin was neither smiling nor jovial, he maintained a serious demeanour -
one that was not necessarily welcoming. Looking down at their hands, Sansa
remembered the first time their fingers were locked together like that - a
memory that made her blush hot and red all the way up her neck. 
Turning her head minutely, she regarded him more directly, trying to gage his
mood.
The nearly one-sided conversation ended then, her husband now returned her
stare.
Lightly tugging on her hand, the old lion spoke gently, soberly, and said,
"Come here, my lady."
Sansa took a deep breath before she shifted to her knees. Lord Tywin adjusted
his grip on her hand but never let go as he guided her first to kneel beside
him then, as she rearranged her nightdress, to sit astride his thighs.
She didn't know where to look. He was naked under her, she was bare under her
nightdress, and she could not get past the anxiousness that was threatening to
swallow her whole. In lieu of assuming proper decorum, she opted to admire the
intricate scrollwork that ran the edge of the headboard.
"Lady Sansa," his tone remained gentle, his features remained severe. "You have
never seen a man unclothed." Another one of his non-questions. She nodded in
response anyway, her gaze now riveted to the ridge of his left ear - there was
a small knick in it near the top - while he continued, "We are wed. This would
be the time to look."
Reluctantly she allowed herself to view more of him, to take in the figure of
the only man she would see this way.
Naked.
Her husband. Naked.
Sansa started at the top, his bald head was tanned a golden brown. Aside from
his eyebrows, the only hair he had on his face and head were the thick stripes
of golden hair on his cheeks that stopped at his jawline - not quite a beard.
His face had age lines, around his eyes and on his brow, but not like she had
seen on other men - he did not seem as old. She supposed that youth was
something else that could be paid for in gold. His tan ended at his collar but
the rest of him wasn't that far off, certainly not as pale as herself or those
of the North.
Raking her vision downward, she noted his body was firm, his stomach flat. She
thought then of King Robert and how he was more her father's age yet had looked
older than her husband. Lord Tywin had short hair on his chest and also on his
forearms; golden like the hair on his face, but it looked softer, finer. There
was grey hair mixed in, both on his face and his chest, but it didn't seem to
diminish the gold - just enhance it somehow.
Her view ended low on his abdomen, where her nightdress came to rest.
Before she could think to reel it back in, her hand was reaching out to touch
him - more precisely his chest hair.
Lord Tywin told her she could look though, not touch, and Sansa met his eyes
trying desperately to convey apology.
He did not look perturbed in the slightest.
"Go ahead, my lady. Touch," he said, blinking slow, an arrogant show of
nonchalance toward her precieved error. 
It was the invitation her hand had over-jumped, but instead of reaching for his
chest, as was the aim initially, she reached for his face - wanting to feel the
hair there. Pet it may be. It looked like a lion's mane and her curiosity was
getting the best of her.
Lord Tywin wasn't expecting it. As soon as her fingers got remotely close he
recoiled from them, his eyes livid and dangerous.
"What are you doing?" His tone was equal parts surprise and anger.
"I- I- Touching, my lord." At that moment she was too scared to even look away.
"Your face- I am so sorry." She was trembling again. "I- I wanted to touch your
face."
Sansa curled her fingers into fists and pulled them tight to her middle. She
did not want to lose her hands on account of a misunderstanding.
This girl sitting shaky on his lap, she did not know. She could not know that
no one touched his face, not even the servants tasked to attend him. They knew
never to make motion toward him there. It was too close to his neck, too
vulnerable. He alone had ever shaved his face, and eventually his head, not
trusting anyone to get that close with a blade.
So very few people had ever attempted such an intimate gesture as Lady Sansa
just did. And while he didn't give her leave to do so, he couldn't find the
logic that demanded she refrain. She was his wife. Alternately, he could handle
her strictly - he could break her, force her to submit. But if he was to
influence the North at all, his wife would be treated as the valuable commodity
she was. This meant concessions and compromises - within reason.
Setting his pride firmly away, Lord Tywin willed his voice to be gentle again
and his look to be softer. 
"You caught me off guard, my lady."
His hands slowly sought hers, gently pulling them away from her body, working
her fingers out of the fists she had made, amd said, "I am afraid it has been a
lifetime since someone has been able to do that."
It was the truth of the matter. If Lady Sansa had any ill-purpose he would have
more than likely been dead. He kept her eye as he leaned forward slightly, her
hands still tucked into his own, and placed her palms on either side of his
face, gently pressing his fingers over hers, showing her that was all right,
that she was allowed to touch him in such a way.
It took several heartbeats, but Sansa eventually warmed to the exercise again.
Lord Tywin casually lowered his hands until they were resting on her hips.
There was no urgency in his touch.
She watched his hands descend, then returned focus to her own.
He could feel her delicate fingertips work their way into the well groomed
shagginess of his sideburns, and it gave him an instant feeling of relief. Like
an itch that could only be scratched by someone else.
Long ago feelings were floating to the surface and he couldn't help but close
his eyes and lean into her touch. It was for mere moments, in his mind it felt
like hours, and when he opened his eyes again it seemed that Lady Sansa hadn't
noticed him falter. His thumbs started brushing lazy circles where they lay on
her hips, intending the gesture to be felt with the association of comfort - or
at the very least, good feelings.
When her fingertips started exploring his jawline and neck, Lord Tywin ran his
palms down her thighs to where her nightdress was bundled just past her
knees. He watched her intently as he started pushing the fabric upward. She had
leaned closer to him as she was tactilely mapping his face and neck, and as his
hands moved she paused suddenly. He could hear her breathing quicken.
"Allow me?"
She would not meet his eyes, instead she swayed back slightly and raised her
arms. Leaving him to lift the garment and remove it - reversing the action he
took to dress her in it. Once done, he tossed it over the side of the bed to
the floor.
Anticipating her next move, Lord Tywin held her hands again. As he suspected,
Sansa was bringing them up to cover herself. Instead he set them at the top of
his chest where she had last touched him, and waited until she resumed her
exploration before he started his.
He moved his hands up her arms to her shoulders slowly, over the goosebumps
that grew under his touch, then dragged them gently down her sides. She started
then, but he knew from the look on her face that it was from being ticklish and
not from what she had suffered. Again he anticipated what she would do and met
her worried glance with one that was placid, even offering something twitched-
out at the corner of his mouth that she could take as a smile.
Or not, it didn't much matter.
She started to guide her hands again, down and over his own scars. His chest
and flanks were riddled with the puckered evidence of exactly what kind of man
he was. She traced her fingers down a particularity long silvery line that
rounded lower on his stomach to just above his waist.
"Jaime," he said, his hands coming to rest on her hips once more, sitting idle.
His voice was still light, but it also carried a bit of a faraway tone again.
Lady Sansa wore a slight look of confusion on her face.
"My son, Ser Jaime." Tywin let his mind take him for a moment. "He was young -
seven perhaps - I had just given him a real sword." He scoffed lightly, but
didn't smile. "The first thing he did was swing at me, unarmed and unarmoured,
with live steel." Shaking head a little at the memory he offered sedate pride,
"I was his first victory."
Sansa could not help but smile a little to herself. Not that she found the
story humorous, but that she could only conclude it was a rare thing to see
Tywin Lannister in this way. It helped to ease her, however minutely.
Her hands continued their journey.
So did his. This time lightly brushing his knuckles into the sparse hair at her
juncture before sweeping them softly up her torso to her breasts.
From the moment he had removed her nightdress, Sansa could plainly see Lord
Tywin's cock. At first it laid soft in the light coloured curls surrounding it,
now it was larger and laying more onto his thigh. Her hands were stroking up
and down his chest and stomach absently, remaining utterly enthralled with that
part of him.
When he thumbed over her nipples it broke her trance, and with a gasp that
straightened her spine, she looked directly into his eyes. She could see a
different heat in them now. Heat she knew she had seen in the eyes of the
Hound. with it, his jaw worked as though he was displeased, but the rest of his
face had an air of satisfaction. Before she could consider any of this new
information, Lord Tywin leaned forward and first licked, then placed his mouth
over the tip of her breast.
She could feel him sucking and sweeping his tongue over her nipple. She could
feel it tighten and gain in sensitivity, and she made, without her mind's
permission, a low growling noise in the back of her throat. One that,
surprisingly, Lord Tywin gave right back.
His hand was gently kneading her other breast, caressing it to the tip where he
brought his thumb and forefinger together to tease her.
Sansa was starting to feel like she had during their first encounter - her
breathing was deepening and there was that same pool of heat building low
inside her. In the back of her mind, Sansa thought she should be feeling
apprehensive, or shy, or frightened, or anything other than intriguingly heated
and calm. But in light of everything, Sansa knew that Lord Tywin was not going
to inflict malicious hurt on her. Not this night.
So, instead of having him guide her, she started rocking her hips of her own
volition, helping to satisfy her budding need. In doing so, she felt her most
sensitive area rub up against his hardening prick. And when she peered between
their bodies, she could see that it was even bigger than before - now jutting
more upward. There was a fluid gathering into drips along the slit at the top
of it, and she had to restrain herself from putting her hands on that part of
him too. That was surely something he would frown upon.
At the moment their bodies touched like that, Lord Tywin reached around and
pushed her backside in such a way that it made that delicate place on her
stroke him with greater friction.
They were again making low humming noises together.
He had put his mouth on her other breast and moved the hand that was there to
her lower back, holding her, supporting her.
She could feel the warmth spreading inside her, the pool getting larger, and
set to grinding herself on him harder just to get some relief.
Sansa felt the hand that was on her arse move slightly, then felt his fingers
pressing into her in a way, and in a place, she had never considered before.
There was pressure at her entrance, on her maidenhead, but only as much as she
pushed back on his fingers. Coupled with her rubbing the nerves in front
against him, this new sensation brought torrents of pleasure crashing into her
even faster than the time before.
She was almost delirious by the time she fell over the edge of her release, her
head fallen to rest on his shoulder, but Tywin was there to catch her. He
cupped the back of head, stroked her nape and shoulders, letting her ride out
the initial waves in his embrace. Then, pivoting them both swiftly, he laid her
back onto the bed. Still writhing, he placed his palm over her mound, allowing
her to find resistance as her hips churned.
He was rapt at her release, taken by the fact that it only compounded her
beauty. Yet, at the same time, he was stung with a needle of guilt for thinking
of her that way. If he let it, the current passion he felt for his new wife
could easily twist to loss for his first - he had to make a concerted effort to
exist in the moment.
The old lion watched her pant and moan and catch her breath before he removed
his hand and positioned himself between her thighs, pleased as she
instinctively brought her knees up to cradle him there.
Sansa felt Lord Tywin lowering himself into the vee of her thighs, the weight
of him pushing them apart. Then watched as he settled further, and spread her
thighs wider, pulling her knees back slightly to help accommodate him.
She found she was not scared, not really. More nervous of the unknown. Yet,
when he put more of his weight on her, their bodies touching so intimately,
there was an unexpected sense of comfort. She experienced so many new
sensations: the course hair on his legs rubbing on the tender skin of her inner
thighs, one of his hands pushed hard into the bed beside her, while the
fingertips of the other were tracing patterns on her belly and abdomen, and, of
course, him resting hot and hard on her there.
When Lord Tywin spoke, his voice was sturdy and his face was serious, but both
also held something Sansa could not discern, though it made him look sad.
Her heart ached a little at that.
"There will be some pain," Lord Tywin said.
The words bore more fact than any form of warning or concern, but it was all he
could offer. It was all he could say before stroking the head of his cock up
and down the slick heat of her seam then pushing inside her with a slow,
confident thrust.
His duty to his lady wife was to look her in the eyes while he claimed her
maidenhead - he would not cower away or focus on his own pleasure. Sansa was
highborn and there was an honour in having her - a right her birth affords -
and Tywin would not only acknowledge this of her, but respect it as well.
However, the pain she tried to keep to herself as he tore through her
maidenhead was clear on her face. He was instantly catapulted back to another
time his duties as a husband caused a girl pain, and could not help but rest on
his elbows to be closer. He remained motionless within her, leaned his weight
on one arm and used the other hand to brush away the tears that had run down
her cheeks.
Tywin tried to soften his tone for her. It came out husky and impatient anyway.
"The worst is over, my lady. If you wish, we can stop."
Blinking her eyes open, Sansa regarded him then - all of him. The man who was
pressing her into the soft piles of furs and the feather mattress, who was
gently wiping her tears away, who was holding static inside her to ease her
pain. The same man who avenged her - avenged the violence that had been
inflicted upon her for months and months - on her wedding night.
Her husband for true.
"N-no, my lord... please..."
Sansa didn't quite know what she was asking for, but the initial pain had given
way to a new kind of pressure inside her. She felt filled, and his cock had a
pulse of its own. The rigid flesh nudged her in a way that brought the same
type of tingling his fingers did.
Tywin considered his bride for no more than a moment before he began carefully
sucking on the pulse point of her neck and on the soft skin under her chin. If
it weren't for the quiet moans she was emitting, Tywin would curse himself a
bloody fool for even thinking to pass himself off as some sort of considerate
lover, but his actions were solely in response to hers.
It was a handful of minutes before he felt her relax around him - limbs and
inner walls alike. Only then did he start his slow, steady in-out motion. He
watched her for distress, tried to be gentle, but she was tight, and his hips
bucked forward all on their own, looking to bury his cock further into her.
Her face did not show a grimace, but her eyes squeezed shut again.
Tywin gathered command of himself and concentrated on making his strokes even.
She could feel drops of Lord Tywin's sweat landing on her cheeks and neck,
prompting her to once again look at him. Sansa watched him move over her,
watched him watching her in return. His eyes held the same look the from their
first meeting - a hunger. And holding his gaze like that was a thrill, like
when she would climb to the tallest battlements in Winterfell, lean to the very
edge, and peer over into the high open air.
Every stroke in and out was igniting a new pleasure and she had to raise her
hips, trying to meet his thrusts in order to scratch that deep-pitted itch.
Sansa could see his restraint plainly. He was gritting his teeth, the corded
muscles in his neck were pulled taut, controlling his every movement for her
benefit.
She felt emboldened.
Tywin watched his wife shift under him, moving her hips in a clumsy rhythm as
she raised her hands from where they were pressed against his chest to stroke
her fingertips through the thick hair that partially framed his face. When her
hands moved over his smooth scalp to the back of his neck, he groaned and
allowed her pull him closer.
They were gasping each other's air when Sansa mustered her courage. So softly,
barely considered a caress, she pressed her lips to the very outer corner of
Lord Tywin's mouth, then moved on, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as
she whispered, "More."
More what, she did not know. Like her release from contact with his fingers she
could feel it building inside and needed more something to maintain it, or make
it better, or...
The old lion's body reacted before his mind could register the word. His pace
and depth increased and it was a handful of thrusts later that he lost his
rhythm altogether. Holding Sansa tightly he pressed his pelvis flush against
hers, growled a curse into the skin of her neck, and shuddered hard as he
spilled his seed as deep as he could be within her.
Sansa was catching her breath, listening as Lord Tywin did the same. They were
still joined and she could feel how his cock was no longer so hard. Her center
was far more sensitive than before, and the feeling that had been intensifying
in her was dissipating. As he moved and rolled from atop her, Sansa couldn't
help but moan. His prick slipped from her body, followed by what felt like a
great amount of wet pouring out.
He kept moving though. Rolling over to the edge of the bed, he lifted himself
off and without a word walked out of the room.
She watched him leave and instantly felt alone. More than that, she felt
ashamed. This is what it was like to be no more than a duty to a man. But what
they just did felt like more to her - and that was worse, because she was
stupid enough to allow herself to feel that way.
Her most private area now felt raw and hot and messy. She didn't know if she
should call for a bath, or stay put, or if Lord Tywin was expecting her to
leave, or if he wanted to take his rights again.
Sansa was on the verge of panicking, tears just starting to pool, when she
heard footsteps and, just like that, her lord husband walked through the door
with a small basin and what looked like some linens in hand.
He was unashamed of his nakedness as he walked casually toward her; Sansa
blushed and averted her eyes.
Lord Tywin did not seem to notice, or care, taking a seat beside her on the
edge of the bed.
He smelled of soap, freshly washed.
"Are you..." He was looking at anything except his wife, as though the words he
was seeking were hanging in the air around him. "Is there... pain, my lady?" He
flicked his gaze directly at her then. "I'll summon the maester if you require
it."
"No... thank you, my lord. I am... not in a great amount of pain."
It wasn't a total lie.
She spoke just above a whisper, her hands subconsciously moving to cover her
teats, modesty suddenly in the forefront. He regarded her carefully, his eyes
narrowed as though he were conducting an interrogation rather than making a
simple inquiry, then nodded in acknowledgement. At the same time, he pulled one
of the smaller linens from the bundle in his hand, setting the others beside
him on the bed.
Holding the basin in one hand, he submerged the cloth in the water with the
other and wrung it out in a tightened fist.
Sansa was almost of the impression he wanted her to get out of bed and wash
until he raised his hand and started to gently wipe her brow, then her cheeks
and down her neck.
Stopping periodically, Lord Tywin would rinse the cloth and continue where he
left off. Cleaning his way over her shoulders, her collar, moving her hands
aside in order to softly wipe her breasts. Every expanse of skin where his lips
touched, where his body had rested, where her sweat pooled and where their
sweat mingled, was left feeling cool and fresh.
His methodical bathing paused for a moment when he reached her abdomen, where
he doubled back and went to her top of her right arm. He resumed at the same
time he spoke. "Privately," he began. Even conversationally,his tone was
overtly serious. "Or when decorum allows, you may call me Tywin."
She simply nodded dumbly at him, not yet so brave to try his name on her tongue
without his honourific.
Sansa was watching as he carefully wiped down her arms, inside and outside,
down to her hands, paying attention to each individual finger. There was a
softness in his eyes she had seen only a few times. Once when Tommen forgot
himself and hugged his grandfather at their betrothal dinner - it flashed so
fast that certainly she had been the only one to observe it. She had also seen
it quite clearly when he was pleasuring her.
There was a feeling of entitlement and strange power surging in her again;
these were moments only she was privilege to.
"Sansa."
He flicked a look at her when she said her own name.
"You can call me Sansa."
Tywin's lips widened slightly to a not-quite shadow of a smile. "Sansa," he
nodded back.
It felt both frightening and exciting to hear Lord Tywin address her so
intimately.
He was once again washing down her abdomen, over her the jut of her hips and
down her thighs. He took his time cleaning away the smears of blood and seed
from the inner part of her legs. Sansa was only mildly concerned at seeing the
cloth darken with her maiden's blood, she knew it was to be expected. Though,
when he rinsed the soft linen and gently washed her juncture she whimpered.
Her jaw was locked and her breath became shallow. Tywin tried to make quick
work of his task, knowing that the soft cloth most likely felt like rusted mail
in an area that was so sensitive to her.
"There will only be blood and pain to this degree once, Sansa."
His words came across as agitated, and although she tried to mask her
discomfort, she sucked a hiss through her teeth and slapped a hard grip on his
wrist when he brushed against her entrance. 
Sansa slowly removed her hand from him - the look on her face read plainly that
she was expecting him to strike her. All he could see in his mind's eye were
the wheals laced across her back - then the same thought inexplicably replaced
Sansa with Joanna. Tywin recovered quickly though, and finished what he was
doing.  
He rose and strode from her side, setting the basin and linens on a small table
within the room.
She watched him round the end of the bed until he was sitting on the side he
got out of. He just sat there for several moments looking at the fire in the
hearth before swinging his legs up and bringing a covering with him, all in one
motion.
He kept the cover up and away from the bed, silently inviting her to join him
under it. She obliged her husband, scooting herself away from the blood and wet
on the sheets and ended up as close to his side as she could manage without
touching or bothering him.
He didn't say a word, he simply placed the covers over her.
She eventually turned away from him and willed herself to sleep.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sansa woke suddenly to the darkness of an unfamiliar room and the unfamiliar
warmth of a body next to her.
It took a moment for her to remember the events that drastically shaped her
life in the past few days, settling on the vivid culmination only hours ago.
This was her new bedchamber. Her new husband rested behind her. Her new life
stretched ahead of her.
Lord Tywin was closer to her than when she had fallen asleep. She could feel
her head was resting on his arm, his other arm was draped loosely around her
middle. However, what was most curious was that he had buried his face in her
hair and was sleeping where it laid pressed to the back of her neck. She could
feel her hair move and tickle with his every inhale and exhale.
Sansa had a moment of queer guilt, feeling as though she had forced her husband
into this uncharacteristic embrace, but quickly took it back. After all, she
had fallen asleep well away from the man.
She felt safe though. Of that she would not feel guilty. No one would dare harm
her while Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, had air in his lungs, not
even Joffrey. And this newly garnered power, regardless of whether it was only
by association, was something she wanted to contemplate, but was far too weary
to even try.
At that, she closed her eyes again and, for the first time since the death of
her father, slept soundly in King's Landing.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Life I *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
It was early evening when Sansa met Lord Tywin for supper.
In the fortnight they had been married, her husband made it a habit of sharing
their final meal privately. They were apart for most of the day; Lord Tywin
leaving their chambers well before she woke to tend to his duty as the Hand of
the King, and Sansa being expected to accompany the Queen Regent or Lady
Margaery in their daily routines. 
For her part, Sansa was becoming a little more accustomed to being treated with
the respect - perhaps mild fear - the wife of Lord Tywin Lannister commanded.
However, she still felt pangs of apprehension when walking around the castle,
even with a dedicated guard, and had not yet participated in the rigors of open
court, not the way she had been required to prior. Those wounds were still too
raw, and since her husband did not press her to be there, Sansa kept her
distance.
The dining chamber in the apartments of the Hand was spacious, built for
entertaining and accommodating groups of dignitaries and council members. On
the other hand, with only two people occupying one end, the opulently large
table looked more like a desolate expanse of northern tundra; their usual lack
of conversation making the table, and room overall, feel just as cold.
This evening she arrived promptly, and was surprised that the servants usually
standing by, ready serve and clear food, were nowhere to be seen. Instead,
Maester Pycelle was standing next to Lord Tywin, speaking to him in a hushed
tone.
When they noticed her making her way to her place at the table, the men bowed
and greeted her in turn.
Tywin held her chair out for her as she sat.
As a little girl, Sansa had pictured that same gesture from her husband as
being somehow more romantic, and a little less regimented. She was well beyond
the expectation that life was a song, yet sometimes happier memories trickled
into her actuality and it was worth the distraction to find a compromise in the
two. Regardless, the fact he did it at all proved at least a passing fondness,
and that small gesture was enough to make her smile inside.
She had almost told him on more than one occasion that the courtesy was
unnecessary when it was between the two of them, but in the same breath, she
could not fathom giving the Hand of the King anything remotely resembling an
order. Instead, meal after meal, she extended her own sincere courtesy and
hoped it would appease.
Sansa had become fairly comfortable in the silence between herself and her
husband, but tonight it was hard not to notice that both men kept looking at
her, almost expectantly, and she was beginning to feel uneasy.
Just as it was becoming wholly unnerving, the Maester spoke and broke the
tension.
"Lady Sansa, you are..." It seemed as though he was at a loss for words all of
a sudden. Or, more to the truth, was trying find the right ones in front of
Lord Tywin. "...coming upon your cycle..."
The elderly Maester's inflection hovered halfway to a question, but Sansa was
so completely mortified by the statement in general she would not have obliged
the man an answer anyway, strictly out of principle.
Although, her skin spoke for her; blushing hot, fast, and crimson.
Her husband spoke next, thankfully not to her and, also thankfully, not about
her cycles.
"Bring the treatment here, you fool, then leave." He flicked his hand at the
old maester, accentuating his annoyance.
Maester Pycelle did as he was bade and retrieved a pewter cup from behind him.
Turning, he set it on the table in front of where Lord Tywin was standing, then
bowed to them both of them before taking his leave.
She watched Lord Tywin's jaw flex and twitch in irritation at the same time he
grasped the cup by its rim then place it in front of her. Sansa could see steam
rising from the murky contents, and was completely engaged in the movement of
Lord Tywin's fingers - how they lingered on the rim, how he tapped his
forefinger lightly on it before pulling his hand away altogether.
There she sat, a hot cup of mystery in front of her and her husband hovering
beside her. His uncustomary action, she confirmed to herself, was most
definitely unnerving.
"My lord?"
The question was asked at the same instant her eyes flicked from her husband to
the cup and its contents, and Tywin, never to squander an opportunity, did not
miss this one either.
"It will ensure your moonblood, my lady."
If Lord Tywin was uncomfortable discussing feminine workings, it was not
outwardly evident. Sansa was no longer as embarrassed, but more so confused.
And while she did not look at him directly, Tywin seemed to anticipate her
hesitation.
"You will not yet carry children, Sansa. The tea will make sure of that." He
nodded to the cup even though she wasn't looking at him to see it.
It took a moment for his words to register, at which point Sansa truly felt
hurt. She knew that what they did on their wedding night was what was needed to
make a child, though it had only been the once; they shared a bed at her lord
husband's insistence, but he had never taken his rights again.
More than that though, more than that, he now wanted to kill any life that
might have been created.
Her brow was pinched and gathered in her ever growing frustration and, dare it
be said, anger.
"No."
She spoke in the direction of, and more to the waiting tea, but she was certain
her husband would know the rebuff was for him.
"You will drink it, Sansa," he said with an edge of anger.
She slowly turned her head and met his livid glare, and bore his intimidation -
she would bare whatever punishment Lord Tywin felt compelled to bring upon his
disobedient wife. She was used to pain and - short of killing her outright -
she would suffer for even the possibility of a child, of being a mother.
Sansa had not endured this long for her husband to torture her anew in such a
vicious, deceitful manner. Her angry furrowed look softened to one she slipped
into without even the slightest thought or hesitation: her courteous, wooden
armour. And for the briefest moments the old lion's face showed the smugness of
success.
"No, Tywin. I will not."
It was the first time she had ever addressed him by name alone and she used it
as she had seen him do a handful of times before - to ensure the attention of
the individual and emphasize a point - and watched long enough to see his
satisfaction crumble before turning her focus back to a point on the table. She
was sure she looked like a petulant child, but she was also sure she could not
care less.
Sansa waited excruciating minutes. Waited for the infamous wrath of her husband
to rain on her, either physically or otherwise.
Nothing happened.
After what felt like hours, she heard Lord Tywin inhale slow and long, and
exhale the exact same way.
He knelt next to her where she was sitting and in one heavy jerk on its solid
leg, he twisted the chair and its occupant to face him.
Looking down on him in this position, Sansa was taller than Lord Tywin, but she
supposed that was the effect he wanted to convey. He did nothing without
considering every angle, she knew this. She had seen him talking to, and
advising his commanders and other council members when they meet in her
presence. Him dropping to a lower level in order to speak to his wife was
equally calculated.
His face was still deeply scowled and angry looking, but his voice was a total
contrast in that it was gentle.
"You are young, my lady. Too young to safely carry a child." He kept her eye.
"You will have my children. Soon, but not immediately."
Sansa blushed fast and hot at his words. Not that they were romantic, or even
particularly amiable, but that they were in reference to the act itself -
 that made her feel things she had yet to find a name for.
His features then completely softened and she watched a dark shadow pass over
him, something made of grief. She knew the look of that emotion well, and to
see it on Lord Tywin was a shock to the senses. 
Sansa did not know what to say. She had never considered her age in comparison
to her ability to have children. It was always assumed that it would just
happen after she married. This was what she was supposed to do, this was what
she was married for.
"My lord-" She started softly, but was cut off and brought back to reality in a
startling manner.
Lord Tywin's voice again belied his features; this time it was sharp and cruel
coming from a face of serenity.
"You are of no use to me dead."
At that, Tywin rose to his feet and turned both the chair and Sansa back to
facing the tea again. He no longer loomed over her, he simply took his seat at
the head of the table and began reading his perpetual communications.
Sansa looked at the beautiful, intricate engravings on the cup as she
considered it, considered Lord Tywin's words. Callous or not, they were the
truth. She would be of no use dead - to anyone. If she died in child-bed, what
would happen to the child if it survived? She thought about Tyrion and the cold
indifference his father showed him. It could only be assumed her child would be
treated the same, perhaps worse because her husband did not love her to begin
with.
She watched her fingers wrap themselves around the cup and pull it towards her.
The taste was bitter, and became more so, as well as earthy, the more she
consumed.
"I had not meant this to be a spectacle, my lady."
His face returned to serious, and his voice equally so. Yet, when Sansa looked
at him, at how he was looking up with only his eyes, she knew this was
something like an apology.
"If it is required again," he continued, "you may accommodate it privately."
Once more, even a roundabout reference to being bedded caused her to blush.
Sansa inwardly chided herself for being so inappropriate, as she outwardly
nodded at her husband.
"Thank you, my lord." It was demure. She meant it.
She also recognized why this was necessary right now and wondered if brides
were normally given this type of consideration, or if it was more to do with
her usefulness. The more she thought about it, the more she casually
acknowledged that her cage had transformed from a room to a marriage.
By the time she finished the tea her face relayed just how awful the taste had
become. She could hear, in the direction of Lord Tywin, something scraping
along the table. When she looked, she saw his own cup of wine being pushed to
her to wash away the bitterness. But when she peered at him directly to thank
him, she was quietly taken aback.
Tywin's face looked how she felt: overly scowled, like he tasted the bitter
drink too. Sansa found it both odd and strangely endearing.
While Lady Sansa drank his offered wine, Lord Tywin summoned for the meal to
begin.
It was when she thanked him again, at the same time sliding his cup back to its
original position, that her husband reached for it absently and settled his
fingers over hers. There was nothing lewd in the situation, but small
intimacies were still so new they tended to catch them both off guard.
They each looked at their connection not one another. Sansa watched as Lord
Tywin brushed his forefinger in the tiniest of caresses over hers. The moment
was brief, and ended when their meal was ushered in. Sansa removed her hand
quickly, as though she had been caught in some treacherous act.
Lord Tywin simply pulled the vessel the rest of the distance to a convenient
spot before him and continued in his work, the servants placing food around it.
They proceeded to eat in silence.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
As a course of food was cleared away, Tywin called for his wine to be refilled
and focused on a particularly long and detailed letter in his hand, and when he
spoke, it was more to himself.
"When Ned Stark ruled the North, there was never a need for a King..." He
trailed off, his agitated thought concluding in his mind.
Sansa was always peaceful in the silence that surrounded them during their
meals. When he made them, she answered her husband's simple inquiries politely
and directly, then retreated back to her own thoughts. However, when Lord Tywin
mentioned her father in his unfiltered voice, she visibly bristled. Her memory
then drifted to another man who instilled her with his wisdom.
She had meant for the thought to remain secured but, as seemed to happen in the
presence of her husband, it found foothold in a whisper.
"Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world."
Tywin looked at her then.
At first she thought he would perhaps praise her for her - the Hound's -
 insight. But that hope quickly faded as his look turned to one of
disappointment.
"I certainly hope your father wasn't the one to recite such nonsense," he spat.
Sansa conceded his ire, near-whispering, "No, my lord, not my father."
"Then I assume that it was one of your northern barbarians you'd heard speak
those words."
She could only nod.
"Do you understand the flaw in that statement, my lady?"
His eyes narrowed at her.
What would he care if she knew flaws in matters left to men? Sansa knew her
place - to bleed and breed - and even that had now been reduced by half. But as
she considered his inquiry she began to see the words as pictures in her mind.
It was like one of the wooden puzzles from her childhood, the pieces started to
fit together.
"Strong arms and sharp steel don't rule... They are used to fight for the
people that do."
Sansa blinked her eyes up to her husband's to see that the rigidity of
frustration had been smoothed over slightly.
He nodded slow and curt, his words offered in accord.
"That is correct," he praised in his serious way. "Steel and strength are tools
one uses to obtain and maintain a goal. But, that is merely a minor step in the
dance of ruling - either a household or a realm. The real power is found in the
men who control those who wield the steel, and their strength is always found
above the neck."
She understood then, Sandor would see that as truth because that was his
existence. He was a soldier, a shield, a follower. A follower gifted in
violence, to be sure, but never a leader, never a lord or ruler of subjects.
Additionally in that moment, Sansa also understood that Lord Tywin was not
about to coddle his wife. She would learn to his specifications, as daunting as
they may be. In the same instant she felt overwhelmed. It was a lot to take in,
to absorb and catalogue. But it was also thrilling. She knew she would never
have been afforded this opportunity if she were married to any other man.
Tywin was looking at her as though it were the first time he'd ever seen her.
"You have your mother's beauty, and your father's naivety."
Whatever contentment she felt prior became crushed under the weight of his
words. And perhaps it was due to the desperate need to come out from under that
heft that prompted Sansa to retaliate.
"My father was not naive, my lord. My father was an honourable man."
There was a twitch in the old lion's eyebrow.
"And you have soundly proven my point, my lady," he said with disinterest.
"Your father was not honourable, he was exceedingly dutiful, there is a
difference." And added absently, "It also seems to be the curse of middle
sons."
At that, Lord Tywin set about his meal and document reading once more.
Sansa sat there, her eyes fixed on the cutlery in her hands, she couldn't think
of anything to reject his opinion. She was naive, and the realization made her
feel excruciatingly weak.
She spoke as she raised her eyes to look at him. "Is honour such a terrible
thing, my lord?"
Lord Tywin paused his reading, finished chewing, then swallowed before he even
looked at her. When he did, his features weren't as disdainful as before, more
thoughtful.
He tilted his head slightly to the side, narrowed his eyes a tiny amount, and
swallowed again to clean his palate before speaking.
"No, my lady, honour is not such a terrible thing. Neither is it realistic."
He watched her to see if she was asking out of interest or pointless courtesy,
and was rather pleased to see her lean toward him - indicating the former.
"Songs and stories bleat about honour because, like everything else in songs
and stories, it is a concept that is fantastic." He leaned back, and kept
talking. "If tales of fancy carried every variable of man's tendencies, they
would be painfully long and children would never know who was good and who was
evil."
He could see her considering his words, it was encouraging. This girl was
nowhere near the dullard his daughter had painted.
After a time, Sansa narrowed her own eyes and offered, "My father's bannerman
often referred to him as honourable."
Tywin quite literally had to bite his tongue in order to stop himself from
immediately retorting a sardonic observation regarding northern bannermen in
general.
"And I referred to him as dutiful." He picked up his wine at that and swirled
the contents. "My lady, tell me, specifically, what made your father an
honourable man?"
She thought carefully for a moment. "His integrity," she offered rather
proudly. 
Tywin leaned forward and almost barked at her. "Specific."
She clenched her jaw at his sudden change in mood.
"T-toward his family."
There was a pause in which Lord Tywin gave her a look that stated clearly she
was foolish.
"Was it his honour or duty that prompted him to bring home the bastard he sired
with another woman for your mother to raise?"
Sansa looked down again; her brow furrowed, she knew the answer, there was no
honour in that.
"Duty," she said. The small word carried in a voice that matched.
When she lifted her eyes again, Lord Tywin was still looking at her as he took
a drink of his wine.
She was not ready to give up so easily.
Sansa began going over instances of proof in her head, but every time she
thought the part of her husband, her proof of honour dissolved into duty - from
joining the rebellion to avenge his family and support his friend, to marrying
his brother's betrothed and becoming the Warden in the North - it was all duty
because that was what he had to do at the time. It was what was expected of
him.
Her husband spoke before she could form further examples.
"I have no doubt that your father performed deeds that some would consider
honourable, Sansa." She looked at him directly and remained silent. "However,
the very definition of honour is living by an established set of moral
principles, and you cannot simply rearrange or change those principles on a
whim." Lord Tywin then looked away from her, down into the unfathomable
darkness of the liquid in his cup. "Being truly honourable is an impossible
undertaking for any man tasked with the responsibility of leadership. You would
be a failure before you could even try."
He kept staring into his wine, thinking and brooding.
"But surely there is honour in one's duty, my lord."
She could not allow her father to be reduced to a naive, dutiful man.
He was honourable, if only because he was her hero and that was the way she
always saw him.
Tywin's gaze focused on his wife again, his eyes glittered with a spark that
made them so very intense.
"Tell me, Lady Sansa. Do you believe your lord husband to be an honourable
man?"
All she could concentrate on was returning his stare without flinching, but
when he raised an eyebrow in expectation, she spoke softly - and truthfully.
"No, my lord. I do not."
He sat back again, face ever-somber, eyes still keen even though they were now
looking through half lids.
"Good."
He said it in a voice that sounded annoyed as much as it sounded pleased.
Sansa was fully aware then that the truth, while infinitely preferable, would
always be a double-edged sword.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Life II *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Sansa was striding quickly through the sitting room her chambers on an errand
for Lady Margaery - retrieving a scarf the future queen liked the colour of -
and was almost to the bedchamber when she heard her husband greet her. She
hadn't seen him sitting behind the desk where he spent most of his evenings.
Quite frankly, it was barely midday, and she could not remember ever seeing him
at this hour of the day before, so to hear his voice was rather jarring.
She had stopped, startled in her tracks, before turning to curtsy.
"My lord," she greeted in return, knowing not to say or ask anything overtly
frivolous.
Tywin had yet to look up, his peripheral sufficient to know his wife was moving
to a spot beside him.
In the first days of her marriage Sansa learned quickly that Lord Tywin did not
like to converse at a distance, at least not with her. Before he would even
start talking, Lord Tywin would beckon her closer; then, with his hands about
her arms, simply place her where he preferred her to stand. Now she simply knew
to approach his side, or take a seat near him. Initially she felt like she was
a dog being trained, but soon realized the benefit and practicality of being
nearer. Especially when their conversations progressed beyond shy start and
stops - on her part - to broader discussions and his encouraging her to ask
questions.
He was sifting through the many parchments and ravens he had at any one time on
his desk when he asked casually, "Have you written your mother?"
Startled again, this time the cold pierce of fear stabbed at her heart, as
Sansa considered whether her husband was accusing or questioning, but it ebbed
a little the more she thought. Either way, the answer was the same.
"No my lord, I-" But her knee-jerk courtesies interrupted on their own. "My
family are traitors to the true King Joffrey."
Lord Tywin looked at her square then, sat up straighter in his chair, his face
set in a mask of annoyance as he raised an eyebrow.
With no words and only a slight gesture she knew he was telling her to drop
whatever pretense she felt she needed, he would not oblige it.
Sansa cleared her throat softly. "I have not been permitted contact with my
family, my lord." Blushing, unable to retain his stare, her eyes never moved
from the fastenings adorning his chest. She had been sequestered since her
father was executed, but did not want to bring about that part of the truth.
He took a moment before he continued. "Would you disclose military agendas to
the enemy?"
The blush stayed, deepening in the rush of raw indigence his question riled, as
her gaze slipped upward to meet his. And although his face and voice failed to
change, she could tell immediately that, suspicious or not, this was his way of
lightening the mood.
She smiled softly anyway.
"No, my lord."
Any lightheartedness that may have surfaced in her husband sunk again, and most
likely drown.  
"Be warned," he said sternly. "Your letter will be reviewed. However, I'll not
have you estranged from your mother entirely."
Catelyn Stark had surely heard of her daughter's marriage by now. Offering
correspondence was a pittance when compared to the potential value it held.
Their families were now tied. Any decision made to carry violence toward the
Lannisters would be akin to warring with Sansa directly. Alternately, if Tywin
could impart any suggestion to what was written, he may be able to control the
relay of influence of Robb Stark. The latter was the further fetch, and the
former might hold absolutely no water with the northmen as well, but in light
of everything that could potentially unfold in the near future, the mere chance
of either was well worth the cost.
Sansa was flooded with feelings of elation, confusion, and sadness. Her lord
husband had offered her the first true kindness she had been shown in a longer
time than she cared to dwell on.
A letter.
The prospect of writing words to her mother was teetering her on the verge of
tears, but she fought it knowing her husband had no patience for them.
It was a terrible realization that such a tiny act felt like the entire world
was shifting. Yet gratitude of his favour, regardless of magnitude, could not
be set aside. So she offered a genuine smile, a courteous thank you and, as
though possessed by someone else entirely, leaned forward, wrapped her arms
around his neck and kissed him chastely, yet squarely on the mouth.
It lasted only a heartbeat until she let him go abruptly and stepped away, as
though Lord Tywin were made of fire. She was horrified of her behaviour.
Sansa stood there, frightened. She had touched him without his leave.
Her view locked downward, the bottom hem of her gown was suddenly the most
interesting thing in the room.
Lord Tywin rose from his chair after a moment, and Sansa prepared herself for
the punishment that could only be inevitable. When she felt his fingers brush
lightly down her cheeks and either side of her neck, she couldn't glean what
kind of hurt would follow. Joffrey always told her what he was going to do to
her.
He knew she was terrified of what her actions had earned her. When he tilted
her face up toward him, her eyes were wide and panic stricken. His chest
tightened in a brief spasm - as it seemed to do now and then since his
marriage, always in context to his wife. Which was always finished with a pang
of both guilt and anger for feeling something toward her in the first place.
Lord Tywin kept stroking her cheeks and jawline, making his face as passive as
possible, trying to ease out her tension. After a few minutes she seemed to
calm. Feeling her relax, he stilled his hands and cupped her face, he then
leaned in closer... and copied her previous maneuver.
When his lips touched hers, she could feel not only their soft texture, but
also a firmness behind them. It was what made his kiss confident and caused the
pool of heat within her to stir - edging out the nervousness that was chewing
through her belly.
She had been breathing fast and shallow before, but now that pattern had evened
out and deepened. Her eyes went from shock to sedate, then closed altogether as
his mouth moved over hers.
Their kiss began gathering intensity.
Sansa mirrored her husband's movements, but when he flicked his tongue over her
lips she found her experience shamefully lacking - and herself entirely at a
loss.
Tywin pulled away slightly and continued stroking her cheeks and hair gently. A
light flick over her lips with the tip of his tongue acted as a prelude to his
words.
"When I do that Sansa, you will open your mouth for me."
He looked like he was issuing a command to one of his guards, but it was said
at a volume that made it more felt than heard - and she felt it travel from her
sternum to her abdomen, then lower.
Sansa nodded into his palms and smiled a little when he leaned in to kiss her
again. This time when his tongue touched her lips she granted him access to her
mouth, and experienced a caress so foreign, yet so very intimate.
He tasted fresh and she could feel him growl into her mouth when her tongue
tentatively started to explore his.
In the back of her mind she registered that this, aside from the brush of lips
concluding their wedding ceremony, was their first kiss for true. That
acknowledgement made her stomach flutter and sent heat cascading down her
spine. She needed to be closer, to share that collecting heat, so taking her
time, Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck again. Which he reciprocated by
moving his own hands down and over her breasts, then around her flanks until
they rested on her lower back. 
He pulled her body tighter into his as he sucked on her tongue.
She could feel the hardness of his arousal press into her belly when she was
flush against him like that - a blatant display of what she deemed was her
affect on him, and it left her hot and panting when he pulled his mouth away a
tiny amount.
"Sansa..."
It was all he could whisper before she closed the gap and kissed him again.
Tywin could feel her hands move down from the back of his neck to the front of
his torso and tighten into fists where the fabric hung loose on his doublet.
She was pulling herself up and pulling him down; each an action of getting
closer, and his mind and body started to flicker into an all-consuming heat.
They were jolted out of their ministrations by a knock on the large set of
doors at the opposite end of the solar, which instantly flared anger in the
Great Lion. Sansa let go her grip immediately and stepped away from him, but
before Tywin moved to address the interruption he took a moment to look her
over. 
She was happy to see the softness return to his eyes when he regarded her - as
well as the heat she had seen on their wedding night. However, the rest of his
face was rigid. But Sansa was getting to know that look, that was what he
looked like normally, and over the course of their time together it was
becoming less and less intimidating.
When he excused himself, Sansa continued to the bedchamber in order to retrieve
the scarf she had initially ventured in for, doubly allowing Lord Tywin his
privacy.
The wardrobe within their bedchamber had been the largest she had ever seen,
but even it felt diminished within the expanse of the large room. Sansa had
dismissed the maid, opting instead to search for the article herself, and was
near to giving up when she had finally located the sash. Holding the material
up in front of her triumphantly, like some silky trophy, her jubilation fell
away like lead when she felt a hand touch her shoulder.
Sansa turned, her pace measured to hide her fear, only to face Lord Tywin. And
just as fast as her world went cold, it warmed again and she found her mouth
smiling some. The look he offered - somewhere near neutral, but definitely not
angry or annoyed - made her feel less broken inside, more grounded. In turn,
his brand of good mood bolstered her own, and she so wanted him to see that in
her, that she wasn't always so timid and frightened.
She was a Stark, of northern blood, and she wanted him to see that part of her
too.
His hand came to rest on her cheek as her look of alarm faded, his thumb
stroking tender lines where it rested. There was a heat in his eyes, like
before; his features and voice remained stern.
"As my wife, you are permitted to kiss me." The corner of his mouth twitched
ever so slightly as he added, "As propriety dictates."
He lowered his hand when she looked away and contemplated for a moment. Then
watched as she slowly, cautiously stepped closer to him.
She took his words as an invite.
He meant them as one.
Sansa was already on her toes to reach him when he slowly wrapped his arms
around her waist and pulled her off them.
This kiss was feverish - deep, and wet, and a little rough.
She had hold of his face this time and it was exactly what she needed to kindle
her own heat again.
Her memory would never piece together all the details, but the next thing she
would remember is being on the bed, fully naked and helping Lord Tywin out of
his breeches.
She was kissing him everywhere she could reach. At first hesitant to lay her
mouth anywhere but on his own, she did not want him to think her a deviant, but
he simply nodded at her and made an airy grunting noise when she licked and
sucked on his neck - like he had done to hers on their wedding night.
They were all hands and mouths, like their kiss prior, physical actions were
fervent.
When Tywin slid his fingers down the front of her - from her teats to her heat
- his breath caught in his throat. Sansa was so wet and ready for him, he felt
a powerful surge of arousal course from the depths of his chest to the tip of
his cock. His need was suddenly an urgent priority, which found him swiftly
positioning his wife underneath him and, just as swiftly, thrusting into her,
exhaling a noise as he did so that sounded almost painful.
When he entered her, there was a twinge of discomfort accompanying the sense of
fullness. This was the first time they had bedded since their wedding night,
but the ache was brief, then altogether forgotten when he kissed her deeply and
started to move inside her.
This time there was no pressure, no duty associated with what they were doing,
and that was making it exciting for Sansa. She had longed to feel this, him,
again and she could not decide if it was because her husband was a man to be
feared and it made it feel dangerous, or if it was because Tywin acted as
though he truly desired this from her, wanted her.
The latter was a force like a physical shove at the part of her mind and body
she truly thought had been beaten away to nothing. It was something, to be
frightened of feeling wanted. Yet the fact her husband respected her in his own
way gave her permission to give in to it - in these intimate moments, at least.
Although Sansa knew what to expect this time, she was still nervous about not
knowing what to do.
Her husband did not seem at all bothered by her inexperience.
Tywin worked over and into her for quite some time, watching the colour build
on her chest and neck, from porcelain to pink to a lovely crimson. She was
receptive to kissing and the attentions of his mouth so he licked and kissed
and sucked her breasts and neck and mouth. To be duly rewarded with her breathy
moans and her body wriggling against his.
When her moaning started gaining in length and volume he slowed his thrusts and
peered down at his wife.
"Sansa, look at me."
She met his eyes with her face locked in ecstasy, her mouth was slightly parted
and her cheeks had that telltale flush - the sight almost undid the old lion
then and there.
His vocal pitch dipped as he spoke through his lust.
"I want you to touch yourself the same way I touch you." He flicked a glance
between them, to where they were joined.
Sansa knew exactly what he meant. It was a touch she thought about, and dreamt
of sometimes. She had never considered doing it herself though, that was new,
and thoroughly scandalous. Blushing even deeper, she complied; her hand leaving
the back of his neck and making its way between them to her sensitive bump.
Sansa could feel a wet tangle of hair down there, as well as Tywin's cock
brushing her fingertips as he pushed it in and pulled it out of her.
It took some fumbling strokes but she eventually found what felt good.
Tywin watched her chase her pleasure, fucking her in a rhythm that didn't leave
him wanting. He hooked his hand around her knee and raised her leg to drape
over his lower back, then did the same with other.
The change of angle allowed him to sink into her at a greater depth and he
could not stop the moan that rattled out of him.
"Gods, girl."
Soon he saw her head loll back further into the bed, felt her body start to
tense, and began fucking her in earnest; deeper and harder until she shattered
completely; her inner walls clenching tight around him.
She was breathing whimpers when he felt her bring her hand from her juncture
and wrap it around to his back, digging her fingernails into his flesh. He knew
then he would not escape this encounter unscathed, and it was that very
acknowledgement that sent him reeling into his own undoing.
The look her husband wore in the moment of his release was completely
unguarded, and Sansa knew in the same moment that she would yearn to see it
again.
Tywin rested over top his wife, his face pressed into the curve at the base of
her neck, waiting for his breathing to even. His hand had settled at her crown
and he was absently stroking his thumb over her hairline. He forcibly allowed
himself this comfort, her comfort, in that moment. He could feel her hand, more
precisely her fingers, that remained at the back of his neck softly raking the
skin there.
He did not want to become dependent on this, this feeling, this soothing, but
he had been fractured for so long that the closeness he felt with Sansa when
they were alone was like a salve.
When he brought his face around to look at her more directly she wore the same
smile she had greeted him with when she saw it was him in there bedchamber.
There was nothing false about it. Nothing that told him this was an attempt to
usurp his authority. Nothing that implied she was mindlessly performing a duty
for the benefit of her husband.
The more he observed her the more he attempted to uncover her motives, and the
more his efforts became fruitless the more his suspicions were provoked. And it
all fueled his ire, because it was bootless folly of his own making and he
bloody-well knew it.
Tywin was pulled from of his bitter reverie by her movement, then any thoughts
that were even remotely tainted turned to smoke when she craned the small
distance and kissed him. It wasn't a deep kiss, but it lingered for a few
heartbeats before she pulled back again.
"You like that, don't you?"
His question came out in the tone of an imputation; however, his wife was
becoming more immune to his severe nature - one occurrence at a time.
She kept her smile, blushed, of course, and gave a little nod. "Yes," she said.
Sansa could see the hint of a smile in Tywin's eyes, even though his face did
not reflect it. So she took it upon herself to smile for the both of them. In
response, her husband leaned in and kissed her swollen lips. First the top then
the bottom, and when her fingers went from gently teasing the nape of his neck
to holding him firmly in place, he cleaved into her mouth with a smooth press
of his tongue.
Her entire body was awash in sensation.
The hair on Tywin's chest and stomach was grazing the length of her - from her
collar to her abdomen. The restrained weight of him was just enough to make her
work to breathe. It certainly wasn't a struggle, but the deeper the inhale the
more she pressed into the man above her. As their kiss intensified she could
feel the hand that he rested at the crown of her hair gently fist into it; it
was a type of possession that sent waves of tingling heat straight to that
place between her legs. His cock, that had remained inside her, was becoming
hard again, and as they made small movements against each other, that part of
him was moving as well.
This time their touches were deliberate, their actions were slow. They took
their time.
Her songs would tell her she was making love with her husband. Sansa's reality
would tell her this was a pleasurable instance in a place that dealt only in
misery - with the man who, more than likely, was responsible for it.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Life III *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
He was in a foul temper.
Sansa knew her husband had been woken, as she had, by insistent knocking on the
door of their bedchamber at the deadest hour of the night, and when he went to
upbraid the poor guard tasked with rousing the old lion, she could just barely
hear the voice of Lord Varys drifting in from the sitting room. Tywin had left
and the door had been closed after that, cutting off all sound from the other
side.
He did not return. It was only later that morning when she had seen him again
as she walked the periphery of court. Joffrey was on a hunt, leaving the realm
in the capable hands of his grandfather.
Tywin was sitting on the Iron Throne performing his duty to his King and
kingdom, and she could not help but be riveted at the sight. Sansa recalled
that King Robert seemed to slack clumsily about the throne, and Joffrey never
seemed quite seated, more perched and uncomfortable. Whereas Tywin looked as
though it were made for him. His tall frame and broad shoulders ensured he
wasn't hidden amongst the blades. Even his long fingers curled around in just
the right spots, practiced at avoiding injury.
The scene played as a beautiful orchestration of the most subdued
combat. Something she could only now appreciate.
The passage time had allowed her courage to root and rebuild, which allowed her
feet to walk to court, but the elusive trait was not yet solidified enough to
prompt her into going any further than the outermost walls. She tried to blend
as much as her dress - coloured the darkest of crimson, trimmed in hints of
gold - and her Tully looks would permit. Which was not much at all, but for the
most part she went unnoticed.
Lord Tywin remained focused on the business presented in front of him, never so
much as glancing to the faces of the courtiers crowding in at the edges. She
had never seen so many people in the room, even during Joffrey's more gruesome
displays. All of them are shouldering for a glimpse of King Tywin, she mused to
herself. But truly, that was what they were doing. In the time she observed her
husband sitting in judgement there had been no bloodshed, no malicious
behaviour, and no sadistic taunts-turned-tortures. Sansa owned the self-
admitted fact that Tywin Lannister was the closest to a real king she had seen
sitting on that throne. It did not matter whether or not she had only two
others to compare him to, from the whispers and nattering of those around her,
her assessment was not biased.
In considering those same people, Sansa felt the number of them alone begin to
suffocate her, and proceeded looking for an opportunity to make her way out of
the vast chamber. She needed to leave and avoid being forced into courteous
conversation with the people who had once encouraged her suffering. The very
same people who now vied for her ear. Lady Lannister was indeed a person with
whom both men and women of court sought to flatter and earn favour. It was part
of the reason she avoided it, and why, in her opinion, Lord Tywin did not
require it of her.
Lady Lannister. It should have been Lady Stark, a bow to traditions far older
than any of them, but that was not how her husband decided she would be
announced. It felt like a slight, punishment if she thought about it too long,
but when compared to her history in King's Landing a name like Lannister was a
far cry from one like 'traitor', and resulted in none of the pain. ...Not the
kind to breaks skin, at least. For the most part she had accepted who she was -
the lady wife of the Great Lion of Casterly Rock - but her stomach turned every
time someone spoke her new name. She did not feel like a Lannister, and might
be that was the only thing keeping her afloat in the torrents of guilt that
threatened to drown her for conforming to their marriage in the capacity she
had.
Although, no matter her name it did not stop hearsay. In spite of her station,
her husband, or anything, gossip would always prevail. Being a Lannister had
not stopped the side-eyed glares of ladies who felt they themselves were of
better, less traitorous stock, and best fit to marry Lord Tywin. Or how his
young bride surely spread her thighs for all the gold in Casterly Rock.
Sansa purposefully wore only the barest of jewelry, and it was silver, much to
the displeasure of Lord Tywin. She had explained it away as a connection with
the North, certainly not with House Stark or her father or anything considered
an act of treason, and if her husband had an inkling regarding the truth
beneath the reason, which she was positive he did, he kept it to himself. She
also knew her ruse was merely a temporary stay, that she would have to allow
him to drape her in gold at some point. But for right now even the tiniest
victory was still a victory.
Her only reprieve from the poisonous blather was that now those once bold
courtiers did not dare slander her to her face. She didn't have to hear their
hate outright, and that was a small mercy.
During a pause in summons and protestations of court, Sansa turned to leave. As
she did so, she was caught in the wave of bodies exiting as well; however, she
did managed to stay ahead of the crowd while tactfully ignoring the various
calls of her name coming from behind her.
Nevertheless, as she rounded a corner in the outer corridor, her wrist was
caught in a tight grip. Sansa immediately turned - heart in her throat -
expecting to see Ser Meryn or Ser Boros. She knew they were dead, but that fear
had been second nature for so long her mind sometimes fought itself to settle
on actualities.
This time though, when she saw who had halted her, she smiled.
"Where is your guard?"
Her husband's mood was still low-slung and her smile, and whatever feelings of
contentment she wore, bled out as she watched his expression cross into fury.
"I- He is-"
"Stop muttering," he seethed. "Are you touched?!"
Tywin leaned in close and squeezed the small wrist in his hand even harder.
His words cut, his grasp pinched, and she, at once, slipped into her armour in
order to stem the hurt.
"I bid him wait at the East door, my lord. I have exited the South door." She
nodded in the direction she had come. The same direction she could see
gathering groups of lords and ladies witnessing the fuss unfold - surely
bolstering the opinion of her continued ineptitude.
"I was making my way back to him." She looked to her husband, eyes opened wider
as though to plead, her voice flat by contrast. "Please forgive any slight my
misdirection may have caused you, my lord."
Then in a blink her eyes were as dead as her voice, and Sansa found herself
living through the shell she had created for Joffrey.
Physical pain was nothing compared to forcing herself into the pseudo-self she
had outgrown. And that was the larger grief: she was no longer that girl, that
frightened little bird. Tywin gifted her a semblance of confidence, and now, in
five words and a firm hold, with an audience of people who wanted nothing more
than to see her fail, he was all but reneging it.
She once more felt publicly stripped bare. Humiliated.
The too-small armour was starting to make her claustrophobic - her stomach
began to turn.
She certainly didn't know what she looked like, but watching Tywin from the
spot outside of herself, she could see his anger unravel. His shoulders lost
most of their tense hunch, his breathing deepened, the muscles that were drawn
tight along his jaw relaxed, his eyes drained of their piercing rage... and
most of all, his clench released from around the delicate bones of her wrist.
Still, his hand remained there, fingertips sweeping lightly over where they had
just inflicted hurt.
"You..." He started in his stern voice, then faded as though distracted.
His other hand was suddenly on the upper part of her other arm - not grabbing,
but resting - his thumb drawing the tiniest of circles there. If she had not
felt it, she would not have been sure he was doing anything at all.
The tightness in her chest and the roiling in her stomach were abating. She
began to feel herself again, and realized that that was what Tywin was doing.
He was trying to pull her back from where he had chased and lost her.
He had seen more than his share of men and women and children die at his feet,
or pitch the throes of death in his line of sight, but this was terrible.
The needless disintegration of something beautiful.
Tywin knew that before she became his wife, Sansa had to turn herself into
something she was not in order to survive. The physical scars she bore and the
fact that she survived at all were proof of that. What was easier to forget
were the scars that he could not see. The ones that caused his wife to shudder
if the sound of a crowd rose too loud, or pale and lose focus on a conversation
if men wearing their white cloaks ventured too close.
She had finally answered him truthfully and in detail when he asked about her
time as a ward. It took several moon turns and a certain level of trust to be
earned by him in order to eventually hear it be told. And once it was, there
was a part of him that wished he had not heard it at all.
It wasn't the thought of torturing a woman - a girl, he amended - that bothered
him. Those deeds were nothing he hadn't condoned nor performed himself. Rather
it was the utter lack of necessity and greater purpose that disturbed him.
Tywin knew the value of Sansa Stark before he had ever met the girl, and
realizing the excruciating ignorance of his daughter and grandson in that
regard was bitter medicine to swallow. Yet, what made him truly choke and hate
was the fact that it had been Tyrion who acted most befitting House Lannister,
by adhering to common sense.
As he watched his wife turn into a husk in front of his very eyes, when his
rationale won out against his want to throw fury at the closest and most
accessible, he understood he was just another green-eyed monster looking to
publicly wallow in her misery.
His wife was inadvertently forcing him to teach himself new lessons... and it
was infuriatingly satisfying.
"Sansa." He willed his voice to soften.
She was looking at him now, the life restoring in her eyes though fear still
edged them.
"I'm sorry-" she started, before Tywin gently, yet firmly interjected.
"No. Stop." His mind had taken him to the reason he was in a horrid mood to
begin with. "You hold no fault."
Her face scrunched up a tiny amount and he knew she wanted to inquire about his
obvious burden He was not about to tell her, least of all standing there.
There, where he could practically feel the shallow murmurs of the shallow
people that surrounded them.
In one fluid movement he raised his hand from her upper arm to the side of her
neck, settled his thumb on her jawline, pulled her closer by the wrist in his
other hand - close enough for the action to be read plainly by those staring at
them, but not so close as to be indecent - and kissed the soft auburn just
above her hairline.
It was a message, and for a heartbeat Tywin wasn't sure if it was for him as
much as it was for the people around them. He took only the briefest of moments
to enjoy the scent of her hair and the feel of her warm breath through the
collared neck of his doublet before stepping back to a distance of arms-length.
"I will escort you, my lady."
The instruction was curt but Sansa did not miss her cue, taking the arm he
offered and walking with him - equal in their commanding elegance.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sansa had waited only a short time beyond the hour in which she and her husband
normally accompanied each other for supper, when Tywin's steward came to relay
the message that his lord would be dining in council chambers.
His steward, Lyol, was slightly older than Tywin and had been in service of the
Lannisters since he was a boy of no older than eight. Starting in the stables,
he soon moved into the keep as a page for Lord Tytos, and was ultimately
retained by Tywin, who rewarded his loyalty and service by advancing him to his
steward. Which Lyol had been for more than three decades.
He always greeted her with a kind smile and equally kind words. Even in the
beginning, Lyol would go out of his way to ensure Sansa was aware of her
husband's schedule and routine. He was a good man, not just a person who served
well but someone akin to those she had loved and lost from Winterfell. So when
Lyol told her, after she had been married to his liege for barely a moon, that
he thought Lord Tywin wed better than he would ever realize, she took it as far
more than a servant looking to garner the good graces of their Lady.
Yet as he stood before her, she could see plainly the steward was troubled. His
face was ever-kind, but his posture spoke of uncertainty.
"Is he... well?" She knew Lyol would never volunteer information, but he would
not lie to her either.
"My lord's health is sound, my lady."
Sansa looked at him thoughtfully, he did not move from where he was standing.
She was confident that he was silently willing her to continue her questions.
"Has there been another battle?"
"There are always battles in war, my lady."
Deduction of what was important to Tywin Lannister led to her next question.
"Something has happened... family?"
She was unsure if she phrased the question too openly, but when Lyol kept his
steely gaze on hers and nodded slow and deep, the answer was both clear and
completely muddy. Then, just like the man he served, Lyol wore an expression
that told her the conversation was over. The only exception was that this man
made it appear friendly.
Sansa smiled small and genuine, thanked him for the message before dismissing
him, and proceeded to summon her meal.
As she ate, Sansa came to understand that although most of her suppers were
spent in silence, she had never felt quite as alone as she did during that one.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
She did not know what time her husband came to bed, but when he stirred her as
he slipped under the layers of coverings she noticed that there was barely a
glow coming from the hearth on his side of the bed.
Watching him settle into a prone position and listening to him exhale deeply,
she then smelled the heavy odor of wine. She would never question him in his
drinking, he had never imbibed greatly in the past and she could only assume it
was directly related to his mood throughout the day.
Something in relation to family. Something she knew he would never willingly
disclose.
As his wife, it was her duty to ease his burden, and Sansa felt they were on a
more comfortable level when they were alone like this. In private she felt like
more than a political convenience to her husband, and perhaps he would be more
receptive to her inquiry now than any other time.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Tywin snoring. Loudly.
The inclination to wake him in order to talk crossed her mind, then kept going.
She found her sleep again, eventually. There were some tense moments when Tywin
sounded like he was choking, but he seemed to right himself and fall back into
a regular, albeit loud, breathing pattern. But later what woke her violently
wasn't Tywin's snoring, it was him sitting bolt upright then scrambling to get
out of bed as though the linens were made of molten metal.
At the same time he was escaping the clutches of the bed he was speaking
clearly to no one in particular, and what he was saying was as baffling as his
behaviour.
"Let me see it... You're alright boy..." He was off the bed completely and had
walked over to the fireplace, leaning toward the embers.
Sansa had propped herself on her knees, had yet to say a word to him, and was
quietly observing. She could see that he had placed his hands dreadfully close
to the twinkling coals and was turning his hands over, from top to palm. For a
horrific heartbeat she thought of the Hound, thought of the actions he had
suffered. But when Tywin kept talking, she realized he was searching his hands
for something not intending to harm himself.
The light from the hearth was insufficient. After a minute he walked to the
window that was bright in the light of the full moon.
"No... Two... You're wrong!... Two!"
Tywin was yelling at the palms of his hands. He had raised them to catch the
white illumination piercing through the uneven density of the glass,
subsequently bringing them before his face.
She tentatively rose and moved off the bed herself, not taking her eyes off
him, waiting for him to address her - harshly or calmly, she wasn't sure what
to expect. But when she had padded barefoot to a position almost beside him,
without so much as an acknowledgement on his part, she knew something was
amiss.
When she moved to stand directly in front of him, he was still talking to his
hands. Almost pleading with them.
It was when she raised her own hand and touched her fingertips to his his wrist
that he snapped his attention at her, grabbing at her fingers, pulling her own
palms roughly into the light.
"No no no no no... Gods no..." The words whined out of him like he was a
wounded animal, at the same time he turned her hands over and over in the glow.
"Please no... Please please please..."
Sansa felt a flood of fear the likes of which she hadn't experienced since well
before her wedding.
"Tywin..." She swallowed as much of her apprehension as she could, speaking as
softly as her body would permit.
"No... Please..." The words were keening out of him, his face was mix of anger,
confusion and something that made her go cold at the core. Worry.
"Tywin," she said again.
Sansa was at a loss as to what was required for comforting a man... least of
all this man. The only reference she had was soothing Bran when he had been
frightened of thunderstorms as a toddling babe.
"Tywin, you're alright. Nothing will hurt you."
She had a sudden pang of awkward embarrassment. Reassuring Tywin Lannister of
his safety sounded far more bizarre put to voice than it did in one's mind.
He stopped shifting and whining and simply stared at her, her hands in his, his
face creased in concern.
At that angle, in the filtered light, his green eyes flickered like those of a
cat. The effect was uncanny and mesmerizing all at the same time. He took a
deep breath and started blinking like one would do if they were waking; heavy,
deliberate blinking.
She watched as his face reassembled itself into an expression of seriousness,
no trace of any other emotion remaining. His eyes hardened and he straightened
himself to his full height before looking at her hands in his - he flicked them
away as though they were filth.
Sansa did not say a word, just stood frozen in place.
They stayed like that for a handful of minutes, simply looking at each other in
the moonlight. To a casual observer the scene could have been one of romance,
until of course it would be determined that the tension between the
participants was a palpable entity.
It was Tywin who spoke first. "Go back to bed Sansa." He sounded tired and
irritated.
She instead stepped toward him and reached her fingertips to his wrist again.
This time his hand was at his side, not in front of him.
"I will when I know you are alright," her tone soft, taking another step
closer, "Tywin."
He had been watching her, like the animal his eyes were reflecting, first
scrutinizing the touch of her fingers then the proximity she felt entitled to.
It was too close and he was of no mood.
"I am well."
He gritted it out at the same time he snatched the forearm extended close to
his hand, using the lose grip to leverage and spin her away from him. Tywin
then let go of her forearm, placed that same hand on her back and, using only
the strength of his fingers, shoved her the first couple of steps in the
direction of their bed.
"Go," he growled.
She took the initial assisted strides but did not go further. Instead she
turned again in his direction.
He had faced his attention to the window, looking out into the bright night,
with his arms folded across his chest. Sansa knew he was aware of her presence,
she could see the vibrating shadows of his flexing jaw - whether in annoyance
or self consciousness, she couldn't discern - and stepped toward him again,
cautious and slow, like one would approach anything that was spooked.
He didn't bother to look at her. His wife didn't do as he bade, but he was
truly in no form to argue the point... or to really care. Tywin could sense her
getting closer though, and it acted as a calming distraction - something
harmless to seep away his troubled focus.
Sansa stopped a short distance away from her husband, not confident in what to
do next. His hand was now tucked up under his other arm, perched on his chest,
so she couldn't touch there again without it seeming discorded. She stared at
his side, at how his crimson bedgown was made of such a luxurious weave that it
seemed to shimmer in the pale light, as though it were alive.
Without warning, he felt the backs of her fingers brush down the silky fabric,
down his side, and end their journey at his hip. Her touch was careful but firm
enough to neither bother nor tickle. She did it again, raising her hand and
running the backs of her knuckles the length of his flank, memorizing every
thread and crease she encountered, absorbing the heat of his skin underneath
and sharing her own in return.
Sansa rested her hand on his hip and watched the rise and fall of Tywin's chest
and arms as he took a deep breath.
She was taken then, in their silence and muted actions, back to the bits and
pieces of her childhood that she had tucked away and kept safe for so long. The
ones in which she knew purely out of instinct that feeling someone being there
for you in the blackness, either of night or emotion, made even the simplest
touches seem the grandest of gestures.
He did not have to look at her to know she was moving behind him. His mind's
eye could see her perfectly, gliding fluidly, always graceful. Much like how
water will always find a path, even on the roughest terrain.
Sansa did not remove her hand from its place on his hip, just swiveled it as
she moved. When facing his back she took a moment to fortify her nerve before
proceeding. Stepping closer to him, she could see the tension rise in the
muscles of his back; another step and even his breathing sounded tight. But she
would not stop, not now. She was so close to him, could feel the warmth of him
radiating and it made her next action seem only natural.
His lady wife leaned into him, slowly but with a facsimile of confidence,
pressing her body into his back, turning her face and resting her cheek on him
too. She took one or two breaths before guiding the hand she kept on his hip
around to the front of him, feeling everywhere her hand passed over, each of
those strands of muscle tissue flexing in protest as though she were performing
some act of harm.
She would not be deterred.
Her other arm made the same journey on the opposite side of him and came to
rest with its partner, completing the embrace.
The longer they stayed like that, the more Tywin could not decide if he was
finding himself comforted or emasculated, or both, or the former leading to the
latter. His frustration was compiling into anger and had just starting to
bubble to the surface when it was stopped abruptly.
She was humming - some tune or melody, he couldn't tell - but it was low enough
he felt it more than anything - and if he told himself that was not comforting
he knew he'd make himself a bloody liar.
Tywin closed his eyes, willed the tension in him to subside, and allowed
himself to accept whatever affection this girl, his wife, was offering. Allowed
himself this succor. Allowed himself this weakness. Because he knew - knew with
every fraction of himself that was fighting the gods-damned truth - that he
would be better for it.
When he did not reject her outright, Sansa felt triumphant. However, when she
thought about that, considering a hug a triumph, it brought the entirety of
their relationship into clear, concise focus. Sadly. But that was who they
were, and that was what they were bound to, and like her jewelry she would take
even the smallest gain where she could.
She was surprised out of her thoughts when she felt him shift a tiny amount,
then felt his hands covering hers. Thinking he was about to pry them off and
fling her away like he did before, she was equally surprised when he simply
held them.
Sansa held his hands back, returning the slight pressure he had applied.
They stood there, like that, loosely holding on to one another and Sansa
humming out the unwanted silence, for long minutes, perhaps close to one half
of an hour.
"Come back to bed."
Tywin had been so deep in his own thoughts, he had to take a moment in order to
comprehend that words were spoken to him.
Scoffing lightly, he spoke solemnly. "Commanding me now, are you?"
She could not see his face and did not know if his eyes were as pointed as his
voice. Chancing a hunch, she hoped it would not end with his ire.
Untangling their hands closest to the window, Sansa unfolded herself from his
back, immediately feeling the loss of warmth and repose. Sansa took careful
steps, rounding her way to the front of him again. Her other hand kept its hold
on his, and when she faced him and gently tugged.
"Yes," she answered softly.
He looked defeated, tired and utterly incapable of the want or desire to
retaliate when she tugged his hand again. Relief rolled through her when his
arm gave then stretched, allowing her to lead him back to their bed. They had
come to a slightly stumbling stop at the foot of it when Sansa squeezed his
hand once more before letting it go and walking the rest of the way to the side
she slept on.
He watched her from where he'd halted and admitted to himself that the sight of
her, in her pale yellow nightdress awash in moonlight, was nothing short of
ethereal. In the same breath, he chalked up his sentimentality to the
impressive amount of wine he had consumed.
When he joined her - first straightening the coverings that were in disarray
from his mad scramble out - he climbed in, laid on his side, and settled with
his head on the pillows. It wasn't until she spoke that he realized his wife
was sitting higher, more upright.
"Will you tell me?"
Her voice was sincere, no trace of callow youth in it. And perhaps that was
what made his mind up for him. He didn't change his position, just talked to
her hip - which was in his line of sight - such as it was in the fading
moonlight.
"Jaime." He took in a deep breath, he really wasn't prepared for this. "He has
been..." another deep breath, "injured."
Tywin did not have to see his wife to know she was considering his words. She
no longer wilted under the slightest pressure to think independently, to offer
her own thoughts and opinions outside those rehearsed and ingrained in highborn
girls from a young age. However, she still took longer than he normally had the
patience for. Tonight was different though, in that his day-long anger had
drained even his intolerance.
"Grievously?" She finally settled on.
"Yes, but not in the capacity to kill him, apparently." Tywin almost groaned
out his next words. "His sword-hand has been... removed."
Sansa inhaled sharply at his words. Even a vague description conjured the most
vivid of memories. She knew what the separation of flesh looked like, sounded
like, smelled like...
All at once she was terrified. Ser Jaime had been long ago captured and
detained by northern forces.
"It wasn't..." It came out almost frantic, until she caught herself and calmed
her tone. "My brother didn't do it, did he?"
All she could think was that this might have been some sort of retaliation for
her marriage, but then thought against it, knowing her husband would have made
sure that she was fully aware of that kind of detail. She felt him rise then at
a startling speed. The next thing she knew her husband was almost in her face,
she could smell the stale wine on his breath.
"No, it wasn't your precious brother," he hissed.
She held his glare. Sansa was about to question his sudden flare of anger when
his face wore a look of pain, like Tywin had been physically struck. He scoffed
then, in her face, before lowering himself to a laying position again. The air
that had coughed out of him was acrid and caustic, and she didn't know if she
wanted to hear any more.
When he settled again, he spoke.
"No." His tone was again built of fury, she could feel the immediate area of
bed shivering with it. "No, it was my own gold that paid to render my only
capable child useless."
One sentence threw so many implications, Sansa was still digesting them when
Tywin continued.
"You're a fool if you don't expect someone in your employ to cross you,
but this was unpredictable." He was drained again, his burst of anger leaving
him spent.
Of everything he said, Sansa focused on the one thing she thought unfathomable.
"The injury is... significant... But surely Ser Jaime is not useless."
"How is it that the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, the Kinglsayer, is
anything but useless when he lacks that with which to wield a sword?"
It wasn't the words that horrified her, though they were vile enough, it was
the casual tone with which he dismissed his son. Tywin waved away his flesh and
blood as easily as he would clothing he didn't like the colour of.
To her, this was something foreign - so abhorrently foreign. She tried to think
of her own father making the same assessment of any one of his sons, even his
daughters, but she could not. She simply drew a blank at her father reacting in
such a brutally callous manner.
"He is still your son, Tywin." It was supposed to come out cautiously but there
was enough passion behind it, it prompted her husband to raise his head and
look at her.
"My son made his choice when he opted for white instead of red and gold." He
sounded almost petulant.
Sansa knew then that this had nothing to do with a wound, and everything to do
with a father carrying the grudge of a perceived slight from his son. She never
thought she would be given reason to, but she pitied the man beside her.
Tywin was still looking at her as she contemplated, until she looked at him
levelly.
"Would you have placed yourself in harms way in order to spare your son his
injury?" It was said in such a confident manner, Sansa momentarily thought it
had come from her husband's mouth not hers.
He just looked her. When he had not answered, she feared the worst.
Pulling her brows together, looking almost offended, she started, "You would-"
He cut her off, but what was more striking was the depth of sincerity in his
reply. "No Sansa, I would not have allowed him his injury."
When his wife smiled at him, at his words, Tywin lived a queer feeling of
accomplishment. When her features returned to serious, he had an even queerer
feeling that she was about to revoke that accomplishment.
"Then why would you allow him to be useless?"
He did not have an answer for that. He would have much rather seethed at her
presumption and accusation, but he couldn't. She was right. She was right, and
she might as well have carved out his flesh for the amount of hurt his pride
was suffering.
Tywin rolled over and laid on his back, bringing a hand over his eyes - the
wine already taking its toll.
"You have no idea, Sansa. No clue what it is to have to rise above the
defamation of your name. This..." He shook his right hand to accentuate what he
was referring to. "This is more fodder to overcome."
It was her turn to scoff. And that she did. Forcefully.
Tywin removed his hand from his eyes and turned his head toward his wife.
"My family are traitors, my lord." It wasn't in the normal monotone of her
rehearsed frivolity, it was almost haughty. "The ones that still live and war
are wanted dead." Her fire began to dim, she sounded worn in her own right. "I
have an idea."
Lord Tywin wasn't phased by her outburst, but he wasn't boastful either. "It
seems you have been south of The Neck too long, my lady." He sounded like this
was something she should already know. "You are a Stark, your family have an
established lineage of over eight thousand years."
She did know that, though it had been shamed away as of late.
He propped himself back on his elbows, if only to be at the same height.
"Your father died a martyr, your brother was crowned a king because of his
death." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, tired yet again. "No, my
lady, your legacy is more than secure - regardless of opinion, regardless of
the outcome of any war."
She did not know how to respond. Sansa just assumed that the overwhelming
opinion was the same one she had been inundated with - that her family were no
more than treacherous criminals, that her blood was tainted. Sansa wondered
then if Tywin had married her in part for her name, not just whatever claim he
could squeeze out of it. If perhaps part of his motivation was based solely on
the prestige he felt it could lend his own.
Of course he did. Of course it was.
Lord Tywin Lannister would know the calculated value of the Stark name more
than those who bore it.
She looked at him then, his eyes were closed and he was still leaning on his
elbows. He looked peaceful. Well in contrast to the demeanour he had cast all
day.
Whatever drive she had to once again mull the purpose of Lord Tywin's actions
toward her, or her family, or the North, or whatever else fell to suspicion,
had been thoroughly exhausted for this night. So instead she focused her
efforts on her initial intent.
He felt the tingling warmth of her fingers on his face. She liked touching him,
he knew, though she rarely did it without the context of physical intimacy.
The thought of bedding his wife made him harden.
He never could, nor would, chastise his attraction to Sansa in that way, but
his current limitation would be in his ability to follow through. However, when
he felt her fingers trace his jaw, over his neck, across his shoulder, and down
his arm, he knew she wasn't inclined to that particular activity either.
Tywin felt her curl her fingers around his upper arm then tug, much like she
did with his hand earlier, and he could only determine that she wanted him to
follow her momentum.
He acquiesced lazily. Barely opening his eyes, he rolled over to his side, and
further, following her guiding hand. She placed it on the back of his neck and
led him to lay down.
When he did, his head was resting on soft warmth. He could hear a steady rhythm
in the vicinity of where his ear was pressed.
It was the smell of her body that seduced him into calm and comfort, but it was
the feel of her hand stroking the nape of his neck and down his back that
caused him to bring his arm around her middle and give in completely.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Red I *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Sansa never knew if her letters were ever really sent. She had written more
than a dozen - one a fortnight - and had yet to receive a reply.
Tywin informed her that correspondence in times of war was a difficult
proposition on the outset. A prospect further complicated because her mother
was embedded in Robb's host, and ravens would more than likely be shot down
well before they made their destination. He also informed her that her letters
were being routed through to the edge of the Westerlands, as close to the
Riverlands as possible, in order to help alleviate the suspicion of a message
coming from King's Landing.
It wasn't as though she didn't believe her husband. He was many things, but he
had yet to lie to her - that she was aware of.
Regardless, there were pangs - there were always pangs - of wary apprehension
in her life and in her marriage. Although, just as she had adapted to captivity
after the death of her father, she was adapting to responsibility as the wife
of the Hand of the King, the wife of Tywin Lannister.
However, what worries she had did not prevent her from writing. It was a small
act of freedom in her daily subjection to people and events, and hospitality
requiring her carefully arranged courtesies and recently acquired social
eloquence.
Sansa could smile now, though at those first feasts and banquets she was
mandated to attend she had been terrified. Spending most of those evenings
tucked close to Tywin - being previously instructed to observe only - he would
either place her snugly at his arm or just behind his arm. The latter normally
in conjunction with conversing with Lord Tarly or Lord Tyrell.
If found engaged in conversation in those days - she smiled wider at the memory
- she had held a look suggesting she'd been struck dumb altogether. But she
watched, and inevitably learned. When Tywin would speak on her behalf, he was
cleverly redirecting a question or entrenching the conversationalist in a
verbal quandary.
Sansa was unable to convey intimidation through her words like her husband
could, but when she coupled the confidence that the course of her marriage
helped her to exude with her natural courtesy, the result was a sincerity that
had the ability to disarm. Which was usually enough to allow her to steer and
control any conversation.
For the first time in her life Sansa had power and it was her own. Not because
she was the daughter of Eddard Stark, or the betrothed of Prince Joffrey, or
the wife of Tywin Lannister, it was something she had created and
cultivated herself.
She was proud of it, for the most part. Proud of herself, for the most part.
Her husband, too, was proud of her. Not that he ever said as much, nor given
her any outward encouragement. Instead, he had developed a habit of engaging
large groups of high lords and ladies in conversation only to exit abruptly,
leaving his wife to continue in his stead.
That was his praise, she knew, and sometimes she felt awash in his version of
pride and recognition. Other times though, she felt like a novelty. Something
new and shiny being put on display for the appraisal and amusement of others.
It struck close to what she had felt when Joffrey would single her out, but
those moments were thankfully fleeting.
She pulled her focus back to the missive she was composing.
The letters to her mother - since the first one - had always opened with her
feelings laid bare; the fact that she missed her and Robb immensely, that she
wanted nothing more than to reunite with them, and that she loved them - that
last part she repeated throughout her letters.
She had mentioned Arya the first time she wrote, told how she hoped her sister
had made her way to them, but Tywin scratched it out and informed her she would
have to rewrite the whole thing. Since then even the vaguest of references of
her sister were eventually crossed out and left absent on the final draft.
When Sansa had asked why she wasn't allowed to mention her sister, Tywin simply
told her she knew the answer. His non-question questions and his non-answer
answers always saw her resorting to careful deliberation.
It was frustrating sometimes. Much like trying to find a door in the dark,
fumbling until you touch upon something familiar - such as her brother and
mother not actually knowing Arya was missing. Though, it did not stop her from
writing about Arya in the first place. It seemed quite fitting that her
rebellious little sister would be her own silent rebellion.
Her marriage was only mentioned in her first letter and what she had written
her family was truthful - that her Lord husband had been generous, and that she
was regarded amiably. How could she convey the greater truth in words? That her
marriage was changing her in ways she had never considered as a young girl
growing up in Winterfell. She was no longer that Sansa - with a head full of
songs and a heart reserved for a golden prince.
But then, she thought to herself, she could not imagine the ways in which Robb
and her mother had changed in the few years since their separation and through
all the loss and the pressures of a war.
She sat contemplating her words, idly roaming her eyes over Tywin's desk,
searching for inspiration when her focus was drawn to the edge of a parchment
sticking out quite far from under a haphazardly arranged stack. She could read
two visible words: young wolf.
It would be treason if she were to be caught rummaging through the
communications of the King, but she couldn't live with herself if she did not
at least look. Her husband wouldn't know, and he was continually prompting her
to take an interest in the work that was his duty.
Sansa extracted the document as though it were the fragile petal of a dried
flower and turned it upright in order to read: 
Wedding organized. Festivities to last one night.
Several courses to serve - trout, northern game, and young wolf.
We thank Your Grace for helping cover the expense in trying times.
Her mouth went dry and the back of her neck felt like it was covered in
needles.
She wasn't necessarily skilled in logic and deduction, but this wasn't written
by someone overly clever. The implications of the letter were abundantly clear:
the King was supporting a plot against her brother, against her mother, against
the North.
Tywin made sure she attended gatherings of political figures, expected her to
speak and relate to them. She knew her brother married a Westerland girl,
breaking his oath to Lord Walder Frey.
The men she spoke with at those gathering thought it was the greatest game,
trying to vex the Hand's Stark wife by speaking ill of her family. What they
didn't know was she had been playing that particular game longer than the
bloody war had existed. She also knew her mother's brother had been negotiated
in place of Robb, his wedding upcoming at the Twins...
Sansa found herself scrambling for the nearest vessel and purging what she ate
to break her fast, and what felt like every ounce of strength holding her up.
Her mind sparked and popped erratically, like wet wood taking to fire. Her
fingertips were cold, her feet were cold as well. She  had felt this way
before...
Her body was reacting to shock.
It was as though she were watching herself from somewhere above, she could see
herself rinse her mouth and push away from the basin, then walk briskly to the
desk and snatch up the letter that sent her reeling to begin with. There was a
surprising feeling of calm covering her like the warmth of a blanket, it was
chasing away the coldness that had crept in.
As Sansa exited into the large passageway beyond their apartments in the Tower
of the Hand, her guard followed in a natural progression.
She knew her husband would be in one of two places, council chambers or the map
room. The latter, as her husband had explained, a necessity with Stannis
Baratheon still a threat. There was always case to investigate strategy and
tactics. She made her way to council chambers and it wasn't until she neared
the doors that she even considered Joffrey - that he may be in attendance - and
what she found halting was that she cared not one whit.
Her focus was clear and she had a mission.
There was only one castle guard outside the doors to the chambers, indicating
council had convened in the map room. Sansa did not even bother to ask, she
simply turned abruptly and proceeded up the stairs, her guard forever in tow.
Rounding the final corner she saw two Gold Cloaks and Tywin's personal guards
standing by the doors. She knew then that her assumption was correct.
Upon reaching the entrance, both the sets of guards seemed puzzled by Lady
Sansa's appearance, but the Gold Cloaks moved to cover the doors out of habit.
"I need to speak with my husband, please announce me." She was polite and
courteous, as expected.
It was the burliest of the two Gold Cloaks standing guard who addressed her.
"Apologies m'lady, council is restricted to those already attending."
Sansa narrowed her eyes at the man, her patience was running thin and her anger
was almost uncontrollable. "Do you know who my husband is, Ser?"
The man was somewhat taken aback. "Yes, Lady Lannister, of course-"
She didn't bother to be horrified or cringe at her name, she simply talked over
him. "Would you care for my husband to know your name, Ser? The name of the man
that kept his wife and urgent business away from him?"
She had never used her husband as a weapon, perceived or actual, and while
people gave her a wide berth in general because of Tywin Lannister it was
something altogether new to wield his name like a sword. Exhilarating in fact.
The burly guard and his companion exchanged looks before Sansa said in a tone
of total authority, "Announce me."
The smaller Gold Cloak nodded and set to pushing the large wooden doors open,
but before he could make his way inside and announce Lady Sansa as decorum
stated, Sansa had already started to push past him.
It was her own guard that gripped her elbow lightly, trying the stop her from
disrupting the meeting. "No my lady, please wait..."
But she shrugged out of his grasp before he could finish, far too livid and
anxious to care.
Sansa shoved her way into the map room and must have looked a fright because
Lord Tywin immediately stood, flashing a look of panic before settling back to
severe, then flicked a glance at the men outside the door who allowed this to
happen.
Her vision narrowed, her only focus was on her husband exclusively. Tywin met
her halfway into the room before she choked out her words.
"You can't!" Her voice was shaking in anger, she was clutching the parchment in
her fist and holding it up to him.
Tywin looked at his wife in furious confusion, until his vision settled on the
nondescript seal of the letter.
It was his turn to offer words of equal temperament, only his were aimed at the
men inside the room.
"Everyone out!"
He flicked a glance at Kevan, giving a silent command that his brother
understood immediately. When Tywin looked back down to his wife, she was icy
stiff in her own fury, something that melted as soon as the last man exited and
Tywin gripped her wrist like a vice - the one that had been extended holding
the parchment.
"Are you spying, girl? Is that how you honour me?" His grasp tightened. He knew
it hurt her but did not care.
She pushed through it by setting her jaw and kept looking at him.
Her words were calm, measured, and spoken around the pain she was enduring.
"I'm not spying, my lord. I was preparing another letter for my mother, and
this," she shook her proffered hand as much as his grip would allow, "was
sitting opened. I saw my brother's name... I couldn't help but read it." Her
fear and sadness seeped into the last sentence. Her face followed suit, the
stiffness of her features softening to worry.
"You cannot condone this, my lord. The King cannot condone this..." She was
losing her fury altogether, her boldness had drained her.
His chest was tightening, he felt more than embarrassed or offended by her
actions and accusations. He felt betrayed.
"And who are you to demand anything of me, girl?" It was all but snarled out at
his wife. "Do you think me some old fool willingly lead by a cunt? Is that what
you think of me?!" He shook the fist wrapped around her wrist as violently as
he spoke his words.
His coarse language took her by surprise, her husband rarely, if ever used it.
Yet Sansa would not be frightened nor cowed, not in this matter. It was too
close - she was too close.
"My lord, I am your wife. I am going to be the mother of your children." She
all but pleaded to the man.
She watched as Tywin dropped her wrist, stepped back and looked her up and
down. Raking his view over and over, his face softening to one that looked
distinctly boyish. Until he met her eyes again, then his features slowly formed
an ever-deepening scowl.
It was his voice that was now shaky, but it wasn't in anger. "I thought you...
I trusted you!"
She could hear the hurt in his words and it crushed her with the urge to reach
for him, to touch him. It was an utter conflict of emotions within her. At the
same time, her mind was trying to determine exactly why Tywin would be hurt...
Yet another door found by fumbling in the darkness.
"No..." He didn't seem to snap out of his hurt. "No!" She practically yelled
the word at him, it rendered the desired effect. "I am not with child, my
lord." She softened her tone, but it still projected urgency, "But I will be -
and it will be our children that will carry this shame."
Tywin furrowed his brows sharply.
She knew she struck a chord with him. Specifically: putting into question his
legacy.
Sansa begged her mind to comply, to calculate at a rate it had never been taxed
with.
"You fought and sacrificed to win back the dignity of House Lannister,
and this..." Again she shook the letter, but this time she raised it to just
below his eye level in order to regain his focus and ensure his attention.
"This will surely burn your efforts to the ground."
He flicked her hand out of his face and seethed, "Our name is not connected
with this. I did not win back anything by being stupid, child."
Child, she had to ignore it and move on. She knew very well he slung subtle
insults when he felt cornered, she had seen him do it on the rare occasion it
happened. They were meant as redirection, but she knew better than to be
baited. She had been taught better than that. Instead she willed her mind, with
all her might, to produce the pictures needed for the story she had to tell.
"No, my lord, our name will not sign the order, you're right, but our gold will
be placed in the hands of those that carry out the deed. The
crown, our daughter, our grandson, will be rewarding the men engaged in this
treachery." Those titles felt like blades in her mouth.
Sansa was grasping at the first things that came to her, but her husband looked
engaged so she continued.
"And you know as well as I do that the entirety of Westeros recognizes that it
is Tywin Lannister who rules, and has since before the rebellion." She caught
her breath and added with renewed energy. "I grew up in the barbaric north and
knew this!"
It wasn't a lie. She had sat silently around conversations between her father
and his bannermen discussing and recounting those very details.
Tywin was listening, he was not simply humouring his wife. She could see his
jaw flexing and working, his eyes never left hers. It was the thought of her
father that supplied the next chapter of her tale.
"Do you not see? Guest Right is older than us all, and it's held in a higher
regard than liege lords and kings on thrones."
When he narrowed his eyes slightly she knew she was skirting too close to
frivolity.
Tywin spoke calm and collected then, not at his wife but to her. "Why would the
crown want to continue in months of war when it can be ended in one night?"
Her mouth spoke instantly, "Anything gained easily has the highest of prices,
that is what you told me."
She wanted to get on her knees and cry and wail and beg, but knew it would only
eradicate her efforts.
"This, Tywin, this action," she shook the letter again, "will have the highest
price of them all."
She then settled for the ugliest of honesty. "My lord, if this
happens, you will persevere by reputation alone, but you will die, and whatever
protection that your name offers will be buried as well." She was starting to
feel defeated. "Any children you leave behind will have to answer for this, and
House Lannister will have all but died with you."
She opted for a final truth to end it then, it was all she had left in her.
"You do this, Tywin, and you will forfeit the North."
She blinked slow and calm, unafraid. Sansa hated what she was about to say,
hated herself for even offering it. She sounded so, so tired.
"Kill Robb Stark in battle, my lord. Allow him to die the death befitting the
king they have crowned him, and you will still have a chance for the North." It
was an effort for her to keep from retching. "If you support his death in this
manner, my eight thousand year old name will be worthless to you."
There was nothing but silence between them. It accentuated just how heavily
Sansa was breathing - as though she had been running throughout their entire
conversation.
Lord Tywin stood up straighter, never taking his eyes off his wife.
Sansa could see the strategic ticking of scenario and endgame in the way his
vivid green eyes would alternate focus on each one of hers. She knew he was
both deep in thought and highly alert.
After what felt like hours his eyes squared on hers suddenly, no longer
twitching, and she gasped inwardly.
His features did not move, did not betray one crumb of emotion before he nodded
at her deep and sturdy, without taking his eyes off hers. He offered no verbal
confirmation or acknowledgement, just that one nod and Sansa wasn't confident
enough in herself to truly decipher it. But the solemn posture and expression
he held gave her hope that her words had been absorbed and considered.
It was all she could ask for.
She had the urge to reach out to him, touch him or hold him, but refrained for
fear of ruining what she had just accomplished.
It was Tywin who reached first.
He put his hand on her shoulder, not ungently, maintaining their eye contact,
and drew easy circles with his thumb over her collarbone.
She knew he wanted to say something, his jaw was flexing again. Instead he used
his hand to turn her toward the entrance of the room. When Tywin ushered her to
the door he turned to his brother and instructed him to escort Sansa back to
their apartments, and in the same breath he instructed the two soldiers
standing sentry to seize Sansa's guard and take him to a cell.
Sansa immediately turned to question what was happening. She saw absolute fear
blazing in the eyes of her young guard, and the stony impassiveness in her
husband's.
"Wha-" She started to protest, but was swiftly turned away by Ser Kevan.
"Keep walking, my lady. Please." His voice was soft and affable, it wasn't so
much a command as it was a request.
Ser Kevan kept a hand on her elbow, pointing her in the direction they needed
to travel.
"But, why is-"
Turning once again, she couldn't understand why her guard was being detained.
She wanted to see and, more so to know. Ser Jerrod had been her guard since her
wedding day, she considered him a friend of sorts - she knew of his family, his
wife and new child...
And again she was cut off by her husband's brother gently turning her back
around.
"There is nothing that can be done behind you, my lady. You must go forward."
She heeded him. Ser Kevan was kindly but he was also a large man that could
easily overpower her. And as she looked up at him, she noted even his
expression was like the his voice and touch - gentle - a complete contrast to
her husband.
As they walked, his words were sinking in. They were far more than flippant
instructions. When she regarded him again he looked down at her and offered a
small smile. It was genuine and spoke of understanding. Although they
interacted almost daily, Sansa didn't know Lord Tywin's brother well. He was
always polite and courteous, though he never offered more than the most general
of conversation. She had assumed that he was of the same, albeit more quiet,
mind as her husband. In the past handful of minutes however, she became keenly
aware that Ser Kevan was far more than what he allowed others to interpret.
Much like herself, she supposed.
They walked in silence until they were securely inside the sitting room of her
apartments. At which point she turned to Ser Kevan.
"Why?" She asked. "Why would he arrest Ser Jerrod?" It came out more high
pitched and whiny than she intended, but she cared more about the answer than
she did her tone.
Kevan Lannister looked at the girl in front of him, for that was what she was -
a girl - and could easily recognize that she knew the answer to her own
question and was seeking some sort of assurance that her assumption was
incorrect.
He held a look of thoughtful knowing. "Everything has a price, my lady."
Her face looked pained as she glanced down and away from him.
Ser Kevan crouched slightly in order to look at her more directly and took each
of her hands in each of his. "You knew that though." He quirked his lips
slightly when she looked at him again, her eyes speaking the words her mouth
refused.
She felt as though she wanted to cry, but held it at bay.
"It should be me," she whispered.
Even under his gentle stare, Sansa was under a crush of weighted emotion and
had to look away again.
Kevan's features dropped, he knew exactly what she was feeling, but it had been
such a long time since he'd experienced it himself.
"Lady Sansa, do you understand Tywin's message?"
Sansa took a deep breath and contemplated what had unfolded, then she took that
sequence of events and perceived them as though she were her
husband. Understanding made her feel physically ill. Not because comprehension
in general was overwhelming, but because the death of a man could have been
prevented if she weren't so impulsive, so selfish.
Hindsight was never fair, and she immediately thought of the first time this
type of behaviour caused a man to lose his life - her father. Her tears could
not be stopped then. She wasn't sobbing, but there were great rivers of tears
making their way to the collar of her gown.
When she spoke, it was to Ser Kevans' boots. "The Hands' wife sought to control
him - in front of the King's council." her voice sounded as though it had been
dragged over a league of rough road. She looked up at the man in front of her.
"And he would not be thought of as such. An example had to be made."
Kevan nodded and lightly squeezed the hands he was holding on to. "That's
right," he said kindly.
However, he could see in her eyes that the burden was still too heavy.
"Did Tywin listen to you, my lady?"
She took a moment to ruminate, then answered honestly and quietly, "Yes, ser.
He did."
Ser Kevan tilted his head ever so slightly, his look was on the edge of
disbelief before he barely broadened his smile and spoke confidently. "Then, my
lady, you have succeeded where kings have tried and failed." That it was a
hard-learned lesson went unspoken, but was emphatically understood. He gave one
more tiny squeeze to her hands before letting them go.
His smile remained in place as he nodded a bow and took his leave of her.
Sansa watched him exit and could not help but think that while he and Tywin
were brothers they were also very different. She guessed that was the way of
things - even in her own family. Robb was always so different from Jon... Then
she hoped, hoped with the ferocity of the animal that represented her - both
animals - that whatever she could impart on Tywin today would ensure that
difference remained in the world.
When her handmaid entered the room Sansa asked for wine, then privacy.
The significance of what happened was heady, she needed time to digest not only
the impact of finding the letter and confronting Lord Tywin, but also the
ownership of one more life on her hands.
A price paid.
More blood through her fingers. Some days she felt as though she were drowning
in it, all the blood. Nights were worse, that was when she could taste the
copper and hear the voices of the dead.
Before her marriage she would wake up alone and shaking, screaming for her
father. Now she woke up to a warm hand settled on the center of her chest, and
a calm voice pulling her out of her terror like a lifeline.
She succumbed to her grief then, the waves of sorrow crashing through the storm
of herself.
Sansa wept for them all. For Ser Jerrod, for his family, for her father, for
her family, for every single person dead and gone because of her. Always a
heavy cost, but she clung to the knowledge that the price was for the greater
good, not just for her or her own family, but for the realm. That it would
alleviate an atrocious precedent.
It just made her cry all the harder.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sansa was still seated in front of the dwindling fire when Tywin returned to
their apartments. He was exceedingly later than normal, but it was to be
expected that night. She had had no appetite and lost her concept of time being
so wrapped up in her thoughts. So much, she didn't hear her husband enter the
room, let alone approach her.
He stopped in front of his wife, the tension still thick between them, and
wanted to address the matter and be done with it, but it was Sansa who spoke
first.
"My guard-"
She sounded calm, though it did not stop Tywin from putting an end to that line
of conversation then and there.
"Is being replaced with one that will steer you away from stupidity."
His tone was equally calm, and it caused her guilt to double in size. But in
doing so, it also sparked the kindling of anger that was tucked away in her
thoughts. The one question she forced herself to dismiss, if only for the sake
of her own sanity, was now in the forefront and could not be ignored.
"How long have you known?"
She was hypnotized by the guttering flames, not affording her husband even the
slightest of glances, but her voice was shrewd.
Five words ensured that his expectation to put the issue to rest was shattered.
He spoke annoyed as he walked away from her to sit at his desk, and said, "Many
moons."
She did not know if she should be more angry at the nonchalant manner used to
divulge his prior knowledge of the potential murder of her mother and brother,
or the fact that he had known for that long. He had supped with her knowing it,
had talked about countless other trivial matters knowing it, had bedded her
knowing he was plotting the demise of her family.
A wave of shame shuddered down her.
"I hate you." It was said with the utmost sincerity. Still, she observed only
the hearth.
Tywin scoffed at her, light and airy, as though his wife just made an amusing
comment on the weather.
"If it pleases, my lady."
His mocking of her was enough to ignite her banked fury into a full-on rage.
Sansa stood at an alarming rate and spanned the distance between the bench and
his desk in the barest of heartbeats. 
She was standing in front of the large piece of furniture, gulping and heaving
breaths, shaking in her hurt and anger, and he couldn't stop himself from
pushing her. Couldn't stop himself from seeing exactly where her ire would lead
her - them both. The corner of is mouth tilted up, his eyes narrowed, and he
spoke in a sickly-sweet tone.
"Lady Lannister."
In one vicious swipe of her arm, Sansa cleared his desk of every page and
parchment and, as if it were part of her furious choreography, planted both
hands palm-down before settling her glare at him.
But violence was Tywin's dance. It was second nature for him and nothing to
grab her wrists to pull her over his desktop; leaving her bent at the waist,
toes barely finding purchase on the floor, head resting just past midway with
one cheek flat against the grain of the wood. Quick as a snake, he swung both
of her arms behind her back, pinning them there with only the strength of one
of his hands.
He wasn't as furious as his wife but, then, his calm exterior was always part
of the ploy - meant as a lull, meant as a warning, meant to frighten.
He only had to sway forward slightly and lean down at the shoulders before his
mouth was next to her upturned ear.
"If you insist on acting like an animal, I will treat you as such," he rumbled
low and long. "I will find you separate accommodation, remove your freedom and
bed you as duty requires." He placed his lips on the shell of her ear and all
but whispered, "Is that what you would prefer?"
Sansa was breathing heavily, face pulled tight in anger but she wasn't
struggling.
"No." The word was more air than anything, edged in her fury, but it was the
truth nonetheless.
Tywin removed his grip from her hands and let her arms fall to an almost
natural palm-up position on either side of her. His hand then gently traveled
up her back until it found a new home on her neck, his grasp wasn't dangerous,
but it was firm.
Again he lowered his mouth to her ear, this time his voice, while stern didn't
carry the same venom. "Hate me if you must; as you should." He took a deep
breath before continuing. "But this," he lightly squeezed her neck for a beat,
"This will get you killed."
He could see her body tense as he spoke.
"You need only speak to me, Sansa, but you will do so with respect." His voice
became agitated. "You will do so with the tact befitting my wife, not some
unmuzzled whelp."
"You lied to me." Sansa ground the words out, they were catching in her throat.
She could no longer find it in herself to cry and it made everything come out
angry instead. She fisted her hands into the fabric at the side of her gown.
She was laid out and held down on a desk - she was beginning to feel a fool.
His words were measured and heavily enunciated. "I did no such thing." It was
as if she had accused him of treason.
Sansa tried to will herself to calm. "The letter-"
Tywin would have none of it, his threadbare patience was now completely gone.
"That fucking letter," he hissed at volume, "had been openly sitting on this
desk for over a sennight! Does that speak to you of lies and deception?!" The
hand he kept on her neck was tightening in tandem with the raising of his
voice. "Does it?!" He shook his hand slightly, as though to rouse her.
"N-no. It doesn't." Sansa was trying to comprehend, calculate and listen all at
the same time.
His grip loosed a shade and he took a deep breath - reigning himself in.
"I didn't lay that letter at your feet because it was none of your business. If
you wanted to make it, or any of them, your business you've had every
opportunity for the better part of a year. The choice has always been yours,
Sansa. I sit here every night and you choose everything outside joining me." He
squeezed her neck a tiny amount. "I am neither your father, nor your mother, I
have no bloody interest in dictating your personal routine." And added as an
afterthought, "Save you giving me reason to."
She could hear his deep intakes of air, his fingers tapping a pattern on her
neck before locking a slight grip again.
"You've got what you wanted, my lady," he said through clenched teeth. "This
ends. Now." He leaned into her ear again. "However, in light of recent events I
would strongly suggest you rethink your previous lack of interest in the
affairs of the Hand of the King."
Sansa's face was softer but still twisted in turmoil, her angry eyes tried
following every move her husband made.
Tywin removed his hand and stood from his chair, his voice harsh and sardonic.
"Unless, of course, you feel I need even more embroidered kerchiefs."
He walked away from the desk.
She couldn't see where he had gone and took a moment to regain her bearings
before attempting to straighten and stand. It was just as she was about to move
to lift herself up from the expansive desktop when she felt a hand wrap itself
around the back of her neck.
It was Tywin; she could smell him, hear him breathe.
He did not speak a word, simply applied a consistent pressure to her neck -
holding her down.
He wasn't hurting her, but she didn't know his purpose either. When she felt
his groin slowly push into her backside her stomach sank in a cold arc of fear.
Her breathing started to speed and shallow.
Tywin pushed harder into her arse, but she could tell he wasn't aroused. There
was no hardness. She knew well what his erection felt like straining through
his breeches, pressed against her body.
They stayed like that, frozen in their vulgar stance for several minutes. The
crackling of wood in the fire, their breathing - his deep and calm, hers making
an attempt to be anything but scared - were the only sounds in the room.
She couldn't see him where he stood, her head was turned to the side and pinned
down. It added to the unease, the unknown. Sansa felt her husband's fingers
squeeze a fraction tighter on her neck, at the same time he pushed a fraction
harder into her backside, the front of her thighs picking up more hurt from the
where they were pressing into the edge of the desk.
"Anger..." he said, breaking the quiet. He leaned into her even more and
surprised her by softly dragging the tip of his finger over the upturned palm
of her hand. "...is the first sign of defeat." His tone was completely neutral.
There was nothing malicious or threatening in the way he spoke to her, and it
brought Sansa to the outer rim of her discontent.
Tywin all at once let go and stepped away.
She could hear his footsteps receding, moving further and further away until
the door opened then closed - ending the sound of him altogether.
It was a lesson.
This will get you killed.
Sansa turned her face, brought her arms around and rested her forehead on the
sleeves of her gown, thinking, considering. Refusing to move from where she was
draped, she found her continued physical and emotional discomfort were required
to truly understand.
This was Tywin's way of conveying the consequences of her actions.
She had allowed her anger to control her and it made her weak and give way to
her vulnerabilities. She allowed those vulnerabilities to be exploited. Sansa
realized that it didn't just speak of being hauled over a desk. She was angry.
She had been angry since her father followed through with the Queen's order to
kill Lady, since her father was killed, since Arya was lost, since Bran and
Rickon...
Even though her perpetual chirping courtesy was able to swallow and mask her
fury, it didn't diminish it. No one was able to see her anger, or how it
rendered her lacking. The Hound perhaps, but he never understood. No, no one
recognized it except her husband.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
Through his actions, Lord Tywin was telling his wife he would not permit her to
be soft. Would not tolerate her becoming what so many easily did, because
weakness was easy. His abasement of her was exactly what he thought of willful
helplessness. However, whether she was going to be weak or strong
was her choice. Just as it was her choice to shy away from his business and
remain ignorant under the guise of propriety.
Sansa no longer wanted to be weak or unaware, for no other reason than it was
what people, other than Tywin, expected of her.
The more she considered the letter, the more it was understood that she could
no more blame him for not being proactive than she could for him not making the
choice for her. It was hers to make. He wanted her to make her own choices and
her own mistakes.
There was success, though. She had managed to salvage a mistake and change his
mind, change the course of yet another tragedy that was careening into the
Starks. Even if he would not allow her to bask in her success, it did not
negate the significance. It did not negate the fact that he respected her for
it.
She managed to smile a little to herself.
Every lesson that day was born of heartache, and every lesson that day
would never be forgotten.
By either of them.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Red II *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
His wife had celebrated her nameday shortly before they were married, and Tywin
was glad of it.
Not that he wouldn't have wished her to celebrate, in whatever capacity she did
at the time, but he would have been bound by duty to entertain and find a gift
befitting the stranger she was to him then, and he would have loathed it. But
as he watched her now, her nameday come again, enjoying her feast and the
guests that surrounded her - as much as one can enjoy being pestered - Tywin
confirmed to himself that this was exactly the way it should be.
She noticed him looking and smiled small then; Lord Lannister couldn't help but
fall in amongst the throngs of men and women alike who were enraptured by her.
His wife.
He was sure he would have lost her after she stormed into council -
after everything that day - yet, for as much as he tried to push her away,
remove from her the control she was developing, or separate her from the impact
she was having on him, Sansa came back, ever resilient.
Tywin's mind lightened at the memory of returning to what he thought would be
an empty bedchamber, and bed, only to find her sleeping peacefully like she
would any other evening.
He had scathed when climbing into bed, "I surely thought you would make use of
your own chambers, my lady."
Sansa for her part had merely blinked sleepily and spoke as though he were the
child in the room, and said, "My lord, anger is the first sign of defeat." Then
waited until he was settled before she moved closer, curled up on her side, and
rested her forehead against his arm - an action she was still was prone to.
Tywin Lannister knew then he would not be coddled by his wife. Continuing to
fight the changes in her that he was both cursing and encouraging was
counterproductive and a waste of time. He thought she would be an easy pawn,
something to move and use as needed, but his own initiative worked against him
when he found that the girl thrived and adapted to the harshest of conditions -
 him. A detail he was a bloody fool, bloody lucky more like, to have not
recognized before their marriage.
Mayhaps it was her northern blood, some icy resolve. She had endured countless
months of torture without being outwardly broken before hehad ever come along.
She had simply needed a catalyst in order to transform, and that came in the
form of safety. He offered her a shelter, a reprieve from violence and
oppression, and it was what was needed for her to step forward and become the
next version of herself. He misstep was in not being prepared for it to happen.
She challenged him in a way no woman, or man, had been able to in more than
five-and-twenty years, and instead of facing it, he lashed out at it. But his
wife was able to take his malice and convert it into knowledge; swallow the
humiliation, of which she was an old hand, and use what was left to fortify
her.
Sansa never spoke again of the letter, or her guard, or herself on the desk.
However, the consequence of his actions that night was that she would not allow
him to touch her when they were alone, not even softly. She would move out of
his range, gently brush his hand away or politely refuse his attempts to be
intimate.
The first time she spurned him in their bed, they had spent almost an hour
afterward glancing at each other - him as more of a predator, and her as wary
game. In the end it was Sansa who casually turned away and slept
while he silently raged and fumed and resisted his fractious knee-jerk want to
wake her and fuck her - as was his right whether she willed it or no.
Anger is the first sign of defeat.
He had every mind to turn her away the next night, command her to sleep in her
own chambers, but when he woke up to her head pressed into his upper arm and
her hand resting in a hold on his forearm, the thought of sending her away was
forgotten.
As much as he liked to ignore his... desires... they were there and they were
aggravatingly persistent.
That was two moons ago.
He gave her what she wanted: no physical contact. And in return, Sansa sat with
him every night as he sorted, prioritized and corresponded to letters, invoices
and assorted legal documentation.
In the first sennight she was a nuisance. He had sent her away the first few
evenings with a flick of his hand and a barely concealed insult. However, there
she was, night after night; sitting silent, observing at first, reading when he
instructed her and inquiring more confidently as the days progressed. After the
first moon he had her write her first missive on his behalf.
It was horrid.
In a script full of girlish flourishes, he took the first four copies she wrote
and, without a word or glance at what was written, stood up, walked to the
hearth and fed the fire with them. She had frowned after the eighth attempt was
torn in half and finally asked what was the matter.
"I am neither a whore nor a love struck maiden, I would appreciate if you would
refrain from writing Lord Sutter in a hand that suggests otherwise." It had
been a statement thrown at her in a completely snarled and brutish tone. He had
humoured her inadequacy enough and just wanted her to go away.
Tywin had watched her jaw work, like she was fighting to say something or
deliberating an action. He expected her to cry or leave altogether, or both if
he were perfectly honest. Instead, she reached for a leaf of parchment and
wrote the letter a ninth time, the final time.
It was flawless.
Sansa came back, ever resilient.
His wife would outlast them all, he knew that for certain then and there. And
to be fair, he could also admit , without a strain to his conscience, that only
a lack-wit would not capitalize on it. But now, now it would be as much for her
sake as it was his.
Legacy.
She was his, and he would make the most of it.
Tywin drifted back from his thoughts and watched as his wife was gifted a scarf
by Lady Margaery. When Sansa blushed hot and red while Lady Tyrell laughed, the
old lion had to forcibly steer away from his inclination to be cynical of a
plot at his expense. His wife had made a friend of the future queen, as much as
one could make friends in King's Landing, and before his mind could turn the
thought bitter he remembered the friendships held dear by his first wife in the
very same place.
He was loath to admit that the thought of Joanna did not hit him with the same
empty loneliness it did prior to his marriage to Sansa, and that only made the
guilt harder to choke down. He was also very aware as the past year ticked by,
thoughts of his first wife were less frequent. As he glanced a look at Sansa
again, he was equally aware as to the reason why.
A pleasant distraction. It was the only definition he would allow his mind to
grind out.
He flicked his eyes at Lyol, who was standing just outside the servants doors
and gave a curt nod.
The steward immediately nodded in confirmation and brought forward the wooden
box he had been entrusted with. As he advanced toward Lady Sansa, other
servants took their cue and began clearing a space in front of her. Lyol set
the box down in front of his lady and smiled when she looked at him and offered
a courteous 'thank you'.
The pleasantry, meant solely for him, was still new for the steward. No
highborn ever had to acknowledge even the existence of those who served them,
but Lady Sansa always had; asking with a polite 'please', and thanking for
their service just as sincerely. The older man, even though lowborn, knew a
person's worth, and Lady Sansa's could never be contained in a box, no matter
how pretty, no matter the contents. As far as he was concerned she was
priceless.
Sansa stared at the box in front of her; it was square, almost two of her hand-
lengths in each direction, and exquisitely carved in intricate patterns and
gold inlaid images of lions. On the front edge of the box there was protruding
face of a lion in full roar, made of solid gold, and in its mouth a key was
slotted. She turned the key to unlock the box and lifted the lid to find a
jewelers bag.
The volume in the room had noticeably dimmed and she could not find the courage
to look anywhere except in the box, at the satchel to be precise, before she
lifted it out carefully. She was staring at the dark-crimson velvet bag, it was
heavy and she knew that this would be the day she was to be draped in Lannister
gold.
With a well placed smile and a genuine look of appreciation at her husband, she
snapped the lead seal, opened the draw string, and tipped the end of the bag in
order to handle the what was hidden inside. In her palm landed not Lannister
gold, not the gold the Queen wore, not gold at all as she could see. The metal
was grey. It was not silver, she could see that plainly, not so deep as that -
it was... brighter.
She moved the piece across her fingers, observing the details. It was a thick
woven chain of the grey metal, but interwoven into it was the gold she was
expecting. That gold was only an accent to the brilliant grey.
The chain was the width of two or three of her fingers, and the clasp was
cleverly hidden as links in the back. The chain dipped lower in the front,
where it crisscrossed around itself and within the teardrop loop it made was a
large deep red jewel. She was not well versed in finery as some ladies, but
easily guessed the gem to be a ruby. It was of the same size and shape as the
loop, as though both were made for each other. At intersecting points of the
grey metal along the braided chain were clear white jewels, diamonds she was
sure - like her mother used to wear on special occasions - set in even
intervals.
There were no lions, nothing overtly Lannister. Everything that made it was
built on subtlety.
It was... No, beautiful was not quite the word she would choose to describe
what she thought of the necklace her husband had gifted her. She needed another
word, something better, but her mind wouldn't let her get past the mesmerizing
grey metal. She turned her head to her husband. He was wearing the same faint
and refined look of smugness he normally did when he had the upperhand, when an
advantage was exclusive to him alone.
Sansa gave Tywin the smile she knew he was looking for, the one that was meant
only for him; made with her eyes as much as her mouth. Her smile was sincere.
She meant it truly, and felt no need to hide that fact.
It was a private moment in a room full of people.
"What type of metal is this?" She was idly thumbing along the grooves of the
weave.
"Gold," his deep voice answered. Tywin twitched out a smirk at Sansa's
incredulous look, and continued, "It is called white-gold."
Taking the piece from her hand, he stood, talking and pacing behind her at the
same time.
"It will neither tarnish or corrode. It carries the same properties as the gold
you know, just not the colour."
Sansa felt him unclasp her fine silver rope with drips of pearls, removing it,
and smiled wider as she watched her new necklace lower into place in front of
her. She leaned her head forward slightly as he secured the clasp.
Her hair was worn up and elaborate for this event and it gave him easy access
to work as he needed. It also gave him an unimpeded view of her long neck, of
the wisps of loose and wild auburn at the base her hairline, of the subtle knob
of spine where her neck met her shoulders - accentuated by her leaning forward.
As Sansa tilted her face downward, she flicked her eyes upward in order to
watch the people in the room.
It was a relatively new practice she had developed. Casually observing those
around her and her husband; watching them react to what she was sure was
foreign behaviour from the Great Lion. If he touched her or held her hand or
leaned in close to speak to her, it usually resulted in a few heads turned,
raised brows and, as was now the case with Cersei, looks of unrestricted
hatred.
Every person in the room seemed to focus on them - on her husband specifically.
They watched his every move and she could see in the eyes of some men the
rather open assessment of risks and possibilities.
They were gauging Lord Tywin for weakness - his wife.
She watched those same men frown in disappointment; their query answered, she
could not decide if she herself was disappointed too.
When Tywin finished clasping the necklace, he let his thumb linger on the soft
skin at the back of her neck. They were in public, he would be damned if he
wasn't going to make the most of it. He took his time, and with his calloused
pad, brushed a subtle line above the gold Sansa now wore. He watched, satisfied
at the flush of pink ascending from under the neckline of her gown.
The evening proceeded with more food, more wine, dancing and even more gifts;
and Tywin tolerated it all. It wasn't that he owed his wife this, or anything
at all, but there had been a tug somewhere under the flesh and bone of him that
simply wanted this for her.
Every once in a while a small shift in his periphery would summon his
attention, and he would watch Sansa. In a movement that looked to be
subconscious, she raised her hand and ran her fingertips along the braid of
northern-hued gold.
She liked his gift - relished it perhaps - and he was glad of it.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was late into the evening when they returned to their apartments, and
although tired from the feast and festivities, there was always work to do.
Tywin assumed his wife would retire after enjoying her nameday celebration, but
was pleased when she followed his lead by sitting in her chair behind the
desk. Her chair was a comfortably heavy thing; another gift he had commissioned
for her. This one in appreciation of her new and truly genuine interest in his
work - the reality of regency.
To witness a transformation like hers, from self-imposed ignorance to self-
imposed competence, was something he would never tire of. It was the same
enthusiasm he implored of Jaime, the same ardour he doused in Cersei, and the
natural gift he both equally loathed and ignored in Tyrion. But Sansa was not
his child, she was his wife, and her want of knowledge was something he could
pride himself in. Regardless of long-held social expectations, the astuteness
of one's wife reflected extremely well on that husband.
In that moment, however, he was not observing her learn, he was watching her
appraise his other gift.
She had been looking down at the finery since she became seated, smiling at it
while her mind worked, her fingers going over the intricate folds, bends and
intertwined strands of white and yellow gold.
"It suits you well, my lady," he voiced low. He hadn't truly thought to speak
the words.
Sansa looked at her husband and smiled, then quickly dropped it.
"But not this gown, my lord."
She said it in a tone that implied something was truly wrong, that this was a
matter of importance. Before Tywin could sneer at her and her foolishness, his
wife was striding toward the bedchamber and summoning her handmaids. He blinked
quickly to himself and swallowed his irritation. Sometimes he forgot that his
wife still had elements of frivolous uselessness, that of a giddy maiden. But
this was her nameday, and if he could not afford her some leeway this day, he
was sure it would result in other restrictions being placed on him in the
following days.
After a while he heard her handmaids leave and secure the servants door.
As he read and jotted notes, he prepared himself to offer whatever courtly
nicety that was required for a girl who thought her dress did not match her
necklace. He absently practiced in his head how to hide the fact that he just
didn't care. At the same time, his periphery picked up her movement as she
walked into the room and stopped several paces away from the front of his -
 their - desk.
Tywin flicked his eyes at his wife and tried for the life of him not to look
annoyed, but what he took in was most confusing. Her garment was overly long,
bulky, and dark crimson. His first inclination was to tell her she had made no
improvement, until his mind registered familiarity.
It was his robe.
He raised his head then and noticed that his wife was holding his robe around
her, her hair no longer pinned - flowing freely down her back and her
shoulders.
She wasn't really smiling but her eyes were heated, and in one fluid motion she
shrugged the robe off her, letting it pile at her feet. His wife was standing
there, in front of him, completely naked save for the necklace he gave
her. Lord Lannister had to clench his back teeth in order to stifle the moan
that would have tumbled out of his mouth. At the same time, a tidal wave of
arousal washed down his body and settled in his groin.
Sansa could see a blaze instantly reflect in her husband's eyes. But just as
quickly he looked back down at the work he was involved in prior, and continued
his reading and writing. She waited until she was positive he had no interest;
positive that she initiated her own humiliation. It was a risk to be sure, but
not one she truly anticipated. Though, when she made to turn and ready herself
for sleep her husband spoke.
"Don't..." He was still looking down at the letter in his hand, then flicked a
fierce glance directly at her. "...move." Then returned his focus to the letter
again.
She stood completely still.
Tywin finished his task then took his time clearing parchments and inkwells.
Preparing his desk for the next night, as was his habit - not paying the
slightest bit of attention to his naked wife. It was only when he stood that he
finally allowed himself to look at her. Standing stone-still behind his desk,
he mapped every inch of her with his eyes. The fire of her hair, the sky of her
eyes, the cream of her skin, the rose of her nipples... He felt his lower back
start to perspire.
Her husband had to swallow hard before he was able to walk around the front of
his desk - her mind smiled at his effort as she watched. Sansa did not speak a
word, simply observed him move no further than several paces in front of her.
His chest was clearly raising and lowering more than usual, his hands were
clenching and unclenching at his side, his jaw was flexing and grinding...
For a frightening instant Sansa considered regret of what she had instigated,
but her husband made no sudden movements. Instead, he slowly placed one foot in
front of the other, as though he were taming an animal.
...Or hunting one.
He walked purposefully to a position behind her, but when he went to settle his
fingertips on her shoulder she swayed out of range like she had been doing for
the past two moons. Tywin's first inclination was to touch her in the way he
wanted to, regardless - to make her let him - but his second was to stray from
the actions expected of him.
"May I touch you?"
His question was hummed softly, and spoken mostly into her hair. She had grown
taller in the past year and he did not have to lean so far in order to become
close.
Sansa did not spare her husband a look, but spoke with the sweet voice that
was her. "Not with your hands, my lord."
He tilted his head and gave her a look that said, Do you know who you are
speaking to?, but it was to the back of her auburn tresses, a useless gesture
and all. Tywin was at a crossroads. This was where his actions would determine
the rest of their existence together. Face the challenge or lash out against
it, and his mind was simmering for the latter. It was a choice. The choice, and
one she gave him to make.
She closed her eyes and waited. Sansa knew that he could take her in any manner
he saw fit - he was her husband and it was his right by law of gods and man -
but this was a calculated gamble. This was not something she devised on a whim.
Part of her missed their intimacy and yet another part of her had to know what
her future with him held.
Lady Sansa stood still and only flinched the tiniest amount when she heard him
utter a growling noise behind her, knowing then he would force her. She
squeezed her eyes shut tighter and prepared herself for the degradation that
was to follow.
Although, when he was on her, Sansa had to blink her eyes open to associate the
feeling with a visual representation of the act. Glancing over, she saw his
face at her shoulder, his lips planting soft open mouthed kisses across the top
ridge, moving toward her neck steadily. He had his arms tucked back behind him,
well away from her. Sansa smiled wide and natural - as if it emanated from her
heart. A smile she only offered when she was truly happy. It was a rarity. So
much so, she once thought it to be extinct altogether.
He stopped kissing her, rested his cheek on her shoulder and angled his vision
so he could take in the smile she was wearing. It was something that only
seemed to make her lovelier. It was also hypnotizing. Tywin caught himself
staring, mouth gaped like a fish, and had to remind himself what he was doing
to begin with.
Sansa picked up on that detail and laughed a sound that matched her smile.
Tywin hated laughter. It sparked his ire and suspicion all at the same
time. Not this noise, though. No, this was something so beyond mocking, and
even humour, that it caused him to look away in what felt like panic. Caused
him to plant his lips on her shoulder again. Caused him to press the smallest
of hidden smiles into her skin.
Her joy was contagious and he found it impossible to define the right kind of
displeasure to associate with it.
He started kissing again, moving closer and closer to her neck, all but
breathing, "May I move your hair?"
She could hear him inhaling her scent, growling in the back of his throat.
Without a word, Sansa moved her shoulders forward and to the side slightly, and
caught her hair herself, moving the auburn bundle to the front of her. His
breath was hot on the back of her neck, and when she leaned her head forward,
like she had when he fastened her necklace, his groan was loud enough to be
felt on her skin. Sansa felt light presses of his lips marching up the back of
her neck and playful licks and nips marching back down - it was her turn to
groan.
Tywin leaned forward a small amount in order to reach his mouth the side of her
neck and under her ear. His chest was resting on her back as he did so, but
when he felt her arse press back onto his cock, he sucked in a deep breath and
stood up straight.
"Sansa, do that again." When nothing happened, he followed a hunch and added,
"Please."
He wasn't sure he even spoke until she bucked herself back gently and ground on
him. Bending his knees to get the most direct friction, Tywin had to stick his
arms straight out to his sides - he was losing concentration by aborting his
instinct to grab her hips and pull her onto him harder.
Just as he was starting to lose his bearings, his wife stepped away from him,
taking her friction with her.
"Fuck..." It was said purely out of irritation.
Sansa did not look back, just kept walking until she rounded the back of the
desk where their chairs were and sat squarely on the desktop, on the soft
leather blotter, squarely where Tywin would normally work.
He walked again to his wife, following her path around the desk until he was
standing in front of, and over her. Tywin reached for her, his motion gentle
and considerate, but his wife stayed his hands by holding his wrists.
"No," she said softly, her eyes locked to his.
He could read nothing in her impossibly blue eyes other than desire, and it was
what was needed to fully extinguish his current frustration. Tywin watched
silently as she laid back on the desktop, her body given to him willingly,
wantonly. The way it should be.
Lord Lannister would never admit regret or error in any previous action he had
taken, but the treatment of his wife two moons ago was edging dangerously
close.
Sansa spread her thighs and willed her husband to understand.
He did, of course.
Tywin stepped closer to her. He could feel the heat of her cunt seeping through
the fabric of his breeches, making his cock unbearably hard. Growling, he bent
and hovered over her upper body, his feet planted on the floor, his hands
firmly set to either side of her - not touching. At the same time, she had
started to tug and pull at his clothing. Her delicate fingers were masterfully
working the equally delicate clasps and fastenings of his doublet. He smirked
at her deftness, but was thwarted when he swayed upright again to try and
remove it.
The garment was tight in the sleeves and he normally had the help of someone
attending him to take it off... Before his frustration could click to fury,
elegant hands were again capable - holding firm at his cuff in order to assist.
It was exactly what was needed. Doublet removed, he watched as his wife reached
for the lower end of his tunic - pulling with a little more fervor to dislodge
it from where it had been tucked. It was only moment before that layer was
discarded as well.
He covered her again, hands far to the side, this time immersed in the
sensation of skin-on-skin. The softness of the skin on her belly was all it
took for his mind to begin to blur. He lowered himself even more and groaned
slightly at the feel of her hard nipples rubbing into his chest - and equally,
the swell of her breasts becoming a fleshy resistance. But it was when both
of her hands traveled from his shoulders, down his flanks, made their way into
the gap where his breeches had come away from his back and took a firm hold of
his arse, that Tywin felt the familiar pang of tightening in his chest. The
same pang that had made its way into his life since the onset of his marriage
to Sansa. The feeling he now finally, finally, understood... and almost feared.
She made him feel young.
Sansa removed the taunt and worry of age, and as much as he felt it had never
mattered before, Tywin lived the truth of it.
Some men lost themselves to drink, some lost themselves to blood and war, and
some lost themselves to women - much like his father did. Tywin looked down at
his young wife and knew without a doubt he was nothing like his father, that
Sansa was nothing like the conniving whore his sire willingly saddled himself
wi-
His mind switched over completely when Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist,
brought her arms up around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.
She whispered, "Come back."Before fitting her lips over his.
He was indeed lost...
Tywin groaned into her mouth and clenched his fingers hard into the wood of the
desk in order to dissuade their craving to travel the expanse of her body. In
lieu of his hands he used his tongue and lips to quench his tactile thirst.
First her mouth, then her jawline, then her neck. His mouth journeyed down the
length of her throat to her chest, where he licked across her collarbone and
further down to her breasts. He took his time, savouring each mound and peak
with his lips, his tongue and the barest of his teeth. Pressing soft kisses
against the sensitive underside of each breast.
Sansa was breathing moans of her own, squirming mindlessly under him with her
eyes shut and her fingers digging into the back of his neck.
His mouth moved down her body, his hands remained palms-down on the top of the
desk. Her own hands slipped from their hold on him and rested beside her.
She could feel his mouth moving lower and she was curious as to what he had
planned once he reached her heat. She asked him not to use his hands, so she
assumed he would stand and take her - as was his only option. That was, of
course, until he dropped to his knees and placed his mouth on her there.
When Tywin pressed his tongue into seam of her quim and licked firmly - all the
way from the bottom of her slit to the top - his wife moaned at a volume he was
certain she did not register herself. He kept his lips locked over her clit,
and was idly flicking it with his tongue while his eyes roamed - first to the
door to ensure no one was stupid enough to investigate that noise, then down to
Sansa. Her eyes were closed, her body was squirming and arching and shuddering
under the attentions of his mouth.
He could feel his cock straining in his breeches, just as much as he could feel
it leaking and jumping in anticipation. Relief was needed, and before he could
even think about what he was doing, his mouth lifted and spoke.
"May I touch myself?"
It seemed a natural question seeing as she did not want him to use his hands,
but he did not know if she meant only on her.
"No."
It sounded dazed in her voice and was accompanied by the wild shaking of her
head with her eyes clamped shut.
He should not have said a gods-damned thing.
Tywin opted to inflict his frustration with his tongue, and set to lashing her
sensitive knot of flesh with furious abandon. But it was when he moved to her
entrance and started to push his tongue inside her that she started to shake
and falter. She was no longer moaning and humming, she was groaning out
syllables and consonants, never truly finding words. And when she was surely
ready to release, he pulled away from her completely - watching her hips churn,
as though her cunt were frantically looking for him.
He smirked, having regained an element of control. Sitting up on his knees,
Tywin looked over the topography of his wife. Watching her movements diminish,
he planted wet kisses on each of her inner thighs.
"May I use my fingers?" He kissed her again, this time closer to her center.
"Inside you?"
Her eyes blinked open as she stared at the ceiling; he could see her making her
choice. She didn't look at him directly, instead she nodded and let out a
breathy, "Yes..."
Tywin first licked then pressed his mouth over her heat. Licking and kissing it
as though it were her own mouth. Concentrating the movement of his tongue over
the most sensitive part of her again, he sucked and flicked until she was
bucking once more. He moved only one hand, leaving the other clamped to the
edge of the desk, and made room for it under his chin, teasing her opening with
first one finger, then two.
Sansa did not last long when he flicked his tongue at a steady cadence and
fucked her with two fingers in the same rhythm. Her hands made to hold onto the
flat desktop as she lost all control, finding her release in shaky, stuttered
movements and random gasps of air. She was so wet, the sound of his fingers
working her lather nearly unmanned him.
Her hands were suddenly pushing his head away from her heat, now far too
sensitive to even enjoy his tongue.
Tywin sat back on his heels, catching his breath, looking at the part of a
woman that was known to both conquer lands and give life. He resisted the urge,
once again, to caress his wife - this time out of awe, not want.
There on the floor, his age settled on him like a heavy cloak. His knees were
protesting, his lower back was burning and, in a maneuver that was less
graceful than he would have hoped, he lifted himself into his chair. Sitting
slack, his back curved low, and in a posture that would never be associated
with Tywin Lannister, he watched through half lids and narrowed vision his wife
descend from her peak. There was nothing else he wanted occupying his view
excpet her breasts slowing their rise and fall, the small quivers still
rippling through her belly and abdomen, her lips parted slightly, and a rosy
blush going no further than her cheeks - signifying the tiniest of deaths.
A pleasant distraction...
Sansa only attempted to sit up when she felt whole again. When she did, she
observed her husband sit up a little straighter in his chair. Without a word
between them Sansa moved off the desk and, before she trusted them to hold her
weight, tested her legs while she was still holding the edge. Once she was sure
of herself, she pushed off and made the three step journey to Tywin.
His hands were resting in a usual position on the arms of the chair, so she
held onto his wrists as she climbed atop his lap. He raised his knees to help
accommodate how she was sitting - further back on his legs than in his lap
proper - and when he watched her hands reach for the laces of his breeches, he
fully understood the reason for her position.
Again Tywin went to touch her, and again Sansa thwarted his attempt by gently
placing his hands back on the arms of the chair. A soft voice telling him,
"No."
Anger was starting to trickle into his disposition. Tywin humoured her game
this long, but now it was about his need. He was of a mind to tell her to
either fuck him or leave, but when she freed his cock and started stroking him
in her perfectly dainty hand he, again, fell victim to her distraction. He was
mulling the fact that one could not be a victim if they were a willing
participant when his wife shuffled forward somewhat awkwardly on her knees,
leaned up, and kissed him.
This time she didn't have to ask him to come back, she knew how to retrieve him
herself.
Their bodies were so close - heating; his cock was so close - rubbing; her
mouth was so warm - kissing; her hands were all over him - petting.
It was too much, his vision was blurring.
"Put my cock in you, girl," he growled into her hair and around deep, uneven
breathing. "Now."
Sansa sat up taller on her knees and lined him up to her entrance and watched
him watching her sink lower onto his cock. Watched him squeeze his eyes shut as
he moaned out a shivering breath.
The position as such was not new to their acts of intimacy, but the confines of
a chair was and caused her to grind into him more than move up and down.
After a handful of minutes of his wife's best intentions, Tywin ground out each
individual word, "May I touch you?"
Sansa placed a hand on either side of his face and waited until he was looking
at her, albeit through wavering lust-filled eyes, and smiled.
"Yes," she said.
The word was hardly spoken before his hands were touching every reachable place
on her. It was a flurry of movement, like he could not decide what to do first.
She wrapped her arms around his neck as she felt his hands first move to her
backside in order to lift and push her down a few times, then wrap around her
in an embrace that pulled her into his body.
His release was barreling in on him.
He held her: one arm around her waist, one arm crossing her back with his hand
holding onto her shoulder, tight. The old lion pulled down on each point of
contact, trying for the life of him to be as completed with his wife as
possible. And when he spent himself as deep within her as he could be, he heard
her name on his lips with every huffed exhale.
Tywin did not care. He would say her prayer if it meant feeling like that, with
her, again and again.
They stayed that way, her lying flush to his chest with her face tucked into
the side of his neck, him still holding her in a tight embrace. His release did
not diminish the strength in which he held her. Not until their skin began
cooling noticeably. Usually, Tywin would leave her after a few minutes to wash
and bring her a cloth to do the same, but this time he merely, mercifully, held
on.
Their breathing returned to a normal pattern, and he still held on.
Her calves and feet were starting to tingle with numbness, and he still held
on.
When she started to move her face around to his, she noticed her arms were
wrapped around his neck and head in the exact manner his were around her body.
Sansa inwardly smiled at - and shunned in the same instance - the pretty dreams
and ideals their position had unfurled in her memory. She brought her face
directly in front of his and was taken by the look in his eyes. He was
distracted, a look she knew well to mean he was deliberating, making a decision
of some sort.
It was only when his wife kissed him that Tywin was delivered from his
thoughts. What he would normally curse as levity, this time he welcomed.
He kissed her back; equally as gentle, equally as long.
Sansa pulled away slightly as if to make sure her husband was alright, he
answered by inclining his head toward her. She leaned back a little, watching
as he lowered his face and planted a kiss below the base of her throat,
directly above where the heaviest part of her necklace hung. He looked up again
and she kept gazing at the large red jewel perched high on her chest.
"Beautiful."
Tywin said the word like he was sharing a secret, and Sansa placed her fingers
over the gem, smiling.
"It is, my lord."
But when she lifted her eyes to meet his, her smile fell. Not out of fear, not
out of turmoil, but of the realization that Tywin had not been looking at the
necklace to begin with.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Red III *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
It wasn't often Tywin sent for her during the day, but when he did, it was
normally for her to be of company to Tommen or request her presence on behalf
of Cersei. Her lord husband had refused his daughter the right to summon his
wife directly; however, when Sansa's attendance was requested, Tywin would
always accompany her. So when approached by a Lannister page, a boy she had not
set eyes on before, Sansa took his shy, innocuous summons as a call for one of
those two standards.
A pause from the seemingly endless study of books and numbers was not so much a
chore. If she were in the company of Tyrion she found the task of learning
tolerable; alone, and it felt insurmountable some days - much like this day.
Lady Sansa rose with a subtle stretch from the large desk she shared with her
husband most evenings and walked through the blazing lines of sunlight that
bathed the floor of the Hand's solar, making her way toward grand double doors
and to the boy who was now flanked by her guard. Both of whom stood tall, one
only as much as his young age would allow, proudly sporting the colours loyal
to their liege.
The boy had a new face, but looked very much a Lannister with his golden hair
and green eyes. Albeit, the green eyes looking at her presently were very
nervous. Sansa knew well the overwhelming feeling of being in King's Landing
for the first time - and in the general company of her husband, for that
matter.
"Do you know why Lord Tywin has asked for me?" she said as she drew near the
two.
The inquiry was for no other reason than to help calm the boy, to sympathize
without drawing attention. The effort was for naught when the boy went wide-
eyed at her question and all but panicked. 
"I- I think there is corre- corres-..." The young lad swallowed a mouthful of
air like he hadn't done so in a fortnight, wheezing out, "A letter... Yours...
For you, I mean. Lady- My lady." Then, to finish, flushed a shade of crimson
his house would surely be proud of.
Lady Sansa smiled at the page and it only seemed to make the poor boy blush
hotter.
"Thank you..." Sansa waited for him to supply his name, but the page was at a
total loss, and his lady mercifully let him off the hook. "...Ser." She
finished, without even a hint of mocking.
From behind them, though, her guard was heard sniggering in good humour.
With a slight nod from his lady, the page at once gathered himself and knew to
start walking.
They traveled quietly for the most part. Sometimes Sansa let the page lead her,
sometimes she gently steered the boy down the correct hallways and corridors,
all the while mulling over her letter. She had a good idea as to what it was.
A reply from her mother.
Just the thought of it made her stomach flutter and her smile widen. It had
been moons, but she was patient if anything, and now she would finally have
contact with her family.
Her family.
Sansa had to resist the urge to leave her escorts and start running. No, she
chided herself. She had waited this long, a few more minutes were practically
nothing. She honestly did not care what the letter might say or not say, as
long as she was in communication with her mother and brother.
What she felt in conjunction with the absence of anyone familiar was a physical
pain - one she had swallowed and endured for far too long. But to be fair, her
husband was no longer such a stranger, and that certainly helped to alleviate
some the loneliness that weighed down on her spirit.
There was now a cognition and routine in their relationship. Not to say it was
flawless. She still stood in the path of his ire and bore witness to his brand
of cruelty, but she was now far better equipped to withstand it and cope when
it did occur.
It was enough that she was not so alone, so much.
When she thought of their intimacy, outside their impeccable court persona, it
was she who was stained a hue of red that all but painted a picture of what her
memory was conjuring. Her knowing smile only confirmed it. She liked that time
with him. Tywin was neither a lord nor a lion, just as she was not a dull
northerner nor a traitor's daughter. When they were laid bare to one another
there was no room for titles or labels. They were merely a man and a woman, no
more no less.
Even that journey, she mused to herself, the one to be comfortable with each
other privately, required and extensive amount of trial and error.
Now though, in those times, Sansa witnessed heartbeats of vulnerability and
moments of happiness in Tywin Lannister, and she could only assume that like
her, they were glimpses of the person his life left behind. Not forgotten, no.
These were parts of them that lost distance in day-to-day life, then caught up
in times of enjoyment. When their hardened-selves were forced to rest, only to
be once again pushed to the fore at the mention or action of reality.
Her mind wandered back to her mother.
Sansa could only assume, hope really, that Lady Catelyn would approve of the
slivers of peace she had carved out in a marriage that still caused people to
grimace and judge at its very mention.
Once communication was established, Sansa planned to help bring maybe not
an end but perhaps an interruption to a war that had lasted into a more
perilous time.
Winter is coming.
It was the truth of it. Even in King's Landing the days were cooler and the
nights were stretching longer.
She knew she would never convince Robb, or the north as a whole, to swear
fealty to Joffrey - nor would she want to try - even given the carefully worded
suggestions and pretty gifted trinkets from her husband hoping to convince her
to do just that.
She smiled again, then let it flatten.
The possibility of actually seeing her mother again was not one she dwelled on
for terribly long. Sansa knew her role as the wife of the enemy would have its
price, but for even the slightest bit of calm she would gladly pay
it, and continue to pay it.
When she arrived at the solar behind the Throne Room and was announced, she was
somewhat confused that Lord Tywin was alone. Ser Kevan was always there, a
living shadow smiling kindly to her from his brother's side. Today, from what
she could see, he was nowhere within. Yet his absence would not deter the giddy
happiness welling inside her.
When Tywin noticed her, he stood and rounded to the large, extravagant table
used as a desk in that room.
She noticed him pick up a parchment as he went and was certain it belonged to
her.
His face was ever-serious, but it was also holding a scowling frown. Sansa knew
then that what her mother must have wrote was either displeasing to her husband
or directly slandering him. She was prepared; there were already mental
contingency plans in place to placate whatever wounded pride Tywin might suffer
from whatever disapproval her mother or brother may have communicated.
When she got closer she could see clearly that his eyes were agitated like he
was angry, so she started the cogs and wheels turning in preparation for
tending to his bruised ego. As Sansa stopped within an arms length of her
husband, she reached her hand out and ran the tips of her fingers from the top
of his collar to the middle of his doublet, and rested her palm there.
His eyes showed surprise at first then softened slightly in the midst of his
stony expression.
It was as she had planned. It was when he raised his own hand to caress her
jawline that she knew her initial tactics were successful.
Sansa smiled at him and tilted her head slightly, leaning into his touch. At
the same time she moved the hand that rested on his doublet over to the letter
he was holding, gently plucked it out of his grasp. She moved her face upright,
out of his palm, in order to read the parchment, feeling his now empty hand
travel down her neck and shoulder, further until it settled on her elbow. He
cupped it as though to help prop her arm up, assisting her to read.
The smile she beamed at her serious, humourless husband would not be dimmed.
The happiness she felt at finally, finally communicating with her family would
not be diminished.
She read:
...
Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the
West, Hand of the King:
Rumour of massacre at The Twins of those attending the wedding of Edmure Tully
Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Riverrun - Confirmed.
Ambush against the northern constituency by Lord Walder Frey of the Twins, Lord
of the Crossing - Confirmed.
Secondary implementation from within the northern ranks, rumoured Lord Roose
Bolton of the Dreadfort - Unconfirmed (presumed).
Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, dead - Confirmed.
Northern military hierarchy - Both dead and captured (unconfirmed/unreliable
numbers and names)
Lady Catelyn Stark, dead - Unconfirmed (presumed).
Northern army scattered, disbanded - Confirmed (varying reports).
More information to follow.
Ser Flement Brax, Commander, 2nd Lannister Mounted Company
...
Sansa's mind was surprised at how calm the rest of her was.
Until the information sunk in...
...Robb Stark, dead...
...Catelyn Stark, dead...
The words filtered through to where they were processed and understood; to the
place where the impact of such things caused her throat to thicken and her
muscles to shiver.
She felt her husband's hand tighten on her elbow.
Her body reacted before her mind. She was helpless to watch her arm first arc
upward then - as it came down strong - her hand slap Tywin squarely in the
face. She did not clip his facial hair, there was no muffled thump, there was
only the sound of a palm meeting its mark.
It was a sharp pointed noise that pierced the air of the room.
Sansa wanted him to hurt too. Her husband should hurt. He should be the one to
hurt most of all. She wanted the darkness that was devouring her to swallow him
as well. He should be the meal this time, sating the hungry belly of emotional
agony. But when she looked at him there was nothing of the smug arrogance that
was supposed to be there, there was only a clenched jaw and a look of pity.
She did not want his pity! She wanted his fury! She wanted to evoke something
in him that would ensure she would feel - feel anything other than squeezing
hurt around her heart.
So when she struck him a second time it was with the heel of her hand. The
noise that time was not one made of sharp blades but one made of blunt ends.
She did not care.
When the red began to trickle out of his mouth, she did not care.
When he made no effort to harm her in return, she did not care.
The hurt was spreading, making her fingers and toes numb. Her lips were cold
and her legs started to ache, her lungs burned with every breath and her jaw
was set so tight she thought it would break. The room was beginning to feel
like a corset, strings being yanked and pulled from all angles, tightening and
binding and suffocating...
She needed to escape.
She needed to be out of the den of lions... and stags... and thorny roses...
and whispers and blood...
Tywin still held her elbow and when Sansa made to wrench herself free he held
it even tighter.
There was the pain she had wanted, but that moment had already passed. Now she
only wanted to leave.
She wrenched again, glad of the alternate hurt and furious at the resistance.
His mouth was moving but the sound was blocked out by ringing in her ears. She
wrenched a third time, and that time she found her freedom. Not that she won it
by a show of strength, she had merely been let go.
Her lord husband wore a look he had absolutely no right to - sympathy.
She wanted nothing of it. He wasn't allowed that look - not for her, not
for anyone!
Sansa backed away from the man like he was a disease.
He was a disease; an infection, a plague in her life. As he attempted to reach
for her she backed away even more, quicker so as not to be tainted further.
Tywin stopped trying - talking to her, reaching for her, offering her what
pathetic comfort a man like him could. And when she swung around, turning her
back to him, he did not stop her.
No one stopped her.
It was like she was, yet again, some plaything in these horrible games these
horrible people delighted in. They all knew her secret before she did.
And so, she ran.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He saw her shoulders tense at the sound of him entering the part of the
godswood she had sought refuge in, but his gait was as stunted as his body and
he took comfort in knowing she would soon recognize her company.
Tyrion had envied her initially and was, perhaps, jealous of Sansa's
relationship with his sire. It seemed to reaffirm the unfairness of his own
life when the daughter of a traitor, the slough of the King, was better
received and more trusted in his father's circle than flesh and blood.
However, when he witnessed Lord Tywin's annoyance with her as they were sat at
a meal attended by family in the first few days of their marriage, it allowed
assumption to swing to assertion in that she was no more an object of affection
as she was a pet to train. Yet the moment Tyrion made the effort to talk to
her, to really talk to her, he knew she was no mere pet. Not in the slightest.
Sansa was blank parchment vying for ink.
The next instance he played audience to his father publicly inflicting
impatience on his new wife, he ignored the bright noise of Lord Tywin and paid
particular attention to the undertones of Lady Sansa. She was patience; the
epitome of sufferance in an onslaught of intolerance. In that same moment his
jealousy turned to admiration, and Tyrion knew this girl would be one to ally
himself with.
Over the months though, the focus of his involvement with Lady Sansa turned
from one of leverage and advantage over his father to one of honest friendship.
He found that his father's wife had the uncanny trait to enchant. But it was
more than the simple charm possessed by most women, it was the ability to draw
fascination from even the most unlikely of places. Though, what separated Sansa
from everyone else was that she had no idea of - or want to misuse - her gift.
Which, in and of itself was bloody charming.
And he knew, after more than a year of marriage - within those first months of
her marriage, if he were to be honest with himself - that his omnipotent father
was just as much smitten with his wife's charm as anyone else. Tyrion could see
the way his father looked at Sansa. The brief glimpses of longing and
appreciation. Looks that would be dismissed or misinterpreted by anyone else.
The way Lord Tywin sometimes looked at Lady Sansa was what Tyrion often dreamt
was the way his father looked at his own mother, once. And for foolish
instances he would willingly carry the guilt and shame his father heaped upon
him for taking that away. But those moments were fleeting, and his like of Lady
Sansa could not be tarnished.
His attention once again settled on the form he was drawing nearer to.
Even though he readied as he thought best, bringing extra kerchiefs in
preparation for tears and woe, he approached this young woman, his father's
little wife, with a caution reserved for battle with the unknown. As he got
closer to her he could see that she was kneeling, her back in flawless posture
as always, her head slightly bent, and she was looking at her hands. More
precisely, a letter clutched in her fingers.
She did not speak or even acknowledge his advance, her gaze kept downward, deep
in thought.
As he slowed to a stop by her side and carefully fell into a seated position
beside her on the mossy ground, Tyrion could see clearly she was not crying. In
fact, her face looked as though she had yet to shed any tears, and in
considering her further, Tyrion could not decide if he was feeling wonderment
or dread.
He spoke gently. 
"Mother."
Sansa's features smoothed slightly, but she did not look at him.
"Son," she answered.
What was once a contentious name Tyrion used to rouse whatever reaction he
could out of his sire's bride had become a term of endearment. More so when
Sansa developed her own. It was a greeting, a plan to meet and talk, a
connection. Something known and used privately between them. Depending on the
inflection used, those two words could speak an entire conversation. Mostly
though it spoke of the ridiculousness of it all, the understanding of it all,
and of their shared defiance. The latter being something Tyrion was more than
happy to instruct Sansa on how to revel in.
They sat silently together for what felt like hours taking in the calm of their
surroundings, the quiet comfort of each other's presence.
In truth, Tyrion needed time to build his courage.
"I..."
He aborted his attempt at empathy. It was not what she wanted or needed.
Suddenly he, the verbal tactician, was at a loss for words entirely.
She answered his fumble in a soft and tired tone, "Please don't say you're
sorry."
"I won't," he sighed. "But it doesn't change the fact that I am."
There was a small gap in their conversation, enough to hear the birds in the
canopy chattering amongst themselves. Sansa looked down at the loam, blinked a
few times and offered a tiny smirk.
"It would imply you carry fault," she said, as smugly as her mood could afford.
Tyrion looked sidelong at the girl and spoke with a smile of his own in his
voice, "And for you to even say that means you are being influenced entirely
too much by him."
Sansa lost her smirk then and whatever pitiful amount of happiness she showed
only moments before.
"I am nothing like him," she seethed. Her tone was built somewhere between
terrified child and grief stricken. "He murdered them."
Tyrion sat contemplating her words for quite a while before deciding what she
needed to hear, what he needed to say.
"You're half right." He employed a somber tone and was completely confident
Sansa would connect his reply with her statement, regardless of the amount of
time that had passed.
She looked at him, turning her head only slightly toward her son.
He looked at her in return and continued, "Is that what you believe? That he
murdered them?"
Tyrion watched her breathe deeply in preparation for honesty, doubly allowing
her to take her time in answering.
"No." She let out a long, tired exhale. "That's not what I believe." Her voice
cracked into the sadness that had been expected in her to begin with. "But he
didn't save them either."
He could see her fists clench and her body tense again. The paper in her hand
crackled under the stress and pressure of her fingers, and he couldn't help but
make the ominous comparison to the young lady holding it.
"Did you really expect him to?" Tyrion asked.
It was an awful question regardless of the softness in which it was presented.
Not in that it was asked, but because it had to be.
Yes!, her mind shrieked at her. Yes! That's what husbands do! That's what men
do for their wives! ...That's what my father would have done for my mother!
That's what marriage is supposed to mean! Love-
"No."
The finality in her voice made Tyrion cringe.
Sansa did accomplish something astounding though. Something Cersei cursed her
openly for, something Kevan admired her openly for, and something he
momentarily thought was some grand mystery until he remembered the look, and
who exactly it was pertaining to, and took back any amazement he had spared.
But in the end it did not mean her feat was meaningless or any less astounding.
"You changed his mind, Sansa. You altered the path of the Great Lion of
Casterly Rock." He rested his hand on her forearm. "No one since my mother has
been able to sway the man. But you did."
Sansa turned her head minutely, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice was
flat, and she said, "They're still dead. I changed nothing."
Tyrion squeezed her arm to gain her attention wholly.
"You're wrong and you know it." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Tell me, my lady,
what were the results of your actions?"
She looked at him half annoyed, half considering his query internally.
"Removing the Crown from the plot at the Twins." Her voice was tired again, she
did not care about useless information.
Tyrion took a deep breath, smiling thoughtfully at her. At the same time, he
made to stand, awkwardly using her forearm as leverage. He had never been
graceful when it came to the more rudimentary mechanics of anatomy.
"Yes, now." He was still grunting as he was straightening. "Who are you?"
She did not understand his game. Beyond that, she did not want to
play. "Your mother," she said in agitation.
Tyrion narrowed his eyes again and, now that he was of height with the kneeling
girl, he reached out and flicked a finger against her forehead. The gesture,
albeit a surprise, was one of annoyance and one that told her she was thinking
lazily. He leaned in, almost nose-to-no-nose, and measured each word, "Who are
you?"
Sansa inhaled deeply, speaking at a whisper on the exhale, "Lady Lannister,
wife of Tywin Lannister."
Tyrion stood up straight and smiled kindly before he nodded and went to
leave. As he moved to work his stiff joints, he spoke again.
"Yes, Lady Lannister, and since the Crown has no ties to this abhorrent
viciousness-" He turned to look at his friend then, and spoke in voice of
sincere authority, "-it seems you have quite a debt to pay."
With that, Tyrion turned fully and made his way out of the godswood.
Sansa watched him leave then looked down at the parchment in her hand. She felt
her body go hot. It made her queasy, wave after wave of heat cascading from the
top of her head, downward. She was being showered in the prospect of vengeance,
tasting blood in her mouth and feeling flesh give way under her fingers. She
was vibrating in it.
But the revenge she wanted was unattainable. To be able to swing the blade
herself, and by her own hand administer the justice that was desperately
needed... She was not that person, and Sansa knew that well enough. However,
what she was more than capable of was thought and process. And so, instead of
focusing on what she wanted to do, she calculated what she could do.
In the frightening details of her considerations she found answer after answer
and, in turn, she found a new blackness that smothered and numbed the hurt
inside her.
It was as she basked in the freedom from her heartache, embraced the cool
detachment that ended her torment, that she happened to glance at the parchment
again.
Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the
West, Hand of the King...
What she read was the title of a man who was feared. A man who was passionately
dispassionate. A ruthless man who approached life with cold kind of apathy.
I am nothing like him,her mind said. At the same time, the wind picked up and
swirled about the godswood. A cool breeze to douse the heat of vengeance. She
accepted then that she was not that person, a soul akin to her husband, and set
about fighting the blackness back into the shadows. Sansa welcomed the hurt
again and realized that it was the ache that made her feel alive and that she
had to live for those who were lost. That she had to persevere for those who
had been sacrificed so mercilessly.
She hated the distress in her heart, but the possibility of becoming like the
man who married her was more than enough to sustain the emotional wounds and
concede that those scars would always serve as reminders, but never define her.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sansa made her way slowly to their apartments in the later hours of the
afternoon.
Every step she took felt wooden, and matched the way she felt inside.
When she walked through the doors of the sitting room, she could see Tywin in
his place behind their desk and Lyol pouring wine. The scene was nothing
unusual, save the hour in which it was taking place - Tywin not normally
returning until supper. She considered whether he was waiting for her, for her
benefit, then realized it did not matter. She did not care about his motive or
the fact that he was there at all.
He lifted his eyes to her as if she were a thing to study, his face impassive
and stern, and she was taken in a wave of absurdity - of him, of her,
of everything - and it snapped every scrap of wood inside her.
She was broken.
...Robb Stark, dead...
...Catelyn Stark, dead...
All the grief and tears she thought had been orphaned and lost since reading
those atrocious words had only been dammed behind now collapsed walls. The pent
up emotion was flooding her, overwhelming every corner of her.
He watched her shatter in front of his eyes and was utterly powerless to stop
it, or to ease it, or to do anything but bear witness to it. It was because of
that he felt part of himself crumble with her.
Her world bent and she felt herself falling. She had been looking at her
husband when the plummet began and could see him rising to his feet as she was
sinking beneath him... But everything was slow and warping.
Tywin looked like he was running, yet his speed was nothing like a man set to
rush. She realized then that her descent was equally listless. Her vision
angled down as her knees came to a painful halt and she surmised she had
finally hit the floor. No sooner had she accepted the jarring fall than she was
rising up again. A warm hand was at the back of her knees and another one was
hooked around her back, pressing her against a warmth that smelled familiar and
safe.
Safe.
...Robb Stark, dead...
...Catelyn Stark, dead...
She was safe and her family were dead. All of them.
They left her all alone in a place that only wanted to see her subjected to
pain and suffering and now she had nothing outside of it.
Tywin felt hands dig into his clothing where he cradled her to his chest. Her
grip was impossibly tight like she was anchoring him, or herself, against any
possibility of vanishing. He was mere strides from their bedchamber when she
pulled even harder into him and began to wail. The roar of sorrow was made even
more heartbreaking by the fact that it came from this girl. His girl. His wife.
He could feel each sob build and shiver through her. Her keening wracked her
with such a physical force, Tywin had to hold on harder than he intended just
to ensure she wouldn't quake out of his grasp. But Gods, it was the sound she
made. It punched him in the chest every time it rocked and shuddered out of
her. It was pure mourning, and he knew exactly what kind of misery that was.
Just as he knew that there wasn't a fucking thing he could do for her,
and that stabbed him with its own horrible agony.
Sansa was coughing and choking on waves and torrents of tears and mucus;
nothing was in her control. Her muscles tensed and cramped and all she could do
was bewail her grief into the space around her. The arms that carried her set
her on something soft - her bed she supposed - but the excruciating sadness
would not allow her to confirm anything except loss.
She heard bits and pieces of Tywin's voice from somewhere faraway summoning a
maester, then Kevan, then her sobs grew larger again and were in the way. After
a few moments she felt large warm circles being rubbed into her back. Her grief
had made her muscles taut. So much so even where her gown touched, it hurt.
Every soft contact felt as though it were made of steel and was crashing into
her.
All the pain mingled together and she simply curled into herself and kept
crying.
Sansa felt something brushing her face - a hand, a cloth, she couldn't tell -
then heard her name, but it sounded like everything was underwater. There was a
coolness at the back of her neck and her name was still floating calmly in
front of her. It took everything she could scrape together inside her just to
open her eyes.
When her vision cleared, Tywin came into focus.
They were in their bedchamber and they were alone - a small mercy in a riot of
tragedy.
He was holding the back of her neck, propping her up, bringing a cup to her
mouth.
...Robb Stark, dead...
...Catelyn Stark, dead...
She pursed her lips and tried to back away from it.
Tywin knew exactly where her thoughts were leading her. He let go of her and
stepped back.
"It's not poison, Sansa," he said, firm and calm. "It is a draught to help you
sleep."
His voice seemed impossibly kind, and it made her even more suspicious. Her
body acted on its own and scurried further across the bed. Sansa's breathing
started to falter and her tears started again, she crumpled into a heap and
wept anew. 
This time there was an element of fear in the look on her face, and Tywin
forced himself past the anger her childishness sparked in him and came to the
only conclusion presented.
She barely noticed him leave, though in the hiccoughs of her sadness she could
hear talking through the open door. She recognized Ser Kevan and Tywin, there
was also another man but she could not place his voice before her mind rounded
back on her grief.
When Tywin returned, Sansa was where he had left her, only now she was
whimpering.
His wife was no longer the strong young woman he had watched bloom, she was
once again the terrified girl - a captive this time to sorrow, now pining for
her mother. But hers was such a sad piteous voice it pulled and tugged at him
violently. He had to make a conscious effort to breath normally.
Tywin had been holding a carafe and two cups, which he set down on the small
table within the room. Sansa watched every move he made, her eyes darting from
behind her tears; her stuttered breathing slowed down as she now had something
else to occupy her attention.
He undid the fastenings on his doublet then walked to the side of the bed that
she was closer to and held out his arm. At length he shook his hand then spoke
softly.
"I cannot remove it without help."
Sansa was still sniffling, rather bewildered, but nevertheless leaned over and
complied. Taking hold of the cuff of his sleeve while he pulled his arm out,
she repeated the action with the other. Her husband stripped completely and
changed into a bedgown.
Again he approached where she was curled up. "Come here Sansa." A wave of his
fingers emphasized his request.
She still held her suspicion, but thought tiredly that he could easily rid the
world of the last Stark without dressing for bed. Crawling closer, he caught
her midway and lifted her to her knees in front of him. His jaw was working but
she was in no mood, so she rested her forehead against his chest - the air
still hitching as she breathed - and waited for him to decide what he wanted.
She did not wait long.
Tywin moved his fingers ably to loosen the lacing of the restrictive bodice of
her gown, leaned down and wrapped his arms around her waist. Picking her up
then setting her on her feet, he continued to remove her dress.
Sansa was in too much pain on the inside to concern herself with what happened
on the outside. She considered that perhaps he wanted to take his rights as a
husband, and found she did not care. Instead, she watched through wet eyes as
he covered her eventual nakedness with her own bedgown, and before she could
think of anything else, Tywin moved away from her toward the small table. There
she observed him pour liquid into each cup before picking them both up and
walking back to her.
He drank the entire contents of one cup and held out the other.
"It is not poison."
She picked up the edge of annoyance in his voice.
His wife took the offered drink and consumed it all. Tywin didn't know whether
he felt foolish in that he had to resort to such measures, or uneasy in that
she trusted such a display of foolishness.
No matter.
The old lion pulled back the bed coverings and silently implored his wife to
take the invitation.
After she had climbed in and curled into herself facing away from him, Tywin
retrieved the damp cloth before joining her. He moved closer to Sansa, then
felt a pang of hesitation. He had not considered what he would do if she
rejected his effort to comfort her.
Sleep, his mind concluded dryly.
Cautiously, he slid his arm under her head and curled the rest of him against
her back.
She felt him move in close to her, though she was in no state to even consider
a fight - not that she wanted to fight anyway. There was comfort in him, in his
presence, and at least it was contrasting the hurt.
Sansa could feel Tywin's fingers moving her hair to the side - pulling a little
too hard sometimes and plucking strands, her body barely acknowledged it.
Though the instant he placed the cold damp cloth at the back of her neck again,
she sighed at the relief. It extinguished the heat that pooled in her head from
crying.
His arm came to rest around her middle.
"How did you know to do that?" She did not have to see his face to know he was
frowning at her unclear question. "The cloth," she clarified. Her voice was
graveled, but also that of a small child, speaking more into the bed linen than
anything. She just did not have the want or power for more.
His muscles stiffen where he was leaning against her. "My wi-" He shifted
slightly and tried again. "My first wife-"
"Lady Joanna," Sansa muttered absently.
"Yes, Lady Joanna." Tywin cleared his throat a little before speaking further.
"Shortly after we were married, her father died. The abruptness of his death
caused her to mourn terribly."
"I wasn't allowed to mourn the death of my father."
Her statement was not swung as a weapon. Even in her sad-child voice he knew it
was simply a matter of fact. 
He held her a little tighter before speaking.
"The deaths you hear about are the ones that fade easier. They never go away
entirely, but time interrupts and creates gaps between the grief at a faster
pace."
Tywin paused for a moment and Sansa could feel his breath quicken.
"But when you are there to witness the death of someone you..." His throat
involuntarily clenched. "Care for." There was a moment of recovery. "It stays
with you as fresh and dreadful as if it were that day, for the rest of your
days... Perhaps there is a reason the Gods choose to brand those events at the
front of the mind..."
She knew at the end Tywin was no longer talking directly to her. Sansa was no
stranger to that particular torment. They shared a bed, and there was nothing
sacred between people when sleep removed command of one's mind. There just
wasn't. Her father haunted her dreams as much as Lady Joanna haunted his, but
the pain of those memories were now halved.
She reached out and put her hand in his where it lay resting just past her
head. Her fingers wriggled into their place between his.
Tywin would hold her hand like that when he could sense her stress - publicly
or privately - and it was an action that always lent itself to calm. When he
curled his fingers over, the effect was immediate. Perhaps for each of them.
She heard his breath let out behind her, then felt his mouth rest on the back
of her head. He was doing no more than breathing her scent and nuzzling his
lips and nose into her hair, creating a peaceful lull.
"Sleep, love."
He sounded as though he were already dreaming and, like their ghosts, his words
were unfiltered and uncontrolled.
With that, her mind was able to sidestep the dolor that was threatening, able
to follow a path of comfort until she found her own dreams.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The next time her eyes opened, Sansa found herself staring at dancing shadows
cast on the walls by the fire in the hearth.
She was still curled up on her side, but her body ached and her head beat in a
shallow but persistent thud, and she could tell that her husband was no longer
curled up with her. She could not feel him at all.
The cold cloth Tywin placed on the back of her neck earlier was now tepid, but
still served to dull the thump inside her skull. Her eyes were sore, her throat
was raw, the place behind her cheeks burned and hurt. Though as her mind
focused on Robb and her mother, the only thing she could offer were the thick
tears that rolled down her face and the heavy air she pushed out of her lungs.
Sansa then felt warm knuckles rub circles into the rise of her hip.
There was nothing left in her to even acknowledge Tywin, his touch,
or anything.
Her mind was just so tired.
Her body was just so cold.
The fire would have heated the room sufficiently, but her bones were icy. It
came from within, like a damp cold that had seeped into her marrow.
She turned over slowly. The first thing she noticed was that Tywin was further
away than his touch suggested. He was laying on his back with the arm furthest
from her tucked behind his head. She also noted that the fire illuminated the
top ridge of his profile in a way that made him look as though he were built of
flames.
He looked warm.
When she moved again he turned his head toward her. Not saying a word, he
simply watched until she was close enough to discern what she wanted, then
lifted his arm in order to give it to her. Sansa curled herself into the side
of her husband, facing him, her knees tucked up against his side, the arm under
her and most of her torso laid on his belly. She felt his large hand come to
rest on the edge of her hip and lower back.
He was warm, and it was enough to begin to settle her agitation, but it wasn't
enough to ebb the fathomless tears that were still streaming down her face.
Tywin was looking at her; there was no emotion easily read on him. Her blurry
eyes were not of any assistance either, but she could feel him. His fingers
pressed a light rhythm into her back as his thumb traced an invisible pattern
into her hip.
Sansa laid her head down on the softness of his bedgown and the warmth of him
underneath it and tentatively closed her eyes.
"You're glad of it, aren't you?"
Her question came in the form of a corroded voice.
Tywin was teetering on the cusp of sleep himself when her words drew him back.
His eyes struggled open, focusing on the girl that was partially draped over
him, that had again raised her head and was looking up at him through red,
swollen eyes. He blinked slow as he considered his words, tightened his fingers
but a fraction where they rested on her hip. Tywin would not lie to her, but
neither would he add to her torment. Thus he purposefully bit back any
annoyance that may have gathered in regard her vague question.
"If you are asking me if I wanted your brother dead..." The momentary gap was
in order to gauge her willingness for the truth. "Yes, you know that I did."
Other than taking a deeper breath and her tears still falling, Sansa displayed
no outward signs of struggle.
"If you are asking if your brother's death will mean quicker gain and profit...
Yes, it will."
Where her hand was resting idly on his stomach, he could feel her fingers curl,
biting through the fabric into skin. Lord Tywin took a slow breath in, moved
his hand from behind his head to rest on the crown of her hair. He began
stroking his thumb over and through the softness there.
"If you are asking if your brother's death makes me happy..." Frowning a tiny
amount, his brows pulled down lower and he looked at her with the serious eyes
she knew to mean that he was troubled. "No, it does not."
It was barely a whisper, sounding more like a lullaby.
Sansa laid her head down again and tried to concentrate on the rhythm of her
husband's breathing, the strokes of his fingers in her hair.
In the end, it was only after the drain and effort of her next wave of sorrow
that she was able to find sleep.
To find some peace.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Red IV *****
Chapter Notes
     **This chapter contains descriptions of and allusions to physical and
     sexual assault as well as to torture and execution. Please be aware
     of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
A little over four moons had passed since the Red Wedding occurred.
The Red Wedding. It was a foul title for a foul event, and one that made
Sansa's blood run cold every time she heard it. Tywin never mentioned it to
her, he would talk about it only if she presented the conversation, otherwise
taking noticeable pains to have it removed from their day-to-day life. He had
told her she was to avoid court - and Joffrey, without exception - and the few
times the King had summoned her, or them, for whatever reason, Tywin put an end
to it promptly. But that was over four moons past and she was noticing
disparaging looks and stares when she would walk about the castle or the
grounds.
Not that she particularly cared about what people thought of her, bias and
contempt were nothing new, although now her growing concern centered on what,
and how, those same people viewed her husband. More so, how they viewed him in
relation to her; she didn't want to be a weakness, his weakness, present or
considered. So she made the effort and attended court.
As expected, it took no more than a few minutes for Joffrey to notice her
arrival, and immediately for the business of the realm to be steered to that of
the dead wolf-king of the sinister North, and his army of skin-changers.
Tywin was sat to the side of the King, his face calm and his eyes furious. She
could tell by his angled posture that his fury was aimed well away from her. 
For every badly-veiled taunt that failed to find a foothold in her humiliation
or embarrassment, Joffrey became angrier. It was when his face was reddened
from screaming and he was all but spitting his words directly at her, that he
called her forward by name.
"Lady Sansa," his pitch broke, causing him to squeak her title out loudly.
No one in attendance dared to even snicker.
Lady Sansa approached at a calm pace and with a demeanour that made her nothing
less than glorious; she came to a stop at a position in front of the dais that
had seen more than its share of her blood, curtsied perfectly, and spoke with
the appropriate reverence.
"Your Grace."
Joffrey was visibly shaking in his anger.
"And what do you think of the slaughter of your brother and the rest of the
northern criminals?"
Her voice was built of a familiar cadence and familiar words, it was a mask she
donned as though it were an old friend, and said, "My brother was a traitor,
Your Grace. He died as he deserved."
The King was not finished. Not even close.
"My grandfather thinks I shouldn't bring you his traitor head. Would you like
that? To see another Stark? It would be a family gathering - you and the
remains of your brother - all about as useful as Starks normally are."
He laughed at her, cruel and degrading.
She didn't budge; she didn't cry or even bristle at his words. It was as if she
were made of metal.
"I am a Lannister, Your Grace," she demurred gently. "By law and in the eyes of
the Gods."
Sansa smiled then, genuine and sweet. A smile fit for a queen. In the same
heartbeat, she watched Tywin blink slowly, emphasizing the close more than the
open - a gesture that reminded her of the Hound when he would pinch her to
prevent her from saying something stupid, from being punished further.
Her insides went cold, her outside showed no signs of distress.
The King stood in a graceless scramble, making his way down the grand steps and
stopping right in front of her.
His voice was calm, nonchalant even. "You should bleed gold then, should you
not?"
Joffrey did not give her time to even consider an answer before sneering his
whim into the deathly quiet room. "Ser Loras, Ser Osmund, secure my
grandmother."
The King flung his command then stepped back a pace. Without hesitation the two
summoned Kingsguard marched their approach, each gripping one of Sansa's arms.
She let it happen, she did not fight, she knew this part as though it were a
game from her childhood. However, her exceedingly calm disposition was new, and
it was that which further enraged the King.
There was no noise in the great chamber, no whispered voices aflutter with
gossip or anticipation of carnage. The ominous quiet was palpable.
Joffrey stepped in closer to Sansa and spoke loud enough for this words to
travel to every corner of the room. "If I remove your head, not only will it
prove you are not a Lannister, but I will have carried on the tradition of my
grandfather and ended the line of a troublesome house." He looked around,
pleased as the courtiers nervously muttered their approval.
She took the opportunity and looked up at the dias. Tywin was now standing -
everyone was now standing, she noted - he was outwardly furious in that he was
flexing his right hand. She noticed the subtle sway in this right arm, the one
that had been practiced for decades, the one that would unleash his sword.
For a moment she wondered exactly who he would choose, but thought, in the very
same moment, that it didn't matter. Either way she would be dead.
Sansa returned her focus to the sad, bitter boy standing in front of her.
"What do you think of that, grandmother?" he sneered. "Would you care to die
for the sake of the rest of us knowing?"
Her words were again calm, and again spoken without hesitation. "It is not my
place to question the will of the realm, My King."
She could feel the hate cascading off him.
"Very well," he hissed.
No sooner had the words left his mouth, there was a cacophony of steel being
bared. Using her peripheral, Sansa could see that Tywin had his sword drawn and
was at the midpoint of stairs on the dais, but was held at bay by three
Kingsguard. He was emotionless and it seemed to make him fiercer. She could
also discern that every Gold Cloak and Lannister soldier had pulled their
blades as well.
This will be a bloodbath, she thought.
She brought her eyes back to the green set seething in front of her. Sansa was
no longer fragile, and there was nothing King Joffrey could do to her
physically or emotionally that would see her break. Tywin may have been a
reprieve at the beginning, by way of their marriage, but at the end of the day
the Great Lion of Lannister was only but a subject to the King, and it was
Sansa's own resolve that consolidated her will and inner strength. The King had
nothing left to remove or threaten her with; nothing she would allow him to
have. Her life was her own and if the King chose to take that away she knew,
looking again at her husband, that she would be avenged - not by the family she
once had, but by the one she had worked hard to create from nothing.
Joffrey was bested, and he knew it, and he utterly despised her for it.
"You will see your traitor brother again, but it will be in this life, not the
next."
The King flicked his hand at the two knights that held her, and she was just as
quickly let go.
Sansa dropped her eyes to the toes her Joffrey's boots and extended the
courtesy that was expected when spared by a king.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Her life may have been spared but her attendance certainly hadn't been
dismissed, and as she turned to take her place amongst the crowd in the
room she looked over to see Tywin. He was still standing on the steps, his
sword replaced at his hip, and was watching her carefully under a heavy stare.
His wife smiled at him. It was nothing smug or triumphant, he could see that
clearly. She was humble and her smile was meant to speak to him alone, meant to
assure him she was alright. He gave a curt nod in return and watched until she
found a place in the audience - one of prominence as was expected of the Hand's
wife.
At the first break in proceedings Tywin walked directly to his lady wife and
offered his arm. He did not speak a word, he simply led her from court and down
the hall to the outer gardens. Before they reached the massive archway that
would usher them outside, Tywin turned abruptly and opened a narrow door. The
room inside was small, it had tools and implements she supposed were for
tending the greenery just without.
Tywin turned her by the shoulders in order to face him, barely brushing his
palms down her arms where she had been so recently held firm.
"Are you injured?" His tone was as serious as his look.
Sansa answered gently, truthfully, "I am bruised, my lord, but I am uninjured."
His wife wore her hair up and he could not stop himself from placing his
fingers around the base of her skull and pulling her toward him. He rested his
lips on her hairline and spoke in his usual serious tone, yet his statement
rung with an undertone of something like bewilderment.
"You are a beautiful fool," he breathed.
Sansa smiled to herself at his backhanded sentimentality, but at the same time
her proximity allowed her to feel his heartbeat. It thumped rapidly, completely
belying his exterior. Pulling away from him slightly, looking up as she did so,
she could see Tywin's face - his mask was stern, but his eyes held something
else entirely.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
As they met for supper there was no mention of what happened earlier that day
in court. Such was their way; if there was no immediate need or consequence,
Tywin had no interest.
They had barely begun their meal before it was interrupted by the announcement
of a messenger. Sansa looked to her husband, seeing if he would dismiss her for
privacy, or himself leave for the same reason. He did neither as he waved the
young man in.
The messenger, scruffy in face and clothing from time on the road and evidence
that he had made no stop or effort for his own comfort prior to seeking
audience with his leige, bowed before them.
"My lord," the young man began. "The Freys have advanced, but seem more
disorganized without the Bolton forces."
The information was precise and matter of fact, exactly what Lord Tywin
expected.
"Has there been any progress made aside from the idiot family understanding how
to walk forward and close a gap?" Tywin said it without a trace of humour.
The young soldier paused then, quickly glanced at Sansa, and cleared his
throat. "They have taken to parading Lord Edmure to the gallows every day with
the threat of execution, my lord."
Tywin didn't look at her directly, but could see clearly she remained unmoved
by the information, her only tell was the clench of her jaw, but even that was
delicate. He focused on the young man again.
"And what of the Blackfish?"
"He refuses to treat, my lord. He is holding with limited armament, men, and
with those who successfully fled the Red We-" The young man stopped completely,
looked at his lady for but a heartbeat, then back to his lord.
Again Tywin observed his wife's strength.
The messenger was given his leave with a short wave of his lord's hand.
Tywin waited for it... and wasn't disappointed when Sansa spoke her question.
"Are Lannister forces aiding the Freys in their siege of Riverrun, my lord?"
Her tone was cool, there was no desperation or easily identifiable panic. He
looked at her for only a moment, then opened a missive that was sitting to the
side, and clipped, "No."
Again, Tywin waited.
Sansa thought for a moment, knowing her husband would hardly entertain question
after question. She would have to ensure their significance.
"My lord, why are Lannister forces - and I assume they are a formidable number
- observing the siege of Riverrun?"
He smirked, that was the question he wanted from her.
"War leads to opportunity, my lady, and if the Freys manage to create one that
will allow me to take Riverrun, I will."
"But why are Lannister forces at Riverrun to begin with?" She was genuinely
curious.
"When I removed my support, and the support of the Crown, I had expected the
Freys to regroup with the North." He angled his head slightly. "And between it
and the Twins, Riverrun was the better choice, both strategically and for gain.
There is less chance of having to strike from a defensive position or being
besieged, which, as a whole, is superior." He took a drink and narrowed his
eyes - not necessarily at her, more at his own thoughts. "But there is no
accounting for the bitter pettiness of some men. It leads to unpredictability."
Sansa raised her eyebrows slightly at Tywin's assessment of Lord Frey, and
wondered if he could read her silent accusation toward his hypocritical
judgment. The way he paused and further narrowed his eyes told her that he did,
but he did not address it.
"The northern position was doomed regardless, the Freys simply enabled a sooner
fruition."
Tywin looked down after that, now uninterested in their conversation, reading
the parchment opened on the table beside him, and Sansa could not understand
why her husband was so suddenly dismissive.
"The North will regroup and follow any heir Robb may have, my lord. His queen
lives." It wasn't said to incite, it was a fact.
However, Tywin brushed her off, never raising his eyes and speaking as he would
to an annoyance seeking his favour. "Your brother did not sire an heir." 
Again, she did not know why he was being dismissive.
"You don't know that," she said, exasperated. "You didn't know he would have
died, you don't know if his queen isn't with child." Sansa felt her patience
crumble away completely. "Don't say that you do."
He flicked his eyes at her then.
Sansa set her cutlery down and looked at Tywin directly. She spoke recklessly,
not out of anger but out of exhaustion. "You are a great man, my lord, but that
does not make you a God."
Her annoyance had found a voice, and she could not take it back. She watched
her husband set down his own cutlery, and for a moment she thought he would
stand and leave. Instead he remained seated and looked at her with a smugness
that yanked her back what felt like decades. It was the same look Joffrey would
give her as she was being struck and punished.
Her appetite was gone and her muscles were covertly coiling.
Lord Tywin made no move to harm her physically, but he spoke in a tone that
would damage.
"Sansa, your brother would have died regardless. More than likely by my doing.
He was young and incredibly stupid." He looked at her pointedly to ensure he
had her attention, and continued, "I will admit he had moments of luck and
brilliance on the battlefield, but how much of that was his own ingenuity and
how much was he led by the men who made him their king?"
Her response was a quiet, beaten, "My lord, you don't know-"
She was not listening. His wife wasn't even trying to comprehend, and Tywin was
at the end of his patience. He slammed his fist down on the heavy wooden table
with such a force he caused the jump and fall of food and service-ware
alike. He stood then, leaning over to his wife, his eyes were livid and his
words were fired like arrows.
"He wed a girl from the Westerlands." He was almost frothing. "Who do you think
that girl's parents served - their liege lord or a false northern king who
couldn't keep his cock out of their daughter?"
She hated this version of him, and this man, she was sure, hated her too.
"Y-You. My lord, you." She just wanted it to be over.
Tywin took a deep breath, reeling himself in from the edge.
"That is how I know your brother will have no heir," he said in his usual
serious tone. "That is how I know he was at an end, whether he realized it or
not."
Her husband turned to leave then, his meal and work abandoned. Sansa watched,
mouth slacked at the knowledge he shared, as Tywin stopped when he reach the
door and growled to her without turning around.
"Your mother lives." He pushed the door open. "I have secured her from the
Freys." He began walking away, his voice fading. "She will be here in a
fortnight." And he was gone.
Sansa looked at her hands where they were resting on the table. They were
shaking.
She looked at the parchment haphazardly left near her husband's plate. It laid
still as death. 
Mother.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
True to her husband's word, her mother took a fortnight to finally arrive in
King's Landing. Lady Catelyn reached the Red Keep before the sun was up, and
was brought in without any ceremony at all. She was given accommodation and
help as befitting her station, and as far as the soldiers that accompanied her
from the Twins were aware, she had yet to speak a word.
When Tywin woke he found that Sansa was awake too. Something she was never apt
to do unless previously planned. At some point in the night she had curled and
hugged herself around his closest arm, and he could feel her shivering - like
she would if she were fevered. He felt a pang of panic and turned toward his
wife as much as their position allowed, raised a hand, ran it over her
forehead, and continued with his fingers through her hair. Her skin wasn't
burning, she wasn't damp in sweat, but her muscles were working in waves of
tiny spasms.
Tywin frowned and Sansa could see it on him clearly, even in the dim morning
light of their bed chamber.
"It has been so long..."
She said it into his arm more than at him, but he heard her and he knew what
she was referring too. Tywin had been woken at an early hour to be told of Lady
Catelyn's arrival, and thought best to allow both her and his wife time to
rest. But now that she was awake, he knew Sansa would make their re-connection
her only priority.
"She will always be your mother, Sansa, regardless of the time between you."
The corner of his mouth twitched when she nodded into his sleeve. In any other
setting Tywin would loathe and admonish the sort of childishness his wife was
displaying, but the small doses she exhibited privately only added to her
appeal.
"If you care to postpone your meeting until later this morning, I will
accompany you."
When she politely declined his offer, she had no idea how proud he was of her.
Tywin moved and carefully disentangled himself, rose fully and summoned for
both of them to be attended this morning.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sansa approached the room that held her mother with equal parts hesitation and
excitement. Tywin had told her she would be wise not to expect the same woman
she had left in Winterfell - that war changes everyone.
Sansa knew this fact intimately.
He had also been informed that her mother was suffering injury, but had yet to
see or speak to her himself and couldn't prepare her for what kind of wounds
she may have. It didn't matter. Sansa would work to make her mother well,
regardless of her injury. The only thing that mattered was that she was alive
and here.
When she arrived at the door, one of the two Lannister guards immediately
stepped aside as the other opened the door and escorted her inside. 
The small sitting room was empty, save for the maid tending the fire. Sansa
inquired of the maid as to the whereabouts of her mother before politely
dismissing her.
The guard remained at her side as they entered the attached bedchamber.
The room was bright enough, and would only get brighter throughout the day -
Sansa smiled at that small comfort. Her mother was sitting on the edge of the
bed, stock still and silent. Sansa could see that she was awake. She could also
see, quite clearly, the terrible gashes and lesions running down her mother's
face and neck. Sansa inhaled quickly, loudly, but it did not seem to disturb
her mother's concentration. The other change in the physical appearance of Lady
Catelyn was that her Tully hair, the beautiful auburn she shared with her
daughter, was now streaked in brittle swatches of white. There was no pattern
or distinguished flow to the white, it simply appeared in patches.
Oh mother, what have they done to you?  Sansa's mind was reeling in the despair
her body refused to cry out.
Continuing to observe, Sansa quickly noticed that her mother's wrists had been
bound. What made it worse was that she had been bathed and clothed in the one
of the gowns she had personally selected, then had her bindings reapplied. Her
mother was no longer a prisoner, no longer in the hands of the enemy. She was
with family and, however unconventional the circumstance may be, they were
together and that's all that mattered.
"Why is she bound, ser?" Sansa was edging on anger. "Untie her at once, she'll
not harm me."
The guard looked at her rather sheepishly and hesitated before answering at a
whisper, "My lady, your mother is restrained for her own safety."
Sansa frowned at the man, her frustration now plainly read on her face.
The guard continued, he could see that his explanation was insufficient.
"The... wounds on her face... My lady, she inflicted those herself. The bloody
Freys just let her, but Lord Tywin would never approve of us allowing her to
continue... So we tied her and found a healer."
Her mother had not moved a fraction, not even to lay eyes on her daughter.
Catelyn just sat there, staring blankly, clean but slightly tousled, and
obviously hurting.
"Untie her please." It was said with the kindness she was known for, but it
also sounded tired.
The guard did as he was bade and Lady Catelyn still didn't move, didn't look at
Sansa. When the man left, Sansa pulled a chair close to where her mother was
sitting on the edge of her bed.
"Mother?" She said gently, not wanting to startle or provoke her.
The wounds on her face and neck were gruesome - long, deep gashes - and for her
mother to have inflicted them on herself only spoke to the horror she was
witness to. Yet the woman before her remained silent, seemingly despondent.
However, Sansa was patient if anything. She settled into her own thoughts and
waited. Her mother was right in front of her and she would gladly wait for her
to find her way back.
"Your blood should have been at my feet, too." Her mother's voice was as
shredded as the flesh on her face and neck. "It would have been better that
way."
Sansa was surprised by the dreadful words. They had been sitting in silence for
hours, but jumped at the opportunity to finally talk to her beloved mother.
"Mother, I-"
But Lady Catelyn barreled over her daughter as though she wasn't in the room,
let alone addressing her.
"Bolton. I thought it was Lord Bolton who ended Robb's life, but when they..."
Her voice became airy and her words drifted for a moment, almost thoughtfully.
"They didn't even have the decency to use a broad sword. Did you know that?"
Lady Catelyn looked directly at her daughter, but her eyes held no
acknowledgement. She merely kept talking.
"Raymund Frey, he used a dagger... with a blade no longer than the width of my
hand." Her eyes drifted again, looking at her hands. "It took so long, sawing
with that tiny blade. He was still bleeding and breathing. He was still
gurgling. I screamed for them to stop, but they just held me down and made me
watch." Her face was serene, like she was speaking of nothing more than
household assignments. "Even when they twisted and twisted, his body was trying
to breath. They had to get an axe to finish it. He was quiet after that."
Sansa felt her hands getting clammy. She was aghast and didn't want to
hear any of this, but she could not find the command that would make her mouth
or legs work.
Her mother looked right at her then, and said, "You've been sullied, you know.
By him."
Sansa didn't know why, but she felt defensive. She found her words and spoke
them softly, respectfully. "I have been treated fairly, mother. Lord Tywin has
been kind."
Lady Catelyn smiled, but it looked more like she was in pain.
Sansa tried to gently change the subject, "I wrote you-"
Her mother became vicious at her words. "Yes, letters from the Westerlands
addressed to the woman that freed the Kingslayer. I know."
Sansa clenched her jaw in hurt and frustration, she didn't know what she meant
about Ser Jaime. It was as though her mother had built a curtain wall out of
iron and all she had were her bare hands to conquer it.
Again Sansa spoke softly, "You are not a prisoner here, mother. You will never
see a cell again, I promise-"
"A cell?" Catelyn looked at Sansa as though the young lady had sprouted another
head, then sneered, "Is that where you think I've been kept?"
Her mother laughed then and it was nothing like Sansa remembered, nothing of
the mother that used to brush her hair at night.
"No," the woman said. "I was quite the prize and claimed as such."
Sansa knew she didn't want to hear any more, tried to make her thoughts become
words... "I don't-"
But the woman talked right through her.
"No." Catelyn's eyes were wild. "I still had your brother's blood in my mouth
when they cut the clothes from me, lashed me to the end of a table and took
their turns. Boltons and Freys." She then had a faraway look with a voice that
matched. "I was there for days." There was a twitch in the lower lid of her
mother's right eye, subtle and frightening all at once. "I was fed, at least.
They delighted, after a sennight, to tell me I had been eating Grey Wind." She
closed her eyes, smiled awkwardly, and momentarily sounded like the mother from
Sansa's dreams. "Your brother's wolf... You remember him, don't you?"
I remember them both, her mind wept, but her mouth didn't allow.
Her mother snapped her eyes open then, the sunken orbs were bloodshot and it
made the blue radiate a purple. As though she were looking through the hottest
part of a fire.
"I begged them to kill me after the first fortnight. Instead, they pissed on me
and threatened to kill my brother if I did the deed myself. The only mercy I
had was after three moons when the wretched spawn they had forced into me
dripped out and most kept their distance."
She looked her daughter in the eye and spoke sweetly, "Then I was sold."
Sansa reached out for her, she couldn't help it, she was horrified, but her
mother was in pain and she wanted to help her, comfort her, anything...
Lady Catelyn wanted nothing of it, she recoiled from her daughter's hands as
though they were the same ones that had held her down.
"I- Mother... Please..."
"Do you think you can have me too, Lannister? I belong to no one!" The woman
bellowed at her at the same time her anger contorted and tore the scabs and
scars on her face and neck into something even more grotesque. "Do you think
the North will want you now? You're no Stark! You dishonour them, all of them,
all of those who died because of you!"
Sansa stood up with a force that toppled her chair. How did she know?  She was
backing away and talking, trying to make her mother understand, but her voice
was no more than a whisper. "I... I have done my duty..."
"To whom?" Catelyn sat up straighter and narrowed her hot, unnatural eyes. "You
say you've done your duty, yet Tywin Lannister still breathes. You let that man
slither inside you and flaunt his payment besides." The woman was focused on
Sansa's necklace as she curled her lip in disgust. "Even a common whore would
have the decency to die for the right amount of coin."
Sansa was winded, wounded, as though she were being struck by gauntlets. Again.
"His first wife died birthing the abomination he had fucked on her, I can only
hope the same for you and yours."
Sansa's steps backward had finally brought her in contact with the wall. She
used it to guide her to the door. The scarred woman followed her every move
with her burning eyes, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to put as much
distance between this repulsive stranger and herself.
At the same moment Sansa knocked to signal the guard, the woman dropped her
rancour and became serious. "I don't care what you do to me," she said in a
voice like the bitter cold. Then, "I will kill them all."
The door opened and Sansa slipped into the hall with so much momentum her
personal guard had to catch her before she tripped and fell. The three men were
left staring, blinking blankly at Sansa. The door was thick and the sound could
not penetrate, they had no idea what was said beyond it.
Lady Sansa stood straight, gathered her bearings and spoke as she always did:
pleasantly and confident. "Please ensure Lady Stark is tended to by the
Maester." She brushed her hands down her skirts to straighten them, and
continued, "Have her maids ensure that if she is served meat, that it is
identifiable."
The request was odd, but the sentries dared not question it or even raise a
brow. 
Lady Sansa turned then and made her way up to the battlements. The familiar
freedom from the cage that had kept her for so long. There was freedom up
there, a kind of peace, and with every rounded corner there lived a part of her
that expected the drunken terror of the Hound to block her path, and felt a
strange kind of disappointment when it didn't happen. However, those were
thoughts and expectations from a time before. Before she had a husband; when
only her father was dead.
When she still had the dream of seeing the rest of her family.
There were no alternatives now. There was no hope for reunion or
reconciliation. Sansa was truly without the family she had been born to, raised
amongst, nurtured in, and loved by.
But she was not alone.
No, she was the companion, advisor, lover, and wife of a man who, if she had
never been in King's Landing to begin with, would have more than likely been
the same man that saw to her death in one fashion or another.
But she was not alone.
Sometimes it was enough. Sometimes it ate through the loneliness. Sometimes it
was empowering. Mostly though, she could see the further conclusions, the ones
that stemmed from the man but ended where she herself desired.
Tywin was right, war changes everyone. And just as much as the woman she met
was no longer her mother, Sansa had come to the crashing realization that she
was not longer the daughter Catelyn Tully knew either.
She was a Stark, no amount of raving would remove that part of her, but she was
not the girl who left Winterfell.
She was more.
Her most powerful weapon was her heart. She would balk at Tyrion for his
telling her so, believing it more of a weakness, but as she looked out over the
city that had tried so hard to murder that part of her, she knew he spoke at
least some truth. Her heart would never break completely, she was sure, but
with enough emotional pain the damage could be crippling - and there always
seemed to be a barrage of it.
Sansa knew the relief she wanted, needed, to help with that particular pain,
and she would no longer be ashamed of that want.
It was hers to have, she only had to take it.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
His personal solar within their apartments a was smaller than the sitting room,
but because it was not openly accessed it offered far more privacy. Tywin had
instructed Sansa to meet with him there after her visit with her mother. He
wanted to know essential details, he also didn't want to interrogate her when
she was still emotionally vulnerable. Privacy was determined the safest
environment for her debriefing, and if she didn't seem responsive here he would
wait until they were readying for bed.
She found him sitting on the small, heavily cushioned bench inside the room,
instead of at the desk. From what she could determine, the fire provided a
better light for reading anyway and the roomy expanse of furs and feather
pillows looked a more comfortable seat.
When he heard her enter and close the door behind her, Tywin chanced a glance
upward and was pleased to see a look of contentment on her face. She wasn't
carrying any unnecessary stress as far as he could tell and went back to the
missive he was reading.
As she walked to a place beside him, beside the arm of the bench, Tywin asked
absently, "I presume your visit was satisfactory?"
He expected an answer, instead he felt her fingers caress his face - twine and
fiddle through his side whiskers. He subconsciously let out his breath and
leaned into her touch. She knew he liked that, that he was malleable when she
gave him that tender attention, and when he turned his head to look at her, his
eyes almost bleary, she kept his gaze and rounded to a spot in front of his
legs. Once stopped, Sansa leaned into him further and planted her lips over
his.
Tywin groaned into her mouth when he felt her fingers curl around to the back
of his neck and take hold of him. It was commanding and liberating all at the
same time. She had never taken control like that - it was bold and aggressive.
Sansa had always been sophisticated and understated in her intimate advances.
What she was instigating then was almost hurried, it had an element of
desperation. Her approach notwithstanding, his cock was hard, but he supposed
that was what she wanted. That she wanted him compliant...
Sansa felt Tywin's hands roam over her, causing her breathing to deepen.
This was what she needed.
One of his hands snaked its way up and over her breasts, up the side of her
neck, then down again to the collar of her gown. She could feel him hold her
there, like he was looking to control her angle - which was exactly what she
wanted, she wanted to be free, she wanted him to take her, pleasure her so she
could be lost in it...
His hand was still tightening on her collar, but he wasn't maneuvering her. She
kissed him even harder as if to prompt and encourage him, but when his grip on
her gown tightened, his fingers twisting the fabric so taut that it was tearing
the stitching and taking skin with it - pinching and hurting - it was then that
she realized his mouth was a solid line.
He wasn't kissing her back.
Compliant.
Sansa blinked in confusion, and when she saw the frightening fury simmering in
his eyes she was instantly afraid. He had never thrown her a look so spiteful
and she found herself combing her mind, trying to determine what particular
action would see him so angry. She simply couldn't find her deed, she couldn't
understand why he was hurting her like that.
Tywin straightened his arm, pushing her back a couple of stumbling steps, but
still held her gown in a vicious grip. He felt a rage seep into him that was so
violent, so malevolent, it unlocked his darkness and his mind flashed the image
of him running her through just to be rid of her. Rid of girl who proved
him a fucking fool.
But there was no cunning in her eyes, nothing of a game, just fear and
confusion - and that only made him indignant.
"Is this what your mother advised you to do?"
Tywin was snarling at her, near rabid, he could not stop himself. He shook the
fist that held her, causing Sansa to keen out a whimper at the pain it
produced.
"I- No, my lord-" She was all but pleading.
"Tell me what she said! Tell me how she instructed you to fuck for her
freedom! Tell me!"
He was trembling in his rage; however, what he witnessed in his wife, the
scared girl at the end of his cruelty, caused him to shiver for completely
different reasons.
She became a ghost.
Her eyes became terrible in their emptiness, her skin greyed, her body slumped
into his hand like dead weight, and when she spoke, her voice was distant and
hollow. But it was what she said that would forever haunt him.
"My mother told me that she would have rather seen my throat slit in front of
her, dead like my brother, than have me married to you."
Her tone was droning, like ten thousand bees had infested the room.
"My mother told me that if I had any love for the North, or for my father, or
for my brothers, I would kill you then find the highest battlement, the tallest
tower perhaps, and throw myself off."
His grip on her collar was the only thing holding her up.
"My mother told me I was less than a common whore for sharing your bed."
He watched as Sansa's throat worked, as she seemed to focus on him once more,
her voice had life again, but it was so broken.
"My mother told me she wished death to any children I may bear you, and hoped I
would befall a fate the same as Lady Joanna."
Tywin felt bile rising in his throat, his mind was rushing from fact to
reference; he tried picturing his own mother speaking to Genna that way, of
Joanna speaking to Cersei with such poison. He couldn't and it was making him
furious. He looked at his wife... There she was, sublime and shattered once
more. He cursed the Gods, all of them, old and new and foreign, as he slowly
lowered her, her legs long since working to keep her upright. She came to rest
on her knees between his feet, her arms draped over each of his knees - they
were the only things preventing her from crumpling to the floor completely.
Tywin was swallowing hard, over and over again. He thought to give her peace by
retrieving her mother, he had never imagined this. Never imagined he could be
so wrong about Catelyn Tully.
He let her go, his fingers cramping from holding so tight for so long, but he
kept his fingertips over where he knew he'd marked her.
"Sansa... I..."
He was at a loss. For everything.
"I'm sorry."
It tasted caustic, but not because he didn't mean the words. He was sorry -
because her mother gave her venom instead of love, because she was
hurting again, because he hurt her again. Because he was failing her. Because
he was failing himself by doing so. Beyond who this girl was, she was his wife.
Beyond her name, her claim, and her womb, he pledged vows to her - in front of
the Gods he hated, but believed in nonetheless.
"I am... sorry..."
He had no idea he was muttering until he felt her hand lightly squeeze his
forearm and heard her speak. He concentrated on the poor girl clinging to
him; still there, with him. He wondered then if it wasn't the tenacious
creature herself that was preventing him from failing their union entirely.
Tears welled in her eyes but didn't fall. "When does it end, my lord?" 
He tilted his head in question.
"The suffering," she said in a harsh whisper, sounding of both fury and
sadness. "When will I stop suffering?" 
Tywin found himself choking down a thick tightening in his throat and clenching
his jaw in an effort to regain his determination. Leaning forward then, resting
his elbows on his thighs and cupping her face in his palms, the old lion traced
his thumbs where the tears would have been if she had allowed them.
"It doesn't end, my lady." He knew it was brutal, but it was the truth. "There
will always be suffering, in one capacity or another waiting for you in this
life." His features were stony and emotionless, but his touch on her was in
complete contrast.
She closed her eyes in defeat, the pooled tears finally pushed out, sliding
into the thumbs that were ready for them.
"Look at me, Sansa." His throat was still tight and it made his voice gruff. He
marveled for a moment, as she opened her eyes, at the delicate tears clinging
to her eyelashes - it was like rain on a spiders web, and was sorrowfully
beautiful. When he was confident she was focused on him again, he
continued. "But there is always a choice. Whether you allow it to bury you, or
whether you fight your way through it."
Tywin leaned in further and kissed her softly on the mouth. Pulling back from
her again, he whispered sternly, "What do you choose?"
Sansa looked at her husband, first in blurry indecision, then with a steely
resolution; she raised her hands and gripped his wrists hard, her voice was
gritty but confident. "Fight," she said, squeezing his wrists harder. "I choose
to fight."
Her husband's eyes narrowed, dissecting her sincerity, determining if she meant
her words or if she were simply trying to appease him.
All he saw was the truth of her.
And when his wife sat taller on her knees and kissed him soundly, again Tywin
surrendered to her. He kissed her deeply, tasting the salty flavour of tears
pronounced on her tongue; he devoured them for her, not wanting her
to ever taste them again. She wrapped her arms around his neck, moved her mouth
away from his and rested her head on her own shoulder. Tywin could feel her hot
breath on his cheek, and when her arms pulled tighter, he took his cue and
wound his own around her back; holding her close, holding her up. Simply
holding her.
"Make the pain go away, my lord.Please. Just for a little while."
What a sad, pitiful thing it is to have to ask to be bedded in order to wash
away the torment of what waits on the outskirts of accepted memory. But it was
a sedative no different than drinking; something to numb the pain. Tywin knew
the trick was to alleviate the source of the pain before it could become
troublesome, but what his wife had endured that day, and the more recent moons
before it, was something that would fracture most men. The fact that Sansa had
the wherewithal to trudge through the leagues of horror she had been subjected
to, recently and before, more than earned what she asked of him. He would not
question her.
He would not deny her.
Cinching his arms tighter around her back, Tywin stood with her as she was:
arms wrapped about his neck, face buried in his cheek, feet dangling loose at
his shins. That was how he walked them both to their bedchamber, dismissing
servants as he went with a glare or a flick of his fingers.
He laid her down on their bed and crawled to a position above her. She reached
between them and brushed her fingertips across the bulge in his breeches where
the laces were straining, and he swept them away with his.
"You will have it..." Tywin said. Then set to kissing and sucking on her neck,
speaking through his ministrations. "...When I am done with you."
He stripped her slowly, uncomplicated her hair, made a point to kiss her
through every reduced layer: her breasts, her collarbone, her hips, her center;
allowing her to appreciate the gradually building sensations. By the time he
had her naked, Sansa was panting and visibly wet. Her blatant arousal ushered
even more blood to his groin, prompting him to divest himself of clothing as
fast as he was able. Naked at last he leaned down again, slid his hands behind
her and lifted both of them until he was sitting on his heels and she was
poised over his lap.
She looked at him. Just looked, then smiled a tiny amount.
Using the strength of her thighs, Sansa raised herself a little higher, reached
between them for the second time, and aligned his cock with her entrance.
Sansa never took her eyes off her husband, and when she sank onto the full
length of him the air seemed to leave the room. She rested her head on his
shoulder as he manipulated her arse, lifting her up then setting her back down
in long strokes. Every impale was met with a sigh-turned-moan and Tywin knew
that this was what she had wanted all along.
Such simplicity, yet he tended to complicate it despite all of his knowledge,
despite all of his experience.
A fucking fool, indeed.
After a several minutes, he could feel her hands gripping onto his back and he
knew she was looking for release of a different kind.
Nuzzling his mouth beside her ear, Tywin gave a clear and concise instruction.
"Fight."
Sansa leaned away from him slightly, looking him in the face, her hips
grinding, she used her hands and pushed him back a tiny amount - not enough for
him to lose his balance.
He watched her lean into him again, her lips making contact with his neck. She
was kissing and licking and nipping him in a way she knew he liked. Tywin
responded with a deep growl in the back of his throat. She kissed down, over
his collarbone, and concentrated her effort on one spot high on the muscle of
his chest. Her attention was pleasant, thoughtful even, until she forcefully
bit down on that same spot.
Tywin was taken by surprise, gritting the pain through his teeth, forcing his
hands to stay on her backside instead of shoving her away. The pressure of her
teeth intensified, and when she ground her jaw slightly he let out yelp, but he
did not stop her. He wanted to fuck into her harder in retaliation, but found
out quite quickly that the more violently he moved the more violently her teeth
cut into his flesh.
She pulled away as fast as she bit down and looked at him with anger in her
eyes.
Tywin gave the look right back, still guiding her to ride his cock, but when he
glanced at her breasts, as beautiful as they were, his attention was drawn to
the ugly blemish his furious hand had marked her with. Considering it further,
he realized that Sansa had marked the same spot on his own body.
He twitched a grin at her; his wife was a clever one.
Sansa returned his smile with one that cast an air of mischief, one that he
would distrust on any other face save the one looking at him. She moved in
closer again, slid her arms under his until they rested on his back and
proceeded to dig her nails into the skin and muscle there. Tywin sunk his face
into the curve of her neck and tried to concentrate on the feel of her cunt
sheathing and unsheathing his prick, but the gouges were getting deep and there
was only so much his ego would allow. In a quick move, Tywin laid her back on
the bed and pulled her hands from behind him, pinning each of them above her
head with each of his, he lowered his mouth and kissed her hard.
"Enough," he growled onto her lips.
Swaying back once more sitting on his heels, Sansa's hips and waist now laid
arched down his thighs, her head and shoulders still on the bed. The sight was
sparking excitement in his senses. The line of her belly pulled taut, the
pronouncement of her ribs, her breasts firm but moving with every breath and
every thrust, her arms stretched out above her head, the feel of the clench and
release on his cock, the sound of her airy moaning...
His hands wrapped themselves around her hips, thumbs resting at the jut as his
fingers dug into her fleshy backside and he started to pivot and angle her as
he varied his depth and strokes.
It was as though her husband was looking for something.
He knew he had found his mark when she gasped deep and looked dazed. The tip of
his cock was nudging that roughened patch of secrecy inside her. He kept her in
place and fucked with short hard thrusts, stroking it repeatedly. Sweat was
rolling down his back, stinging the lines she'd carved there, spurring him on.
He could see beads of it glistening in the valley of her breasts as well and
wanted nothing more than to lick it away; but no, his duty was to her
first. Placing the palm of his hand over her pelvic bone, he pressed down,
increasing contact inside, causing Sansa to groan from somewhere deep in her
chest. Several minutes of careful ministrations saw his wife start to tense, he
knew she was close, and when she opened her eyes in panic, her arms swinging
down and her nails digging into his knees, he knew how to sate her.
"Sansa." He slowed to a stop in order to talk to her.
She was embarrassed, he could see that plainly, but she looked him in the eye
regardless.
My brave girl.
His hands traveled up her body, massaging every part of her, calming her.
"Do you trust me?"
He watched her breathing heavy, considering her answer, and he found himself
once again feeling flawed because she had to consider her trust in him in the
first place.
"Yes," she breathed.
Tywin started moving again - short, hard thrusts - a steady rhythm aimed at her
most elusive spot.
"You'll not make water," he said, and watched her existing blush intensify.
Tywin couldn't help but smirk at her scandal. "When you feel that way again,"
he continued. "I want you to close your eyes and relax."
Her breathing was deepening again, but she pulled her brows together in a
silent protest.
"You'll not Sansa," he said between breaths, grinning in his own way. "I assure
you."
Sansa looked at her husband then. This was the version of him she adored. This
was the version of him that made it easy to forget a name, forget who they both
were. It was the man whose eyes smiled. It was the man who was capable of
caring in small bouts.
He continued moving inside her, pressing his palm low on her abdomen. Sweat was
dripping into his eyes and off his nose by the time her body started to tense
again. When she felt the deep flutter start again, Sansa closed her eyes; he
watched as her hands fisted into the bed linen, her head lolled to the side and
he heard a continuous low mewl spilling from her parted lips.
All at once Sansa inhaled deeply, her inner walls clenched around him like a
vice, she let out a moaning cry and his cock and thighs were soaked in her
wetness. But it was the pleasure he could see rippling through her that was of
greater value. Tywin stretched out over top of his wife, gathered her in his
arms - the pliable thing she was - and fucked her in long lazy pushes and
pulls.
She was moaning sheer joy through every movement.
He knew in that moment she was someplace better, somewhere that suffering did
not exist, and he worked to give her respite for as long as possible. When he
felt her fingers find purchase on his back again, he allowed himself a faster
pace, a deeper push, and as she breathed his name beside his ear he murmured a
name-prayer of his own and spent hot inside her body.
It was long minutes they stayed like that, him over top her like a shelter,
before he heard her voice reemerging as something coherent.
"Wha-"
She was still shuddering in waves, talking into his shoulder, holding onto him
for fear of being washed away completely. He induced her silence by rolling his
hips, fucking her with his softening cock.
It was enough to make her forget her questions and bought him reprieve from
telling her that it was his first wife who taught him the intimacies of women.
That after a year of marriage Joanna presented him the filthiest, gods-send of
a book he had ever allowed his eyes to view, and thatparticular technique was
something that took moons to conquer. That he'd willfully forgotten it after
Joanna died because no one deserved that kind of happiness, least of all him.
That he'd forgotten about the book altogether until a servant found it years
later in the room his children played in.
Her silence prevented him from confessing that just looking at her, in any
setting, in any context, Sansa made him want that joy again, and that it scared
him more than he would ever admit.
Instead, he held her tight, buried his face in her neck and hair, absorbed her
humming contentment and hoped, hoped, his actions would speak a fraction of
what he felt.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin stayed with his wife as long as he could, but it was early afternoon yet
and he would eventually have to leave in order to fulfill his duty as Hand.
She was awake and sated for the most part when he finally called for a bath and
to be attended. He didn't have to look at her to know she wasn't smiling
though, her pain once again a blanket on her. However, she was neither weeping
nor grieving; she was processing it - registering and calculating it. Tywin
knew with every confidence that his wife would once again prevail. Once again
move forward.
It was as he finished the tedium that made up the majority of his days that he
knew he had one more matter that needed resolving, and he made his way to the
small set of rooms assigned to Catelyn Tully. A large percentage of himself
knew his wife was speaking the truth of what her mother said to her, but there
was a tiny amount, the smallest of fractions, that could not really believe
it. He had known Lady Catelyn as a young woman at Riverrun; he would never
claim to know her more than decorum allotted, but he knew enough of the girl
from speaking with her, that her house words were more than just a series of
letters.
When he entered her rooms he immediately dismissed her maids, but spoke to one
in passing. "Is she well?"
The young woman did not meet his eye. "Yes, m'lord," the maid said. "She eats,
she drinks, she bathes. But has not said a word other than to Lady Sansa."
With another flick of his fingers the girl promptly left.
Lady Catelyn was sitting at a small table within the bedchamber, it was near
the window, the view was of the water. Her face was covered in bandages and
judging by the amount of them, Tywin knew her wounds were significant. The room
smelled of the poultice that must have been used under the dressings, and it
somehow added to the unease he was feeling.
"Lady Catelyn."
She did not bother looking at him.
"So she sent her old lion," she scoffed, a bitter sound. "Whatever you've done
to her, you've certainly made her weak." Catelyn flicked her eyes at him then.
"But I suppose that's the way you like them."
Tywin raised his eyebrows at her entertaining show of bravado, scoffed his own
bitter sound and attempted to retort.
"Sansa is a stro-"
"My children are dead, Lannister. No thanks to you."
"No." His tone was that of a parent scolding a child. "Your daughter lives, and
wishes to have her mother by her side."
"And which daughter is that? The one you lied about having, or the one you
fucked into a traitor?"
His mind cringed. If this was the woman Sansa found that morning Tywin fully
understood the pain she had been dealt.
"Stop being a damn fool, my lady" he spat. "Your daughter came to see you. Need
I remind you of your duty as a mother?"
The face of Lady Catelyn softened to one that was familiar, one that he
remembered from Riverrun and various tourneys. One that he would be happy to
inform Sansa had reemerged.
"No, my lord, you don't." Even her voice was the one he recalled, and that
please him... Until she finished, "That is why I am asking you now to honour
the wishes of her mother, and kill her. It would be a mercy."
Tywin's fury was simmering. "I will not," he growled. "And you would do well to
get over your stupidity, my lady."
Her features and tone did not change, but the look in her eyes was deadly.
"Tell me, Lord Tywin, was it the prospect of bedding a child, or was it the
prospect of bedding a Stark that prompted your own stupidity?"
His fury consumed him then, he leaned down and brought his face a mere hands
width away from hers. "You will not request to see Lady Sansa," he seethed.
"She will not be denied access to you, but the choice will be hers." His
demeanour switched to something made of pure menace. "But if you disturb her,
like your folly today, I will personally see to it you suffer to a degree that
will make your time with the Freys seem favourable."
Lady Catelyn did not so much as flinch, and when she spoke her voice was cold
and distant. "Threats, my lord, lose their edge when you have been through what
I have." She wore a smile, and it would have been sweet if it weren't so empty.
"Women are resilient, I've discovered. Resilient in both body and mind to the
depthless treachery of men."
Tywin leaned in closer then, ensuring his words were felt as much as they were
heard. "I am well aware."
She didn't know or understand the reference, but Lady Stark knew the
implication of his statement. 
"Is that what you do to Sansa?" Her personality folded in on itself again, her
smile was malicious.
"One more suggestion like that, my lady, and the unpleasantness starts here and
now."
It was all he could do to grit the words through his teeth without reaching
forward and choking the life out of the woman in front of him. He watched as
she considered him for a moment, then tilted her head slightly - as a dog would
at an unknown sound.
"You love her." Her statement was delivered in a tone of absolute victory.
Tywin stepped back, as though she breathed knives instead of words. He didn't
speak just held her icy gaze with one of his own, and all too soon he realized
that the gap of silence had turned into an admission on his part, and that to
speak and deny it would be a confirmation, and to give her the words she wanted
to hear would be a weakness... He did not love Sansa, not like what he knew
love to be, but-
Lady Stark started laughing, loud and unbidden, startling Tywin out of his
contemplation. Hers was a laugh the lion was familiar with. One that he could
still hear echoing through the very halls he traversed daily. It was a laugh
built primarily on paranoia and, as was the case with Lady Catelyn, anchored in
grief and suffering.
It was madness.
Lord Tywin then took the only recourse remaining: he turned without word and
left.
It wasn't long into the trek back to the Tower that he decided Lady Catelyn
would not stay in King's Landing. She would remain a captive, of course, but
she would do so at Casterly Rock.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
She didn't know the specifics of the emergency that shuffled her from the
sitting room of their apartments, she only knew that it was staged for that
particular purpose: for her particular purpose. Sansa had been pulled and led
through corridors and crevices within the walls of the Tower. Ones she never
knew existed, and was quite happy to be ignorant of given their extent and
potential use. The idea was frightening. But it had been a soft, calming voice
that guided her through stagnant air and dark catacombs. That same voice had
eventually brought her to a hooded figure waiting by two horses in an unknown
thicket of the King's Wood.
There was still plenty of light in the early evening, but as she stood and
looked about she could not obtain her bearings in relation to the castle,
and that was frightening too.
Lord Varys left her in the company of the hooded stranger, didn't make
introductions, just turned and shuffled off to his next task.
The hooded figure spoke first and in a rather stunned voice, said, "My lady?"
The voice was vaguely familiar, something from far away. Even when the man
pulled back his hood to reveal a dirty ruddy face covered in a shaggy beard,
she felt she knew him but could not place him. It was uncanny.
"Harwin, my lady," the man said quietly. "Do you remember me?" He smiled small
and pained. "My father, Hullen, was the Master of Horse in Winterfell."
Sansa was quickly inundated in a tide of memories and remembrance of a kind
man, of kind men, all who followed her father to King's Landing. All who died
because of her.
Blood through her fingers.
Sansa smiled at him, equally small and equally pained. "I remember," she said.
She had to gather herself from her remembrance, she had to know.  "Where have
you been? Have you come from the North?"
"No my lady, your father sent me with Lord Beric Dondarrion to apprehend
Lannister raiders..." He looked at her, embarrassed, his line of thought looked
to have snapped. Harwin cleared his throat and continued, "After your father...
We... We stayed as a company... Out there..." He nodded in some unknown
direction through the trees.
Lady Sansa knew exactly who they were.
"The Brotherhood Without Banners," she breathed.
Harwin nodded, but Sansa didn't need his confirmation. She had been reading
missives and enduring various commanders and lords cursing this same
Brotherhood for well over a year. After the death of her father, the hunters
had become the hunted and instead of disbanding, surrendering, or running, The
Brotherhood Without Banners chose to stay, be labeled outlaws and fight a
semblance of the fight her father had charged them with.
"How did you..." Sansa was going to say, get here, but the question, like the
thicket, would have been an enigma. "Were you in King's Landing?" She settled
on.
The man in front of her swallowed hard before speaking. "We saw Lannister men
taking a prisoner from The Twins, I was told to follow and observe." He
furrowed his brow and continued, "It was Lord Varys that found me." Harwin
stood up straighter. "Told me that Lady Stark wished to meet me - had a task
for me."
She smiled genuinely at his pride, and offered, "It is said Lord Varys knows
your business before you do."
He smiled back. "I can believe that Lady Sta..." Harwin drifted his address of
her, not feeling comfortable branding her with the name he knew had been tossed
aside.
"Sansa," she finished for him as her smile reduced. She knew she was just as
much a traitor now to those of the North as she was, before she was married, to
those of the South. It seemed a label she would always wear; however, as her
meeting with the man from The Brotherhood Without Banners suggested, one she
would never conform to.
"Lady Sansa." He said it with a smile and a familiar tone, the tone his father
had. It reminded her of home, if her childhood. It ached in its comfort.
She smiled back at him, genuine again, before she became serious. "The task I
am asking you to shoulder is the care and responsibility of my mother." Sansa
continued before he could ask the questions she knew he had on his lips.
"That was who you followed from The Twins. It is who I am asking you to...
rescue." It seemed the right word, from unrealistic songs or not, for what she
was asking of him.
He looked surprised but didn't speak as she expected him to. Instead he looked
back at the two horses, two of Lannister's finest, that were tacked, hobbled
and grazing nearby.
"You will be provided for," she said confidently. "In the saddlebags of the
black horse, you will find enough gold to get you back to the Riverlands...
Or...  Or wherever you decide to go... Quite safely, and then some."
He glanced back to her now, his voice and look not as pleasant as before. "The
gold will provide for the people your husband set his dogs on?"
She concealed her grimace. She knew Tywin had let loose Gregor Clegane to burn
and pillage, and even though Robb was dead he had yet to bring The Mountain to
heel. He and his men were still out there.
"Outside the well being of my mother, I trust you to spend it as you see fit."
She kept her tone a practiced neutral. "Lady Catelyn has her own agenda, one
that is in line with yours. One that I will support to the best of my ability."
Harwin laughed at that, full bellied and equally mocking. "The wife of Tywin
Lannister is going finance the same men her husband wants dead?"
"The very same," Sansa bit out.
He narrowed his eyes then. "What kind of trick is this?"
"There is no trick!" She was exasperated, her point had been made, surely. "The
gold is there, see for yourself."
And she watched as he did just that.
"There will be more if you require it. Lord Varys has given you means to
contact him, and that is what you will do. Any attempt to reach me directly
will, as you can imagine, have dire consequences."
His smile was back, but this one was made more of misbehaviour. "Dire for us
both I'd assume."
Lady Lannister answered without missing her cue. "I don't recommend trying to
live on assumptions, ser."
Harwin lost his mocking smile. The girl had control somewhere and he would be a
fool to try and determine whether it was actual or perceived. He nodded his
agreement in the end.
"Harwin, I feel I have to advise you... My mother isn't..." She had practiced
this part in her head many times, but the reality of it was something she could
never truly prepare for. "Lady Stark is not the same woman you remember."
"Your father's death, King Robb, the war and all has changed us, every single
one, my lady."
His voice was laced with the kind of sincerity Sansa trusted. That of the
North. Sansa tried to smile, she truly did, but the hurt of those losses the
man had mentioned made it looked forced.
Marching ahead, leaving her dead behind, Sansa explained, "She has been through
a tremendous amount of torment and it has... affected her."
"Then would it not be better if she stayed here to be cared for, my lady?"
Sansa shook her head solemnly.
"She would not thrive here, or anywhere she felt a captive." Sansa closed
herself off from thinking of her mother's torture. "She is driven now by her
need for vengeance, and I want to ensure she has it within her grasp."
Harwin looked at her warily, not quite knowing if, or how, to interpret Lady
Sansa's intent for her mother.
"My lady, I do not live in a place of comfort. There are no amenities and it is
no true place for a lady - highborn or otherwise."
Sansa regarded him thoughtfully, and said, "You followed her for a reason,
Harwin. Whether out of duty to my father or to Winterfell, it matters not. What
matters is that you, and those you companion with, are who she needs right
now."
Harwin slacked some at her assurance, then straightened suddenly, as though he
remembered something important.
"Your sist-"
All was left forgotten the moment they heard footfalls, the pair became
silent. Harwin, without prompt or hesitation, drew his sword and placed himself
in front of Sansa. Using his hand, in the event he would have to swing to
defend her, he gently pushed and placed her at a safe distance behind him. She
stood frightened, though couldn't help but smile internally at the honourable
north man. Her father would be proud.
Lord Varys emerged with her mother in tow. She was heavily shrouded under a
dull cloak.
Harwin sheathed his blade and bowed to the hooded figure. "Lady Stark, my name
is Harwin, son of Hullen, Master of Horse at Winterfell."
He watched as the figure pushed back her hood and was concerned regarding the
bandages she wore on her face and neck. Other than the auburn hair, white
streaks and all, and the blue of her eyes that were distinctly Tully, Harwin
would not have known this was the same graceful woman who held the hearts of
every soul in Winterfell.
...a tremendous amount of torment...
At that thought, any apprehension he had regarding the want to be responsible
for his liege turned to dust.
"I am at your service, my lady."
The woman didn't smile, didn't nod or acknowledge him verbally, she simply
walked and took her place beside and in front of him.
It was then she turned to Sansa, extending the same cruel demeanour as their
first meeting.
"And what exactly do you want, Lady Lannister?" 
"The same thing you want, Lady Stark."
Sansa returned an outward posture she was sure was plucked directly from a
memory of her husband... and felt her heart break a little more. This wasn't
the way it should have been between a daughter and a mother, but her sadness
was forming its own version of resolve and it only served to confirm and
fortify her current position toward the woman wearing her mother's skin.
"You told me you wanted them to pay, my lady. Is that still your
desire?" Gods, she even sounded like Tywin.
The woman in front of her almost growled, "Yes..."
"My marriage does not change the fact that I am the daughter of Eddard Stark
and Catelyn Tully," Sansa stated, and was gratified when the woman winced.
"Just as it doesn't change the fact that I am of the North."
The woman's eyes softened slightly and Sansa knew she was speaking to more of
her mother. She leaned in a little and chanced holding her hand, her fingers
really, before she continued.
"The North remembers, mother." She squeezed the fingers she was holding as she
spoke in a soft urgency. "The North remembers."
The woman looked at her for a moment as though in careful thought, and squeezed
her fingers back only once before letting go completely and resuming a look of
distance. Sansa was about to give up her hope of granting her mother revenge.
The notion was drifting away as the woman barely acknowledged her words. Sansa
would have to carry on with her contingency plan and provide for Harwin and his
men, and rest easy knowing her mother was at least no longer a captive...
That was until the woman nodded at her. Lady Catelyn must have read the
confusion in Sansa's eyes because the woman nodded again at her before turning
to Harwin and speaking. "I want their blood. I want their lives." Her tone
carried a lethal ferocity. She looked back to Sansa. "Lannisters will die in
turn, be warned."
Sansa wore a carefully arranged mask of indifference and simply nodded. It
would be something to deal with when the time came, not now.
The woman turned her back without another word and walked past Harwin toward
their waiting mounts.
"My lady."
Harwin bowed to Sansa and held a look in his eye that she knew meant her mother
would be cared for, and she smiled small and sad at the man, but nodded her
every assurance. She watched as he helped her mother onto her horse and mounted
his own and, not that she was expecting it, neither spared a glance to her as
they began to ride.
The soft shuffle of feet and even softer voice behind her reminded Sansa that
she wasn't alone.
"I'm truly sorry for what has happened your family, my lady - to your mother."
Varys always sounded sincere, but Sansa was never sure if it was just part of
his act. As she watched the figures shrink into the distance, her voice cut
cleanly, quiet but hardened.
"My mother died at The Twins, my lord," she said, still looking at the tiny
silhouettes. "Butchered with my brother and his northern allies." She turned
finally, once the figures were gone completely and addressed Lord Varys with
thoughtful sadness. "No, my lord, that woman is nothing of Catelyn Stark.
Nothing of the mother I loved, with her warm and good heart..." Sansa clenched
her jaw and started to walk past him.
"No. That woman is made of stone."
She took his silence as understanding and kept walking, following the path he
had shown her, the one that would place her back where she needed to be to
conclude her ruse. However, it was the truth. All of it. The woman set free
was not Catelyn Stark, but a creature broken to the core and bent on
revenge. So, when her husband found her in the small room off the other
sleeping chambers in their apartments, a room she designated as her bower and
used when Tywin needed privacy; when he asked her pointedly, angrily, if she
was in any way responsible for the release of her mother, she truthfully
answered,No.
She watched as he huffed and raged and scrutinized her until he was satisfied
she wasn't being devious. Whether he suspected something outside what she told
him he would never say, or even let on, but she knew her husband better than
anyone. She knew he was well aware of what she'd done, but he was also well
aware of her debt. And it was the latter that was of far greater concern for
Lord Tywin of House Lannister.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
As to be expected, in the fortnight that had come and gone since the escape of
Catelyn Tully, there had been no mention of it between Lord and Lady
Lannister. There had, in fact, been airs and sightings of the fugitive here and
there, but nothing that prompted the concern or pursuit by Crown or Lannister
forces. Neither was there a break in the siege at Riverrun, and Sansa concluded
that that would be where her mother would aim her rage. Freys and Lannisters
both, sitting in wait for what she could only imagine was bloodshed at its
finest.
She cringed at the thought.
Before she could think any more on the matter, long fingers turned and pushed a
letter across the desktop in her direction. A part of her didn't want to pick
it up, let alone read it. The part that found every death and scheme and theory
and complaint that were laid out in words, leeched her strength. She took a
long look at her husband then; Kevan had told her he'd been this way since they
were children. Sansa remembered playing and gossiping and enjoying her friends
from that time in her life, and she could not help but feel sorry for him in a
way.
He never looked tired though, not like how she felt, drained and exhausted. To
him every letter was a puzzle, or a piece to a greater riddle. And it was the
challenge of choice and ascertaining answers that gave him a particular
joy. Sansa found she shared that same joy, just not with the same intensity,
and sometimes not even toward the same element of the riddle. Her husband told
her she had an abstract perspective, Tyrion told her she was sly. Either way,
it was that part of her which picked up the letter and focused her eyes to
read.
After several minutes, she lowered the missive and looked at her husband with
concern. "The Boltons hold the North?"
"Let them." His tone was cool and distracted, as though the news meant nothing.
"But-"
"What are your house words, my lady?"
He looked at her then and raised an eyebrow expectantly.
"Hear Me Roar."
The stare Tywin gave her made her feel as though she was a small child failing
the simplest of tasks.
Little Sansa Stark, always trying to please.
She did feel stupid and looked down then. Smiling and scoffing at herself
before raising her eyes at him again. Tywin himself was wearing a tiny smirk.
"Winter Is Coming," she amended.
He kept the smirk as he nodded his head, reiterating, "Let them."
Her brows bunched in mild confusion and she spoke her thoughts as they were
emerging.
"Do you mean to attack in wint- No..."
The pictures lined up fast and she knew she had the answer.
"Let winter destroy them." Her smile was gone. "We will take Winterfell at the
onset of spring."
Sansa hadn't realize but she was speaking in a lowered tone, a voice built on
the notion of violence, and watched as her husband, the Great Lion of Casterly
Rock, carved his smirk into a grin.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
 
***** Winter I *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
The beginnings of wintery weather in King's Landing was much like the summer
snowstorms Sansa remembered from Winterfell. Skies were miserable, the sun
barely made an appearance, and the snow itself came down in thick, sticky
flakes. The only cold that seemed to stay was an icy wet that soaked through
clothing and brought with it dreadful coughs, bouts of illness, and plenty of
death.
Lord and Lady Lannister were fortunate to avoid sickness, but the damp chill
pursued everyone regardless of economic or familial status. Stone walls and
tall towers held onto the terrible perpetual dank, making the lowly and sagging
wooden structures of Flea Bottom seem appealingly warm. Nights were the worst
of it with the wind shear howling in from the coastline plummeting the cold
even deeper, reminding the population that their control was not without limit.
That natural forces would always govern them, their comfort, and whether they
lived or died.
It was a particularly frigid night that Tywin woke to the sounds of groaning.
His first assumption was a gale meeting the unmovable structure of the castle,
but when the low guttural noise ended with a pant, in what could only be
described as pain, he knew to look closer for a culprit.
Sansa.
There were so many coverings and furs piled on top of them that he could just
see a cap of auburn poking out from the top edge of it all. She was further
away from him than was her habit, even more unusual considering the low
temperatures. When he stretched to touch his wife his fingers registered only a
sickly-cold damp seeping through her heavy bedgown. As quick as he could manage
through the weight of the abundant coverings, Tywin crawled to her. She was
curled up on her side, away from him, and the closer he got to her the more
pronounced her groaning became. She was awake and rocking in her position,
whimpering and shaking. Placing a hand on her shoulder prompted her peering
back at him wearing a look of unguarded panic and utter fear.
"It hurts..." she said, barely a whisper breathed through her teeth.
Tywin raised himself to his knees and leaned over her in order to look at her
more directly. Her vagueness sparked his annoyance - if there was something
wrong this was hardly the time make him guess. He tried to make it sound even,
but his words were flung out as more of a bark.
"What hurts, Sansa?" 
She curled more tightly into herself and cried quietly, "My belly."
Now his mind was snapping to references and probabilities, and in that same
moment he threw every fur and blanket off his wife, gave a cursory glance over
her before leaning back on his heels to take in more of her form... He shivered
in his own right. When he saw the blood in their bed, soaked through her bed
gown, on her, there, Tywin Lannister was rendered to stone. His was a terror
that managed to surface from a place long buried decades before. It was a
reaction he had to mentally and physically force himself out of. One he had to
shut himself off from in order to be able to find his legs and rush to summon
the Maester.
I want to be a mother. Sansa had told him this seemingly out of nowhere, but
with the conviction of a decision that had been thoroughly deliberated.
He gave her what she wanted, granted her something he knew he could provide
after she had suffered a seemingly endless wave of personal devastation. He
knew she was strong, another nameday gone, a woman grown, but rising above all
that was the fact that she was ready. She made the choice, and that was what he
had been waiting for.
Tywin would have seen to it she had done her duty and provided him heirs
regardless, but he wanted her to feel she had both power and influence in her
own life. Her perceived strength allowing him a greater legacy in the long
run... At least, that's what he told himself. When she missed her moonblood,
her eyes held an excitement he had not seen before, a happiness he remembered
in Joanna, and he had tried so hard - and failed so miserably - to feel it too.
When Sansa missed yet another cycle he finally, slowly, allowed himself to
acknowledge the tiny flutter inside him. The same flutter he felt watching
Cersei and Jaime grow in their mother's belly...
But now he was trying to piece together exactly how many moons Sansa was with
child, and as he did so he felt that exact part of his mind shut down,
infuriating him. Simple math was all he needed in that moment and instead he
was hopelessly lost in the blood and noise in front of him. However, at once,
his feet were moving and his voice was speaking. Instinct as a rule was never
completely absent and had Tywin yanking and yelling for guards and servants
alike, sending for the Maester, for baths, for linens, for handmaids to attend
Sansa, and it wasn't until Lyol brought him light breeches and a fresh tunic
that Tywin looked down to see his own golden bedgown stained in the wrong kind
of crimson.
Maester Pycelle arrived within what seemed like heartbeats and was instantly
ushered into the bedchamber. The old lion again moved his feet out of instinct
and made his way in the opposite direction, to his solar, summoning for wine in
the meantime. 
Changed and alone, sitting behind the desk in his private room, Tywin took
stock: Sansa was just over three moons with child and she was losing the babe,
there was no question in that detail.
Pycelle requested audience after a time and stepped in at Tywin's command.
"My lord," his voice did not so much waver as it did hesitate, "the child is
lost." Pycelle waited for Lord Tywin to speak, but there was only silence
between them. The Hand did not bother to look up from his cup of wine, so the
Maester continued. "Lady Sansa fares well, my lord. She is of a strong line,
and shall recover quickly."
Tywin flicked his eyes at the man and wordlessly told him his patience was
waning. There was nothing this man was telling him that he did not already
know.
"I will return later this morning to assess her again, my lord."
The old lion blinked slow and spoke in a tone brimming with warning. "This,
like the pregnancy, will not be spoken of."
Maester Pycelle looked affronted, his words the same. "Of course, my lord-"
With a glare that screamed violence, and a pointed nod in the direction of the
door, Tywin dismissed the Maester and returned his focus to the cup in his
hand. It was only then that he noticed the rippling tremors on the surface of
his wine. His hands were shaking. Setting his cup down he fisted both hands and
called for Lyol.
"Where is Lady Sansa now?"
The steward took his place to the side and behind his liege, and answered, "She
is being bathed and tended to, my lord."
Tywin clenched his fists tighter, to the point of pain.
"Have her own chambers readied. Take her to them once she is prepared."
"Yes..." Lyol was not one to question his lord, but the order created a
subconscious pause that translated to an actual one. "...My lord, of course."
The stumble was not addressed, but it was noted.
Alone again, Tywin opened his hands in order to view the damage on his palms.
His bloodied, shivering palms. He closed his eyes, placed his hands flat
against the desktop, and again took stock. This time it was of his own
person. His breathing was suitably paced, his pulse was fine, his mind was not
rushing, but his hands kept quaking. And there, in a tiny hollow, pushed back
to the outermost part of his own recognition, he found his answer.
Fear.
Unadulterated, purely maligned fear.
If he focused on the fear he would lose himself, so he pushed it farther back
to where it had been, hardened himself for the consequences and moved forward
as he would normally. As he strode to his bedchamber, Sansa was being escorted
to her own. He walked past her as though she were no more than a stick of
furniture in the room.
"Tywin..."
She addressed him in a voice influenced by whatever Pycelle had given her for
the pain and was reaching for him as her handmaids were steering her, almost
against her will, toward her chambers.
"M-My lord?"
It was so full of confused anguish. She reached harder, as if he simply had not
seen her. Tywin hardened his eyes, ground his back teeth and walked on, sparing
her nothing in his journey.
In his bed - their bed - his shaking hands dogged him further. Once more Tywin
closed his eyes, this time in defeat and exhaustion, and openly invited his
fear to consume him...
He was walking in blood, wading in it, toward a golden light. The light was
Joanna, and she was drowning in the black-crimson that was now up to his waist.
He reached her, he held her to keep her above the gore, but her head tipped
back and her hair soaked up the red like ink on linen.
The blood was to his chest and when he held the back of Joanna's head, lifting
it up and away from the black tide that was trying to engulf her, she had
turned into Sansa. His hands were now full of copper instead of gold, and it
was as though she were made of it as well. The weight was pulling her under;
his muscles burned at the effort to keep her from slipping below the surface,
but it was not enough. Her face was slowly being enveloped by the thick warm
sea of blood that was now almost to his neck.
He tried screaming at her to wake and save herself, but his words were eaten
before they left his lungs.
The weight was too much, his arms could hold her no longer.
He felt his body sob a violent, silent spasm as she was swallowed under wave
after wave...
Tywin's eyes snapped open from his dream and the first thing he acknowledged
was his racing heart. The second were the spiky peaks of rage and fear tingling
their way through him. The third thing Lord Tywin acknowledged was the fact
that he was weeping - no sound just tears tripping down his cheeks. His hands
had stilled, his body was calming, and his mind was purging anxiety in the only
way it could.
He let it happen. To fight it would be folly, he knew that intimately.
He endured.
The dead of night stretched on and Tywin remained awake, his terror continuing
to seep away, and in much the same way he was awoken initially had caught his
attention once agin. Faint at first, he strained to hear what became terribly
apparent.
Sansa was crying as well. A sorrow of the same breed but a different volume,
and it made his heart feel like it was turning around in his chest. But Tywin
simply could not go to her. He could not be strong for her when he had no
strength left for himself.
His wife needed him and he would have shattered at her feet, useless.
He had failed them both.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It had been a full turn of the moon since that night, and Tywin continued to
turn his wife away - from their bed, from him, from everything.
Her husband would barely talk to her, he refused to take meals with her, and
rarely worked in their apartments. Opting instead to stay late in the Map Room
or in the Royal solar adjacent the Throne Room.
In that time, Sansa found her own strength to push on and move forward. Not
from some miraculous inner fortitude, but from the knowledge that she had to.
She had no one to turn to, with whom she could relate or sympathize... Not that
it would have been allowed even if she did. The only time Tywin had spoken to
her was to tell her that she was not to discuss the matter with anyone, no
exceptions. The latter part of that handful of words was plainly pertaining to
Tyrion.
The result was that it had left her to contemplate and delegate her own
emotions.
She endured.
However, not without the awful tug of guilt and apprehension. The one thing
she should have been able to do, be a mother, she couldn't. Her womb had
betrayed her. Tywin's absence was surely him realizing his mistake in marrying
her and he was now determining her worth as a wife unable to provide the heir
he needed.
Her husband required the single task her body was constructed for and she had
bled it out on the bed linens, useless.
She had failed them both.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The day of Joffrey's wedding started early. The extensive list of guests and
dignitaries were to break their fast in grand fashion then proceed into
customary gift giving.
The attempt was made to wake Sansa more than once in those first hours of
morning, the daylight seeming to have the same struggle as it fought to breach
the horizon. The effort to coax her out of her warm bed and into the chilly
morning air was only successful with the aid of hot tea sweetened with honey,
which generated only minor petulance and whined out words on Sansa's part, and
a collective sense of accomplishment from her handmaids. Who were finally able
to achieve the first of their many tasks.
In a flurry of practiced maneuvering, they had their lady bathed and preened
and dressed in the first of three gowns she would wear that day; the other two,
for the wedding ceremony and the feast, had been set out and readied the
previous evening.
Tywin had always seemed to have a sense for what she needed or wanted. In the
time since her marriage, Sansa had never had to ask for clothing or jewelry.
There had simply been someone who arrived from time to time who took her
measurements, then days later there would be wrapped parcels or draped gowns
awaiting her in their bedchamber.
...His bedchamber. 
She enjoyed it, though. His taste in fabrics and finery was impeccable, and she
had thanked him when the first such gift was newly hung within in the large
wardrobe. Her husband had replied by snarling that she was a Lannister and was
expected to look as such.
It was never touched upon again, but the gestures had always been there.
Until the blood came.
The gowns for this event had already been selected moons past, coordinating
with the Queen and Lady Margaery, but there had been nothing besides from her
husband as would normally be his custom.
Tywin had for all intents and purposes walked out of her life for more than a
moon. So when he walked into her bedchamber that morning, where she was waiting
for assistance in fastening her necklace, she was immediately uptight and
suspect.
He stood rigid, his face severe, and glared at her.
Sansa could not maintain eye contact and opted to simply curtsy and greet him
as propriety required.
"My lord," she said, keeping her eyes trained to the center of his impossibly
black doublet with the impossibly fine gold stitching.
His voice was distracted, but somehow managed to be annoyed too. "My lady, are
you ready-"
Lord Tywin dropped his words as his attention was caught by the ornate box
sitting on his wife's vanity.
"What pray tell is that?" he clipped.
Sansa had to look up to her husband's face and follow the path of his gaze in
order to understand what he was referring to. She spoke in that direction, her
voice matter of fact if not a little agitated.
"It's a gift, my lord."
Tywin looked daggers at his wife, openly sneering his dislike as he said, "Look
at me, girl." He waited for her head to turn and her eyes to meet his before
continuing in his awful drawl. "What kind of gift?"
His wife showed no fear in regard to his demeanour.
"I do not know, my lord," she conceded. "It only just arrived and I have yet to
open it."
"You would be better served to avoid and discard strange gifts as though they
were poison."
His posture and tone had not changed as Sansa pivoted slightly, reached to
obtain the small card sitting on the box and read it. Sansa turned her glance
toward her husband again.
"I don't know if I would call Lady Olenna a stranger, my lord."
Leaning more to her, his ever-short patience was now at an end. "No, only
dangerous and conniving," he said unkindly. "I will save you the obvious strain
of decision making, and forbid your acceptance of it."
As her husband spat his words he also produced his own gift, setting it atop
the poisonous one. Sansa could not stop from widening her eyes, raising her
brow and scoffing in disbelief. One could hardly put thought to the man's
ridiculousness and she was left blinking rapidly for a moment, the effort
rounding out her incredulous look.
Tywin narrowed his eyes and flexed his jaw. His wife was calling him a fool in
every way except words, and he hated her for it. She might as well laugh at
him; he hoped she would, just to show her what kind of fury it would earn her.
However, she did not, she merely looked on. And it was barely heartbeats
between the time Tywin settled to reach out and physically remove her attitude
and when he stopped.
His breath caught. He realized he was looking at a reflection of himself.
Sansa was mimicking him whether she knew it or not. The manner of her stare,
the set of her face, her scoff, and her internal judgment - was all Tywin
Lannister. His chest tightened. In repulsion? In admiration?And from the way
Sansa's own look reworked slightly to show concern, he knew the pain of seeing
himself in her was tangible on him.
He did not give them permission, but watched as his hands cupped her face and
gently brushed his thumbs around her eyes and down her cheeks. Pushing out the
bitterness that had no business being there.
So focused was he on her face and his hands there, that he did not realize she
had made a reach of her own.
Sansa, without breaking the gaze they had established, brushed the fingertips
of one hand lightly under his chin and down his throat - ending at the upper
edge of his high collar. The huff of breath and aborted groan that came out of
her husband made her smile inside. It was something warm after weeks of bitter
cold; it was comforting and she could not deny it made her feel good. His face
remained serious and grim, but his eyes smoothed to something other than the
constant misgiving that had lived there since...
She swept her hand further down the front of him in a slow confident movement.
When she was midway, she shifted herself entirely, his hands moving away from
her face, and slid both her arms around him.
Resting her temple on his chest, she embraced him.
It was not a gesture for him, it was a truth she needed from him.
This was a certain type of assurance she needed from knowing she was not alone.
It mattered little and less if the act was one sided, what she needed was a
physical reiteration that their marriage included someone else other than her.
An anchor of sorts, and if she could only feel that particular weight once
every turn of the moon so be it, she would hold on while she had the chance.
He was overly tense, she could feel that in him. Even when he rested his palms
against her back and pulled her closer, even when she felt his mouth rest in
her hair and a slow breath leave his throat in a low tone. It was like their
closeness was painful for him, and Sansa considered perhaps that was the truth
of it. Perhaps she was no more than a living reminder of a mistake.
A mistake held close is a mistake that can never lead to regret.
Sansa was awash in cold again.
At the same time, Tywin began disengaging. He removed his hands and pulled hers
away from him, not ungently, using the same movement to push her back to arm's
length.
"You will wear what I have brought for you."
The tone he used was softer than before, but it would also brook no opposition.
Tywin stroked his hands over and down the luxurious softness of his lady's long
sleeves, until his fingers brushed over hers.
His touch was so welcomed and so missed, that it was like she was watching it
happen from outside herself. The tingling where his palms had passed was
distracting. So much so she did not notice his fingers pinch the card she still
held, removing it from her grasp.
He had seduced her. A feeling she jerked out of abruptly as Tywin stood
straight, turned away from her and retrieved the gift he found so
offensive. Taking the parcel with him, he left her without another word.
Sansa blinked to collect herself, put herself back together. She could keep
going now, better than before with the taste of safety and association she
needed.
Opening the box Tywin had left, Sansa allowed the tiniest of smiles. Withing
the silken recess rested a set of combs. Ornate and fine, made of predominantly
of white gold and accented in Lannister gold, they had intricate waves built of
the smallest rubies and diamonds she had ever seen dancing along the tops of
them.
...As was his custom.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
To describe such a way to break one's fast as opulent would be an
understatement. Tables were piled to the point of sagging with fresh imported
fruit the likes of which had long since withered under the cold and sleet of
King's Landing, and dishes of hot and cold meats, vegetables, and sweet and
tart desserts. It all seemed never-ending.
Looking over her meal, Sansa remembered tales of even the highest Stark lords
pairing down to accommodate the famine of winter and could not help but loathe
the gluttony meant to impress her. The same northern rationale that was ignored
by everyone around her smacked of something foreboding. But as it was, she was
not in the company of northern lords, she was with a king and his Southron
constituency. Whose only notion of hunger was what they woke up with, that was
quashed the moment they were upright and mobile.
Sansa chided herself a hypocrite then. She didn't know what it meant to be
hungry either.
They were heavy thoughts, but they did not weigh her down. In this instance,
they reinforced her conviction that the North would always survive. That when
someone willingly allowed themselves to suffer for the betterment of others, in
any capacity, strength was innately theirs.
She thought of spring and smiled softly.
Tywin caught her eye as he waved to men deep in the wings of the ballroom and
watched as two extravagantly dressed guards carried in a covered display. Once
they set it down, they looked to Tywin. His nod was their cue to lift a heavy
drape of red velvet and uncover a suit of armour that seemed to catch and hold
every point of light in the room.
The armour was like nothing Sansa had ever seen before, and by the mutters of
men and gasps of women, it was something unseen in general.
The mail was heated steel, plated in gold, and ringed so small and close that
it looked woven. Every part of the outer armour that required flex and movement
was scaled. But unlike the armour of the Kings Guard, these were smaller and
looked like elongated coins. They were made of hardened steel and, like the
mail, plated in gold. Individual components of plate - the gorget, the cuirass,
the pauldrons, the greaves - were intricately embossed, the raised metal plated
in gold while the rest was enameled in a deep, rich crimson. The ornate helm of
a lion's head was embossed and enameled to match. In the center of the
breastplate was the halved sigil of the King, the lion and the stag, encrusted
in more jewels than what was being worn in attendance.
If anything was made for a king it was the armour unveiled before him.
Joffrey got to his feet, beaming a look of satisfaction from first his mother
the to his grandfather. The gift was one to his liking, and Sansa could
understand why. But as the King approached the display to bask in his finery
and gloat in his prestige, his features took a downturn and his eyes narrowed.
Edging his face even closer, Joffrey seemed to be scrutinizing the jeweled
ornaments in the breast plate.
Without a word, he turned back to the table, picked up the large knife he was
using to dine, and swung around again facing the armour. With the same
proximity and scrutiny used prior, he started digging and chipping at the
craftsmanship.
Seemingly thwarted by the task, the King spun to his grandfather, his face
distorted in objection.
"You give me this?" he asked, incredulousness tilting to a peevish whine.
Joffrey was picking the point of his knife at a tiny accent of grey metal
between the black gems that made up the stag. Sansa could only conclude that
the armourist used white gold to hold them, instead of its yellow counterpart -
as was used in the lion and every other embellishment.
Tywin addressed the petulant King, intoned with overt tact and poise. "That
is gold, Your Gra-"
"This is not gold!" Joffrey presented the kind of affront one would normally
reserve for the greatest of insults, screeching,  "This is bastard gold! Why
would you think to gift your King with lesser gold, made for lesser people?"
His eyes struck directly at Sansa for effect.
Sansa could hear the faint strain of her husband's doublet, the material and
seams protesting the tightening of him tensing within it. His voice, however,
carried nothing of the kind.
"It's not the plate that makes a warrior, it's the man who wears it, Your
Grace."
The growl Tywin produced was equal parts annoyance and warning, and it silenced
the room. It also caused the King to visibly startle.
"Taking pride in what you've been gifted, to your liking or not, will garner
you respect, Your Grace. Carelessly mar those things, and it will only earn you
scorn."
Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Joffrey had heeded his grandfather's
ire, but his ornery tirade was now redirected at her.
The King again glowered at Sansa, curled his lip in disgust, pointed his knife
at directly at her heart and seethed, "You did this, didn't you?" 
Sansa quickly weighed her options and made her decision by determining the most
likely outcome.
She stood.
"Yes, Your Grace," she began. "I beg you forgive my ignorance, the addition was
made at my request." Sansa lowered her eyes and bowed her head in submission to
the King. "I cared only for aesthetics and not the implications."
Joffrey needed a target, and by foolishly looking for one in Tywin he was left
wanting. Sansa's gamble was to give him what he sought, an avenue for his fury,
in an effort to sate him. Which in turn would save the rest in attendance from
having his cruelty inflicted on them.
The King scoffed bitterly at his grandmotherin one breath, then all but forgot
about her and the armour both in the next. His distraction further assisted by
Lady Margaery gathering his attention with flattering words, an approving smile
and a request to continue the procession of gifts.
Unfortunately, Sansa's own efforts were for naught. Joffrey would find it in
himself to be cruel to those he despised regardless of the words or wealth laid
before him, and she could only watch helplessly as Tyrion became his next
focus. It pained her that Tywin observed the scene unfold without care or
interest. His face was completely impassive, but she could see in his eyes a
blaze of unparalleled hate toward his son.
Sansa lowered her gaze from the display of ignorance and animosity in front of
her, but caught movement in her peripheral.
Lord Tywin wrapped his hand around hers and leaned in to catch her ear. She
smiled, even when the pressure on her hand verged on pain, and tilted her head
to allow him to speak closely. Her face was turned toward the room, her smile
remained flawless - as was expected from a wife listening to the intimate words
of her husband.
Tywin squeezed tighter and growled low, agitated, "I do not need rescuing, my
lady."
When he brought his solemn face around to hers, his wife was still smiling,
almost thoughtfully. She jutted her chin at him, a silent indication that she
wanted to speak to him in the same manner. Tywin narrowed his eyes and flexed
his jaw in annoyance, but acquiesced nonetheless.
It was now Tywin who faced the room as Sansa settled her lips next to the shell
of his ear and spoke in a tone that was nothing if not his own.
"The only rescue I performed, my lord, was that of a beautiful gift from
unnecessary destruction."
A reflection of himself.
At that, the old lion felt her thumb work in delicate little circles over his.
A motion and act that was usually his toward her, but the effect was the same
and Tywin felt himself relax a fraction - his muscles lost some of their
tension, his breathing deepened, and his grip on her reverted to something more
to the edge of pleasant.
When they turned their attention back to the great dining hall, their
conversation at an end, Tywin did not release his easy hold on Sansa's hand,
but instead tugged gently to rest them both on his thigh for the duration.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Winter II *****
                                      ..
                                      ..
                                       .
Stood at the side of Lord Tywin prior to being ushered into the Grand Hall to
partake in the feast celebrating the union of King Joffrey Baratheon and Queen
Margaery Tyrell, Lady Sansa smiled politely at, spoke to, and mingled with all
manner of Lords and Ladies, Magistrates and other dignitaries from across
Westeros and the Free Cities.
It had only been hours gone since she and her husband had wordlessly made their
way to their personal chambers after the binding ceremony. Through the duration
of which, Tywin had chosen to afix a look of placid disinterest to everything
in general while ignoring her altogther. Again. That wasn't to say he was not
currently obliging her, dipping his head to hear her when she wished to speak,
but he had yet to bother responding or initiate conversation himself. Not since
they broke their fast.
Since he held her hand.
The gist was hardly vague and in the end she stopped trying. They had dressed
in silence and remained that way when he offered his arm as they walked to the
antechamber prior to the feast. However, instead withering under the treatment
of Lord Tywin, locking herself away inside her armour, Sansa chose to actively
observe her environment and proactively participate in accordance to her duty
as the wife of Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King. 
The only indication Tywin gave that she had earned even the slightest bit of
his attention was when she was speaking with Prince Oberyn - laughing at his
predictable, practiced charm and truly inappropriate banter. Only then had
she felt her husband's hand curl around her waist even though the rest of him
remained pointed away, speaking with a brightly dressed Braavosi.
Glancing the unsubtle gesture, the charming prince leaned in close enough to
breathe her air, and drawled, "Lions are protective, it seems."
"And wolves mate for life, my lord," Sansa said, employing her very own variety
of charm.
At that the Red Viper straightened, took a step back, smiled even wider and
produced a laugh that was impossible not to reciprocate. Sansa was blushing
fiercely at his display, something like bashfulness, and it only worked to her
advantage when the coy prince ended his game. Although another seemed to start
anew as he lifted her hand and kissed it in a way that made her blush even
harder, leaving his lips to linger on her skin.
"My lady," he whispered. Prince Oberyn nodded then, dipped to an exaggerated
bow, then made his way back to a beautiful woman who was smiling at Sansa in
the exact same manner the Dornish man had.
Sansa blinked through her perplexity straight to realization; Tyrion's company
meant acquiring an education every time his bawdy humour confused
her. Behaviour she had once addressed in embarrassment was now looked at with
an air of entertainment and inquiry, but she had no time to think beyond
understanding. Still basking in the intrinsic allure of the Prince and his
consort she felt Tywin draw her in snugly to his side, and delighted in her
natural fit there. And when she smiled her contentment up at her husband, Sansa
immediately ate her joy.
He was looking at her as if his intent were to kill. Although she could not
determine whom, precisely.
After only a moment Lady Lannister snapped out of her concern and once again
turned to the crowd wearing an approachable smile. For all to see she looked
impeccable next to her equally impeccable husband. They were indeed a force,
even without words or a measure of warmth, and that truth was undeniable.
Upon studying the room, Sansa noticed a definite lack of northern
representation, but it was to be expected. Stannis Baratheon was making
stability impossible for Lord Bolton and his banners. Even though the North was
once again in the better graces of regency, Sansa was not at all upset that
they were too busy being besieged by snow and another King to allow their
attendance.
Spring...
With an extravagant flourish of opening doors and the broad sound of announcing
horns, those who had been waiting were finally ushered into the hall to begin
the celebratory feast. Much like the meal at her own wedding this one consisted
of more courses than Sansa had interest or appetite for and a never-ending
procession of people garnering for Lord Tywin's favour.
Although, unlike their own wedding more than enough were seeking her favour as
well. In Sansa's opinion, another purposeful  change was in seating Tyrion well
away from her. Which despite the pomp, made even a royal feast seem rather
dull. Her only reprieve was when he would casually stroll by and they would
have reason to speak - however briefly, so as not to gain the attention of Lord
Tywin.
Inevitably, as is what happens when wine is preferred over actual sustenance,
it wasn't long before Sansa began to notice Tyrion's periodic stops were a
physical depiction of his elevating inibreation. One such occasion Sansa
watched her son approach with a gait that could only be called a toddle. While
she internally thanked him for being the reason for dismissing a thoroughly
drunken Tyroshi from her presence, she frowned at his sudden seriousness and
apparent indifference toward her as he continued on his wobbly journey. Moments
later, the Tyroshi abruptly left as well. 
She knew at that point the man seated beside her had made his presence known.
Sansa made no effort to turn in his direction, but when she felt a familiar
warmth about her ear and neck, her eyes closed without the benefit of her
mind's say-so. Tywin's voice rattled a path through her, from ear to abdomen,
and Sansa found the visceral confirmation of his body next to hers was
something sorely needed. So unexpected was that cut of truth, she let out a
deep lungful of air and felt the flesh at her nape prickle.
"Come, my lady."
When Sansa finally blinked her eyes open she found her husband standing in
front her, offering his hand. Gathering herself she was able to reply in a
voice that completely contrasted her tingling insides.
"Of course, my lord."
Tywin cupped her fingers lightly against his palm and helped her to her feet,
then felt those fingers slide into place over his forearm. He did not know why
he requested her company, and it was only as they were walking from the dais
that he realized he had to make a decision as to where they were going and what
they would do once there.
He was only mildly imbibing, but perhaps the small amount of wine was allowing
another part of him to dictate his actions...
No matter.
He chose a place at the far end of the room, near the servant's
entrance. There, in the recess beside the door, tucked behind heavy curtains
resided a small set of doors leading to a proportionately small balcony. The
doors were in place to exchange air and help maintain temperature within the
grand chamber when the amount of people talking influenced the amount of hot
air being produced. And, as Tywin flicked his serious glare around the endless
sea of those in attendance, he knew the doors would most certainly be open.
Her husband held back the thick drapery as an invitation for her to proceed.
She did, and found a lovely reprieve. Sansa stepped out onto a balcony that
would fit no more than six people and held a view of lower rooftops on the east
side of the castle grounds. Yet, what she noticed foremost was the quiet. Once
the curtain fell back into place, the humming volume of the festivities inside
was reduced to almost nothing. Although what was most pleasant to Sansa, what
prompted her to look out and lean on the railing, was the refreshing air. It
was well into the evening and it cooled her instantly. The cold was dry and she
smiled to see random flakes of snow swirling in front of her, glowing in the
light from the large windows above her, tiny glints of radiance in an otherwise
unremarkable night. 
The wintry atmosphere also showcased the error of leaving her cloak within. As
though on cue, Sansa found herself embraced on either side by the soft fur
interior of her husband's cloak, feeling the heat of him at her back. Tucking
the rich fabric and fur around her more securely, Sansa stood as close as she
could to Tywin without touching him. For a queer moment feeling as hesitant as
she had been on her own wedding night. 
Not so queer, she considered further. He had reverted to being silent again -
two words decidedly a torrent for him - and it only piqued her curiosity as to
why he had wished her join him in the first place... 
...determining her worth as a wife unable to provide the heir he needed...
Swallowing hard, Sansa tried to deliberate the surfacing dread that was
uncapped while unraveling a simple mystery. Using only her eyes, she peered
over the edge of the railing. The fall was far too short and wouldn't
necessarily kill her. She then concentrated on any movement behind her that
would indicate a strike, or any noise that might signify a blade...
There was nothing.
The pleasantness she felt in the quiet and the weather faded quickly. Equally
quick she made up her mind to turn and face him. If she was to suffer violence
or death or hatred of some kind she was going to do so head-long - as she had
always been forced to in the past. 
Looking up she could see him clearly, the illumination from the castle around
them no less radiant on skin as it was on snowflakes. He was peering out over
her head, stern in his way, but his eyes held a softness she could not be sure
was simply a trick of the light. When Tywin looked down at her though, his face
became pitched in shadows. No longer could she see his eyes, but what she could
see plain like daylight was the flex and movement of his jaw along the edges of
his silhouette. Which meant he was either about to speak... Or that he was
thoroughly livid.
Her breath quickened when she felt his fingers brush and drape around her
throat; she closed her eyes and prepared herself for what might be her final
moments. His fingers tightened, but only a fraction, and she felt warm breath
on her skin again.
Her own hitched in her throat.
What could have been a word or a growl from her husband was hacked to an abrupt
end by sharp piercing screams eminating from the other side of the curtain.
She was cold immediately and to the bone when Tywin spun away from her.
The sound of him unsheathing his sword was made louder by the quiet of the
balcony and caused her to flatten against the railing. He swung the curtains
aside and the noise of panic engulfed her, that sound itself a cause for alarm.
She could see him glance around methodically, then speak to the guards that had
followed them. It was only a matter of heartbeats before he rounded back
outside to her, and as he did so the curtain fell closed once more - taking the
with it the light and the majority of the chaos. 
Sansa felt him more than anything, his face no more than darkness now. His hand
cupped her jaw and pulled her cheek into his side whiskers. His mouth was next
to her ear and his voice was calm, but hurried.
"Guards will take you back. Listen." He pulled her in even tighter. "Talk to no
one. Stop for no one. Keep moving until you are inside our apartments. Bar the
door and tell Lyol the King is dead." He held her impossibly close then, his
voice almost urgent, and hissed, "Do you understand?"
She was stunned, struggling to push together the right set of words.
Tywin could not wait, he shook the hand that was on her, roaring in her ear,
"Sansa?! Do you understand?!"
"Yes, I... Tywin, yes... I understand..." Her shaky words tumbled out on their
own.
He spun around again, sword at ready out in front, his free hand extended back
gripping and ripping a hold on the tight fabric at the middle of her gown. Lord
Tywin pulled her along, keeping her right behind him until they were past the
curtain and standing in the bedlam of the ballroom. The first thing Sansa heard
was Cersei screaming for her father, the next was the clank and rush of armour
surrounding her.
There were eight men wearing Lannister red, swords drawn, facing out on every
side of her. She looked at Tywin and drew strength from the man who stood
strong amongst it all like a boulder in a raging river.
Lady Lannister nodded to her husband.
"Go," he barked at the lead sentry.
Watching his wife until she disappeared through the doors, disrupting the great
streams of people flowing out with her, Lord Tywin turned and walked back
toward the dais.
The Great Lion took control.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sansa found herself truly frightened when she was awoken both suddenly and
unpleasantly.
She had tried to stay awake and wait for her husband to return, but as the
minutes drifted to hours she fell asleep before the fire in the sitting room
and did not protest when she was gently herded to bed by her handmaid.
It was the deadliest hour of night and not only had the fire died in the small
hearth in her separate bedchamber, but the crash of noise from the sitting room
seemed louder inside the smaller room. She wriggled further under the coverings
and furs and kept her wide eyes on the door she could hardly see.
Nothing of a physical nature made its way inside, but the sporadic destruction
from the other room was deafening. When the more robust crashing subsided,
Sansa could hear angry muffled words and periodic cursing.
It wasn't curiosity that motivated her to leave the warmth and relative safety
of her bed, to don her robe and slippers and venture into the room that held
her husband, it was duty. Regardless of the reasons why, Lord Tywin was raining
terror onto himself and it was her responsibility to be there, to ease his
suffering. To even withstand it for him, and Lady Sansa was more than confident
she could do all of those things.
Sansa padded softly through the room walking around and over pages, books,
splinters of wood and broken glass, until she was standing at one end of the
ornate bench looking at the profile of her husband. He was sat on the floor,
his back against the large piece of furniture, legs stretched out in front of
him surrounded by wreckage and staring into the fire. There was no immediate
smell of wine and she knew his actions had been unleashed solely out of fury.
She also knew that her husband was not a grandfather grieving the loss of his
grandson, nor was he a subject grieving the loss of their king. He was an
engineer of outcomes, and what happened that night was not of his doing.
Her husband had been crossed and slighted earning his conscience yet one more
grudge and angle of suspicion, earning his endgame yet one more hurdle and
redirection. She could only assume - hope - that her personal deficiencies were
now less of a priority and perhaps he would not hate her to such a degree.
Tywin could see his wife in his peripheral. He could see her make a tentative
step toward him and his ire spoke on his behalf.
He pointed his finger at her with a force matching his bellow. "Don't
you dare touch me!" 
Sansa's body startled but the rest of her remained calm, moving no further than
where she had stepped. Instead of turning to leave she found herself slowly,
methodically clearing debris from the bench, and once a spot was open sat and
tucked her feet up and against her for warmth.
She waited. Sansa spoke not one word.
In the flickering firelight she watched Tywin's eyes shift left then right in
tiny increments, recalculating and rechanneling information and scenarios. He
was wheels and gears working in flesh and, despite the circumstances, it was
fascinating to witness.
She had touched on it before as she waited initially, that she felt more for
Tywin's loss of control than she did for the loss of Joffrey's life. It was
callous and so outside the comfort of who she knew she was, but she simply
could not will herself to care. Sansa felt a certain kind of freedom at the
death of this king. As though a heavy cloak had been lifted, and while the heft
of it being gone was a relief, it did nothing else. It was simply a burden no
longer there.
Her contemplation was interrupted by light circles being rubbed on the top of
her foot.
Looking toward the connection, she could see Tywin had casually draped his arm
over the length of the thickly padded bench and his hand had come to rest on
her slippered foot. He was not looking at her, the fire still held his
attention, but his fingers were curled around her ankle as his thumb worked a
steady rhythm.
Another cog in the mechanism that was Tywin Lannister.
When his thumb stopped moving, Sansa took the chance and slipped her own
fingers over his; he was still looking away, but deftly twined his own in and
around them. Ever so slowly, Sansa slid her feet off the sofa, her hand still
in his and stood, taking the few steps needed to be next to him.
His vision stayed on the wisping oranges, yellows, and reds in the hearth. But
when he felt his wife's knee and thigh sway into is upper flank and chest,
followed by the backs of her delicate fingers brushing from his temple to his
jaw, he had no other option than to close his eyes and let her.
She gently untangled their fingers and was careful to drape his arm on the sofa
again.
He could smell her, sweet and citrus and earthy. His eyes were closed, his body
was at ease, and it was the calm of her scent that kept them that way. Even
when he felt her kneel astride his thighs; even when he felt her fingers and
palms manipulate his neck and jaw to tilt his head back; even when her lips
came to rest over his - not kissing him, just resting there - he let her.
Her breath was a warm blanket and her body was the bed he wanted to sleep in
for a thousand years. Her fingertips were like butterflies, smoothing the lines
and creases in his brow, pushing out the trouble and replacing it with her
serenity. He could see, in his mind, the events of the night getting further
away, and instead of standing in blackness he saw the edges going white.
Every touch and caress Sansa applied to him was preceded with a pause. There
was no real hesitation in her hands, more like she was silently asking approval
to continue.
There was no protest in him, not even the tension she had felt earlier that
day. He was in a pliable state and she wanted nothing more than to mould him
into what she needed in that moment - what they both needed.
Moving her lips away and leaning back slightly, Sansa lightly swept her
fingertips over his brow, down his cheeks, around the back of his neck and
forward to the front. His eyes remained closed, but he let out a deep breath
and angled his head back further, exposing more of his throat to her.
She knew that part of him intimately. It was the part of him she would focus on
when they were initially wed, when she could not hold his gaze. It was the part
of him she grew to be eye level with. It was the part of him that she would
watch stretched out above her, rocking with her in a bodily rhythm when they
would lay together.
She found it beautiful and familiar.
He felt the fastenings of his collar being worked open, then there was a press
of warm softness and a light suction as the warmth pulled away. The white
that was at the edges of Tywins mind now formed a solid wall of heat and
arousal.
Every time Sansa placed her lips on the stubble-roughened skin in front of her
a steady tremor would vibrate through them. There was no noise, just the
feeling, and she could not stop the smile her mouth spread on him.
Tywin was purring. There was nothing else she could compare it to and no other
way she wanted to define it.
It made her happy.
It was a bright point in weeks of darkness. She leaned into him even more and
tucked her face against his day's growth of beard, absorbed his inner music and
embraced him for a second time. And this time, when his hands found her back
and held her close, she could feel his fingers digging in - trying for greater
purchase.
They stayed still and close for long minutes, neither moving nor speaking.
After a time, his wife stirred in his arms and spoke in a voice that sounded
like it came from within his own mind.
"Tywin..."
When he brought his head forward again and opened his eyes to focus, he thought
perhaps he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. She was made of the glow from
the fire, it surrounded her and she lived within it. He had to touch his
fingers to her neck and face just to prove his assumption false.
Sansa thought he looked as though he was in one of his walking-dreams, but his
eyes were clear and focused. The flecks of gold inlayed in the green were
dancing with the flames behind her, and she smiled at the fierce grace in front
of her. She swayed back, out of his touch, off his lap and stood, still smiling
down at her husband. Wordlessly asking him to follow her.
He did. Slowly. But for no other reason than his age was charging a revolt
against the vertical climb.
Once at full height, Tywin looked to Sansa. Her kind smile was still there and
her arm was extended, offering him her hand. He bit back his perpetual
suspicion, gave his hand over, watching her head turn and felt her body pull
him to their bedchamber.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
She undressed him slowly, one article of clothing at a time, his only help was
when she would lift his arms or tug an indication to raise his foot - like one
would to shoe a horse. By the time he was naked in front of her, he was also
incredibly hard.
He stood in wait, watching her calculate and decide every movement she made.
So beautiful.
When she backed away a few paces, Tywin assumed it was to further consider her
actions toward him, but when she started removing her own clothing his cock
jumped for every garment that fell until she was equally bare. He was
mesmerized by her breasts rising and falling, as high and deep as her breathing
dictated. Tywin remained mesmerized when they approached him, and especially
when they pushed against his body. Without a barrier between their skin, the
warmth felt earlier was now fully ignited.
"Turn around, Sansa," he said, his voice hushed and foggy.
She peered at him through heavy lids and turned her back to him as she was
bade. Tywin pulled her back and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face
in the thick auburn in front of him, growling in it when her arse churned back
on the hard cock nestled against it.
Tywin walked them to the side of the bed and his wife instinctively laid the
top half of her body on the plush coverings, her feet on the floor between his.
He bent himself over her, not on her, covering her body. He just wanted to feel
her, feel himself against her. He moved her hair aside and savoured the skin of
her neck. On his tongue her taste worked the same as his other senses - she
calmed him.
Tywin moved his head and rested his forehead between the blades of her
shoulders, let his hips roll lazily, and let his fingers wander. As with any
time his touch came in contact with the raised proof of cruelty on her back,
his jaw clenched.
Her scars were a testament of someone enduring an effort to kill them. Whipping
for the sake of correction was always found on flanks and thighs and the
backside. His wife carried marks down her spine and some at the base of her rib
cage. These are only inflicted for the purpose of damage and death, out of hate
and malice. He could not imagine the pain she had suffered because of it.
Sansa came back ever resilient.
It would be nice to wish that Sansa had no marks, no scars, and was allowed to
live as the happy child that left her home, but Tywin knew if that were the
case the woman cooing and moaning softly under him would be a completely
different entity - and he could not imagine that either.
Standing up, Tywin took in the sight of his wife bent and ready for him and his
mind started to blur.
Filthy and erotic were the wet lines of desire the tip of his cock drew over
the backs of her thighs and up over her arse. He was leaking in anticipation
and his need was now in command. He gently led his wife to straighten upright
again, then turned her toward him. He needed to taste her mouth, and by the
urgent reply to is kiss it was a need of his wife as well.
She kissed him so hard and so deep Tywin felt as though she were beckoning his
life right from its source - and found, in that moment, he would surely give
it. When she pulled away, he cupped her face to prevent her from straying far.
The corner of his lips twitched at the sight of her mouth rubbed red from the
coarseness of his skin.
It became her.
Tywin let his hands drift down her neck, over her collar to her breasts where
he kneaded and teased her nipples to hardened points, and reveled in her body's
buck at their sensitivity. It was as he was enjoying her breasts, holding and
cupping their weight that his mind acted on its own and thought of the other.
Sansa watched his face as his hands moved from her breasts, one settled on her
hip and the other came to rest on her belly. His eyes were sad, but only for a
heartbeat, then he looked at her directly. She couldn't confidently place his
emotion, but she knew well it was made of neither hate nor anger. She put her
own hand over his - it was petting little circles where a babe would grow - and
pulled away from him, tugging his hand as she went until they were both
comfortably situated on their bed.
He looked down at the loveliness beneath him and entered her slowly, savouring
the heat and slick tightness he had been away from for what felt like a
lifetime.
For far too long.
At the same time he filled her, he felt her fingernails bite into his shoulders
and heard what sounded like a pained hitch in her breathing. Tywin immediately
brought his face around to hers and saw the tears making their way down her
temples and into her hair. He pulled out and kept looking at her, but she would
not hold his gaze, just kept blinking out fresh tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely.
Tywin frowned at his wife and when he spoke, it was with a tone of impatience.
"Am I hurting you?"
Sansa shook her head, holding back the sobs that were struggling for release,
and again choked out, "I'm sorry."
Tywin kept his weight on his elbows and crawled up on his knees, her thighs
spreading wide and slack as he went. His arms encircled her head, his hands
rested in her hair at her crown - he was caging her body with his.
"Why are you sorry, Sansa?" He said it as carefully as he could.
She blinked her sad, worried eyes at him then and could not hold back the
breathy sob that preceded her words.
"Because, I killed him."
Tywin looked at her and felt a stab of absolute dread. His mind flashed with
images of claw marks on Joffrey's throat and his ears rang with Cersei's
accusations. Tywin was trying very hard not to give in to the anger that was
simmering just below the surface.
His face was stony, his eyes were livid, and his hands were slowly fisting in
her hair. "Who did you kill?" he seethed.
Tywin tried to recount their evening, trying to single out a time when she
would have the opportunity to become a gods-damned assassin. He also started
considering the best course of action. He could not allow this kind of scandal,
he simply could not. His attention then focused on her long pale throat and how
he could see her life pulse in it, and how he had always sought comfort there,
and how he had reveled in the taste of that beautiful, delicate expanse...
Tywin did not realize but he had started breathing faster, his heart was racing
to the point of discomfort. A sudden wave of cold resolve washed down him,
taking with it whatever intentions he was considering.
He loosened his grip and started stroking his thumbs in her hair, rasping low,
"Who?"
Sansa looked her husband squarely in the eyes. Eyes that were usually calm, the
ones that now flickered in anger, and she sobbed unbidden, "The baby."
Tywin forcefully let out the breath trapped in his lungs and felt his chest
ache. He dropped his forehead to rest between her breasts and tried to gather
himself, reassemble his composure.
"I know you're angry... with me..." she cried softly.
Tywin snapped his head up and stared at his wife with an intensity she
thought looked like anger.
"No," he croaked out. "Not angry... not the babe..." The last parts were a
mumbled whisper as his mind cycled through the images of her pale face bathed
in a cold sweat, her body bleeding next to him.
Wave after wave of blood.
It was all he would give her. Her husband would divulge no more than those few
words, leaving Sansa to piece his meaning together herself. She did though.
Looking up at him, his expression now recognized as concern and worry, the flex
in his jaw holding back something other than annoyance, his eyes staring
straight at her but lost all the same.
Blinking her tears away and sniffling in tiny hitches, Sansa moved one hand up
and gently placed her fingertips on his lips. She was not even sure of the
gesture's meaning herself, perhaps it was to believe that he wasn't angry with
her for failing him. Perhaps it was to ensure she interpreted him correctly and
needed to do so by touching where the words had come from.
Tywin closed his eyes, inhaled slow and deep through his nose and leaned his
mouth into her fingers.
It was neither a confirmation nor declaration, but it was real.
Sansa brought her other hand around to the back of his neck and tugged him down
to her. He flattened himself over her again, and when he felt her fingers move
from his lips to his nape as well he burrowed his face in the sweet curve of
porcelain that defined where her shoulder met her neck.
The weight of him on her was the kind of crush that was welcomed. It was
commanding and felt safe. The warmth it generated was secondary to the claim it
had on her.
She felt one of his hands move from the top of her head, trace its way down her
body and wriggle to a spot beneath her, just above her arse on her lower back.
When his wife danced patterns with her fingertips down and over his neck, Tywin
let go of his tightly coiled inner strain and responded by grinding himself
into her. It was an effort to relieve her tension as well; one that was
determined successful by the way Sansa rocked her hips slowly.
The white-hot pool of arousal and desire once again stirred between them.
They bedded slowly that night, each chasing the others monster away.
Every touch she laid upon him was replied with his lips being placed upon her.
Every sigh was answered with a moan, and every movement helped to build a
crescendo. They were as close as they could be to one another, her legs wrapped
tightly around his waist and back, his hands still holding her crown and her
lower back. Neither made the effort - nor wanted - to create distance.
These moments were hard-fought treasures.
For each of them, these were different instances: beauty amongst horror, peace
amongst chaos. However, for the individuality both Lord and Lady Lannister took
from their intimacy, it was the fact that it was shared that made it
extraordinary.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin was resting, his eyes drifting closed, one hand propped behind his head,
the other settled in the softness of skin on Sansa's hip and backside. The
corner of his mouth twitched every time his fingers tickled her with the
patterns they were drawing.
She was sprawled to the middle of his chest, a riot of auburn engulfing his
torso almost entirely. It was the best way to be burned alive, he thought. It
was a warmth that also made him drowsy.
"Do you think she cursed me?"
Her despair had long since left and her subtle hardness was back in place,
dictating her emotions. It wasn't a vague question, sadly. Tywin knew what she
was referring to immediately - whether or not her mother's wishes had become
truth.
"No." It was not what he wanted to talk about, but it had to be addressed - as
was evident by her gross misinterpretation of his actions. "The healthiest of
women bleed out babes only to carry successfully."
His voice was sober, but distant.
"Did Lady Joanna?"
Sansa was fiddling her own patterns into the hair on his stomach. She felt the
slight hiccup in her husband and knew she had made him wince.
"Yes," he said. He didn't sound distressed in the slightest. "Both before and
after she bore twins."
Sansa was just about to ask another question or make another statement when he
cut her off after the first syllable.
"Enough. Sleep." He gripped her hip and backside tighter then took a deep
breath and tried not to sound as exhausted as he truly was. "Please."
Sansa nodded into his chest before pushing herself somewhat upright. Reaching
long, she pulled various coverings toward them, where Tywin took over when they
were within his own reach. He took care to cover her as she rested back to the
position she as in, on top of him.
It would do. She would keep him warm, he would not turn her away again.
He took another deep breath. It was all the death in conjunction with his
family he had a mind for that night. The following days and moons would surely
prove their own challenges in that regard.
The first of which would be informing his wife of Tyrion's arrest.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
                                        
***** Winter III *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Every accusation thrown, every witness so obviously bought and paid for were
painful to experience. Sansa felt as though she were living the frustration
Tyrion refused to show and absorbing the hate his father was displaying openly.
It was tangibly affecting her, draining her completely and sometimes driving
her to physical illness.
To clear her mind she had taken to bundling against the bitter winds and
walking the battlements topping the Tower of the Hand. It had the added reward
of being away from the excruciating drama below… and allowed her to plan.
Tywin wanted Tyrion to take the Black in order to save House Lannister the
embarrassment of an execution.
Ridiculous.
However, the more she thought about it, that ridiculousness could very well
work to her advantage. If Tyrion were to make it to the North she might have a
better chance to use her name - her old name, she amended - and garner his
freedom on the road to the Wall. Jon was another angle. They were never close,
and he would probably have little to no use of her begging for favour, but as
Lord Commander of the Night's Watch surely he would find more need and use of
gold than the pledge of one man - one half of a man, she once again amended.
She would have no hope of freeing Tyrion from King's Landing as she did her
mother. Lord Tywin had been keeping her close, requiring her presence for each
moment of trial. He took every meal with her, worked almost exclusively within
arm's length and kept her by his side regardless of the messengers or meetings
that had become his urgency since the death of the boy-king and the crowning of
the child-king.
In truth, so much time together had earned him her worry. His work ethic
reminded her of a warhorse - born and bred to outlast, outmaneuver and outmatch
all other horses. But even the most remarkable of horses will die mid-stride if
not allowed to rest. She had taken to feigning the want of intimacy in order to
get him to bed. Once there, doing no more than kissing and touching him, she
would rub her fingers and hands against his tense muscles until he succumbed to
sleep.
The not-quite-consequence of her ruse had been the more than a few times she
had woken up to him pleasuring her and grumbling about knowing her game. In
those times - she smiled to herself at the thought - Sansa feigned absolutely
nothing.
Breathing deep the cold, crisp air, Sansa inhaled until her chest hurt and her
teeth ached. This pain was more a comfort. It felt like home.
The rattle and clank of armour took her from her musings, the frozen joints and
points of movement making the metal yawn and protest more than usual. Scarcely
turning her head toward the sound, she first saw a white cloak and her body
tingled as the heat she was conserving drained. It was a reaction she could not
will herself out of even when she recognized the golden hair and the equally
golden hand, but she hid it well, returning her focus to the view of King's
Landing.
Ser Jaime did not acknowledge her distress. He came to a stop near her side and
instead spoke with a voice like his father's. The exception being that the son
wore a smile so forced that it confirmed to Sansa every reason why her husband
rarely, if ever, trusted them.
"My lady," he began. Even a simple greeting from him sounded like a brittle
attempt at sincerity.
Sansa did not know Ser Jaime prior to his return, prior to his injury, beyond
his name and cursory introductions when she was betrothed to Joffrey. They
spoke only briefly throughout the trial, never more than a few words or
sentences, normally when Tywin had instructed him to be an escort to his wife.
What they did know of each other, the primary element that allowed them to talk
at all, was their united opinion of Tyrion's innocence.
She was confident in her assumption it was for that reason he sought her out.
"Ser Jaime," she replied still looking out over the city. Yet, however
distracted her concentration seemed, her address was polite.
He stepped closer, prompting Sansa to not only look at him but take an
unconscious side-step further away, providing a distance adhering to what she
felt was decent. They may have been about to speak on a matter close to her
heart, but Ser Jaime did not necessarily have her trust - at least not outside
conversations pertaining his brother. Not that she trusted anyone outside of a
few people who could be counted with less than the fingers on one hand...
Sansa glanced at the golden hand hanging heavy at the knight's side and
suffered an absurd cut of guilt. As though her thoughts were spoken out loud,
she shook her head at the foolishness in her.
Ser Jaime sighed loudly at her display and spoke over her muddled attention.
"This is a convenient ploy, my lady," he offered, glancing around the
battlements with a type of disgust that seemed naturally bred into him.
Their unknown time constraints meant he would be getting straight to the point
and turned serious then. Such an effect painted on Ser Jaime gave Sansa a low-
strung anxious feeling.
"Do you really think my father will allow Tyrion to take the black? Even if
that is what he chooses?"
Her brow pinched at Ser Jaime's puzzle of words as her jaw clenched and she
looked away to fully absorb his allusion. Sansa then suitably reprimanded
herself for not anticipating that approach herself.
Bloody fool.
Any plans she secured would be for naught if Tyrion did not make it to the
North in the first place. She spoke as her thoughts lingered on the impossible.
"Do you really think..."
Sansa did not have to finish for Jaime to know she did not want to believe his
father would rid himself of his youngest son through a mishap on the journey
north.
If not the father, tha n the sister.
Jaime nodded his affirmation to her and watched as it made her swallow hard.
Her eyes held a saddness, he could see that plainly, and found he did not like
it.
But they had no time for sentimentality.
"You must talk to my father, Lady Sansa."
He could have been pleading if he did not revert back to looking so arrogantly
smug.
She was brought out of her thoughts and immediately narrowed her eyes at Ser
Jaime. This was what she was waiting for: the favour, the pledge, the want, no
different than those who begged for it at court. An avenue to Lord Tywin
through his lady wife.
"You can't think Lord Tywin will care for my opinion in this matter."
Her voice was as icy as the weather they were standing in. She did not owe this
man anything, their only connection was their mutual care for Tyrion.
The Kingslayer abandoned whatever humour he was clinging to, his face shifted
to solemn remembrance and he spoke softly, like a young boy.
"I don't remember much about my mother." His eyes flicked a glance over her
head. "Tiny details here and there." Shifting his weight from foot to foot he
reaffirmed his boyish demeanour, and said, "The occasional scene from my
childhood."
Ser Jaime wore a smile then that was more thoughtful than mocking, and Sansa
conceded that it was this kind of seriousness that made the golden knight a
character straight out of the songs. 
As though her thoughts were brightly coloured illustrations, Ser Jaime widened
the smile she liked and continued, "What I do recall, quite vividly in fact,"
his smile faltered, yet his thoughtful look deepened, "is the way my father
looked at her."
It was almost a whisper.
It almost broke her heart.
Sansa waited for him to continue. He looked at her with her husband's eyes,
with facial features that could have been Tywin's own decades ago, with a smile
she had to imagine lived in the Great Lion somewhere.
"He looks at you the same way." Jaime's eyes flashed a look of melancholy,
then, just as fast, a look of something else. Admiration perhaps. Maybe hatred.
Jaime Lannister, like everyone else Sansa had met in the South - since she was
forced to look at people with better eyes than she had in the North - guarded
his truth behind a mask. Although his, in Sansa's opinion, was one of the
flimsier she had seen. However, as she considered the man further, it seemed
perhaps that after his ordeal he was becoming a different version of himself.
And much like her own journey, even since she was first married, this was
simply one stage of the transition.
She smiled kindly at him.
There were no more words between the knight and the lady, the sound of
approaching hardened leather soles, made harder by the freezing temperature,
caught their attention.
She knew the point Jaime was making, she understood the comparison. She also
knew he was right, she had the best and most advantageous opportunity to speak
and to be heard by Lord Tywin.
She had both a duty and a debt to Tyrion to try.
Sansa kept her smile and let her focus drift to the figure emerging behind Ser
Jaime. 
Tywin did not return her smile. He never did, not truly, but she liked the way
his eyes lost some of their rigidity when he looked at her. Mayhaps that was
the way he looked at Lady Joanna, she smiled brighter toward her husband at the
thought.
"Jaime." Tywin either failed to notice, or merely didn't care that the two
people he walked amongst may have been in conversation, continuing, "King
Tommen is sitting court. I want you there as well."
Jaime reapplied his arrogant smile and turned to his father. "Yes, a lion to
bolster a kitten. Of course."
Tywin did not address his son's twaddle with words. His look, however, seethed
his castigation.
With a horrendously exaggerated turn and bow, Jaime excused himself from
Sansa's presence then pivoted on his heels and drawled long and sarcastically
as he passed his father, "Hear me roar..."
Sansa wore a look of slightly grim embarrassment as she watched the Lord
Commander leave. When he was gone, she turned to view the city once more.
Tywin watched her throughout. Watched her response to the Young Lion, looking
for something, anything, but finding nothing.
"And what did my son want?"
Sansa turned her head toward her husband, her look now pensive.
"He only just joined me when you arrived." It was almost the truth. Though, by
the stony resolve in his eyes, it was not enough information for Lord Tywin.
"Looking for air, I suppose." Her words fell flat as she regarded the city once
more.
He scoffed at her, "I'm sure."
Tywin observed her further. The winter sun made her squint, it also made the
blue of her eyes lighten to grey.
From Tully to Stark with an icy change in the weather. Fitting. But it was her
hands that caught his true attention. He was sure they were warm in the gloves
he had had crafted for her as they rested, almost floated, on the cold stone in
front of her. He did not know what prompted him to place his own gloved hand
beside hers, but he did. It was large in comparison, long and delicate to
scale.
He scoffed again, this time at his own asinine frivolity, and took in the same
view as his wife.
It was a handful of minutes before he felt a warm pressure against his arm.
Sansa had taken to doing that, leaning on him. It wasn't anything heavy, he was
positive it looked like nothing more than his wife standing close. It was, he
was sure, more so a reassurance of his presence - or perhaps a reassurance of
hers.
Without looking, he turned the hand closest to her palm-up and slipped it under
hers. His mouth twitched as he felt her fingers twine into place, and her body
lean into him harder.
Reassured indeed.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
She waited until they had supped and were sitting at their desk to approach
Tywin in regard to Tyrion. Jaime's words had an impact, and Sansa found herself
again trying to fathom the callous disregard a father could have for a son in
relation to her own family, the task making her feel dizzy and distracted.
"Would you prefer to be elsewhere?"
When Tywin's serious voice was edged in irritation it could gain the attention
of the deaf.
She blinked at him, embarrassed to be caught out. "Apologies, my lord, no."
Her voice was sincere, but still distracted and Tywin did not need any special
skill to know toward whom his wife's attention was pointed.
"If he is as smart as he says, he will take the Black and be done with it."
Her husband was firm, but he afforded Sansa something that could be taken as a
softened look. One she returned thoughtfully, hopefully, and readied herself
for the words she needed to speak.
"He will die in the North. You know that."
Tywin's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he inspected his wife,
determining whether he truly comprehended what she was saying. It was an odd
feeling not to be sure of his instinct. She was too clever to willingly
disclose the information he needed to confirm his suspicion, but he was no fool
either. Her wiles worked only on those who did not have an intimate knowledge
of her - everyone other than him.
"If that is his fate, so be it," he replied coolly.
He was fascinated by the slight pull of her brow and subtle working of her jaw.
Tywin did not like to see his wife wear his attitude wholly, but when the
actions were subtle it made him feel light.
Sansa spoke softly, but with a seriousness that had become her own. "You can't
mean that."
"I do," he answered casually, without hesitation.
Tywin looked at his wife. Her posture was one of disappointment and it affected
him. He did not like to be second guessed in the most general of circumstances,
but to be doubted by Sansa felt like a physical blow. As such, when a perceived
strike landed no different than a perceived slight, his face hardened to a
scowl and it triggered his ire.
"Why are you choosing to be so blind, Sansa?" He pulled his brow down even
further. "As Tyrion lives and breathes, he will always taint House
Lannister." His eyes were made of stone then, his voice turned dark, and he
said, "I cannot disinherit him, it would prove weakness. Do you understand?"
Sansa did understand, although she did not agree. She had to try and save her
friend from wrongful guilt and certain death.
"Exile him," she said, letting her idea speak on its own. "Send him across the
sea. Bury him in a foreign land, but at least allow him to live."
Tywin's keen eyes narrowed to a point and his tone rang absolutely deadly. "He
has been brought to trial for murdering the King, and you want the Hand of the
King to not only allow him to escape, but provide the means as well?"
"No, my lord." Sansa's tone was wholly neutral. "I am making an inquiry to a
father who has the means to save his son."
Sansa watched her husband's features sink to a depth signifying total fury.
"That thing you call my son has a penchant for whores," he snarled at her,
cocking his head slightly he continued, "Mayhaps his taste has extended to that
of noble ladies." He watched his wife jolt her chin back, her eyes gaining
their own fiery fury at the insult of his words. Tywin curled his lip and
growled, "Exactly, what was it you did with him in your godswood?"
The cruel, demeaning words hit her as fast and as hard as her palm struck the
place of their origin.
Heartbeats were the extent of time it took for both of them to stand. Tywin did
not reach out or physically touch his wife, but he used the bulk of his body to
pace her backward until she came to a painful halt. Running herself full-tilt
into a side door of the sitting room. He slammed each of his palms on either
side of her head and brought his face no more than a hands width away from
hers. It was as if he were taunting her to strike him again.
"How dare you," she breathed at him, full of her own version of rage.
Tywin seethed, "How dare you."
Her voice was almost whispered, her eyes remained trained on his, each word was
accentuated. "He is your son-"
Still in her face, still caging her in, Tywin Lannister became brutal. "Your
broken womb sloughing out my child does not make you a mother, it makes you
a failure. And hardly an authority on raising children."
The tears, disgust, and defeat he was expecting from the girl in front of him
were nowhere to be seen.
His words should have cut her open. Her husband slung them like a blade and he
meant them to injure. She should have been doubled over and bleeding tears, but
she couldn't. Sansa was too caught up in the face of the man trying to inflict
damage on her. Time ticked to something unmoving and Sansa could see clearly
that with every word that left his mouth, Tywin's eyes filled with pain. That
with every attempt to verbally strike her down, he was crumbling twice as hard
and twice as deep.
He was destroying himself unknowingly because he himself was hurting.
Stoicism reflected in her words. "He didn't murder her, Tywin."
His jaw snapped shut and Sansa could see the muscles working under the skin
there. In an instant the pain in his eyes turned to wrath and he brought his
hand back behind him, swinging it forward again in a large vicious arc. He
struck the heavy wooden door with so much force, Sansa's ears rang and she
bounced slightly from the impact.
However, when she focused again, his teeth were bared, his face twisted in
rage, but his eyes were utterly dismal.
Her forehead pinched slightly in concern and, at the same time, her hand
reached out and settled on his cheek, rubbing a little bit onto his
whiskers. She had expected him to fling her hand away, at the very least balk
at her sentimentality. Instead his brows raised high as his every feature
contorted with aching sadness.
Using no more than pressure at her fingertips, Sansa pulled his head toward her
and let him find his own peace by burrowing his face into the bend at the base
of her neck. She could hear his breath huffing, feel the hot puffs warming her
through her gown, and she brought her other hand up and stroked the back of his
neck.
Tywin's palms came off the door and caressed her upper arms lightly. His wife
replied to his touch by stroking his neck with a heavier hand and pulling him
into her warm inviting skin. He wanted to stay there, it was where he felt free
and unburdened. Like he used to with Joanna...
No, he corrected himself, they were two very different women and he felt
differently with each... But the end result was the same.
It was the same and he hated himself for allowing it.
Sansa felt her husband's body wrench severely. His position did not change;
however, he coughed out a sound that prompted her to hold him even closer,
tighter. It wasn't a sob of sorrow or anything pertaining to tears, it was as
though his body forced out a lungful of bitterness and anguish, expelling his
hurt.
They stood like that, in a position of solace, for what could have been days.
Neither cared.
It was Tywin who finally moved. He nudged his forehead along her jawline and up
her cheek, like a cat seeking attention, but it was accompanied with a keening,
throaty noise signifying frustration.
When he pulled away from her she could see the same hurt in his eyes from
before as they passed her field of vision. When he stood to full height he
tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, and when he made the slow return to
look at her again, his mouth held a scowl while his eyes were now frozen in
seriousness.
She felt him start to break contact, so she gripped tight the sleeves connected
to the arms and hands that were once holding her.
"No." Was all he said, emotionless.
Sansa let him go, let him turn and leave, knowing her attempt to save Tyrion's
life had been fruitless.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
She is standing in the outer ward. Except, instead of dirt and sawdust under
her, it is hot sand. Her feet are almost burning in the crimson slippers that
cover them.
The sun is golden and bright, there is a cool breeze but there is no snow. It
isn't winter this time, and there is no one populating the audience pavilions.
"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
The words are echoing around her, but there are no walls from which they can
bounce. The longer she waits, the louder they ring.
She is frightened; she can feel that burn at the core of her.
She wants to run, but when she attempts to raise her foot it is as though it is
made of lead and keeps her rooted.
"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
The sand around her feet begins to vibrate. The small mounds and tiny dunes are
flattening as sheets of grains are quaking out in the same rhythm as the
vibrations.  The intensity of the shaking is increasing and it is a sudden
ominous realization that it isn't emanating from the ground, but it's a
physical force getting closer.
"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
She is concentrating on trying to move her now burning feet when a shadow
covers her. Looking toward the shade, she strangles out a scream at the giant
in front of her.  The mountain of a man is clad in plate made of flesh and bone
- some fresh, some old, all putrid and festering.
And he is getting closer.
"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
The words sound like they are singing about her, a battle cry or a prayer hymn.
She isn't sure which, but the giant is almost on her and her feet are still
anchors.
As the monster gets closer, his shadow gets colder. She can see her breath and
wisps of snow.
It's only a moment that she is distracted by the comfort of the familiar
weather, but it is all that's needed for the rancid giant to be on her. He
doesn't even stop to consider her, he clasps his fist around her throat and her
head is tilted all the way back just to accommodate the massiveness. He's not
squeezing, but he lifts her, her anchors nothing more than toys, and brings her
close to his helm.
At this proximity she can see the teeth and hair and bits of skin and meat
built into the horrible armour. It makes her retch, but her head is at such an
angle that the sickly spasm is denied exit and settles as a pain in her chest.
"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
Her mouth is moving. The words are hers.
"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."
She feels rage and sorrow building inside her and it gives her strength and
takes it away, equally.
"You raped her. You murdered her. You kill-"
The fist holding her tightens and she has to strain the muscles in her neck
just to swallow air into her lungs.  At the same time the abomination is
leaning in to her, his grip is constricting further.
"Elia of Dorne."
The booming voice rattles her teeth.
"I killed her screaming whelp."
She feels the carnage-coated gauntlet biting into her flesh.
"Then I raped her."
Stabbing white points of light start hindering her vision, her lungs are
burning for air.
"Then I smashed her fucking head in like this..."
She feels a shift in their position, watches the shadow stretch back and poise
to strike. She's choking on the blood she can taste in her mouth and her hands
are clawing at the viscous gore covering the beast's face.
In a beautiful, terrible instant her fingers find a seam, leverage to pull, and
she yanks with everything she's made of, her nails breaking and ripping out
with the effort, but the cover is free and gone.  The blood-helm removed, she
will face the monster so eager for her death.  She forces her eyes wide so she
can see past the strangulation, and the eyes that stare back are green.
Green with flecks of gold.
She can feel herself weeping, hot tears contrasting the cold of Tywin's shadow.
He smiles at her, and for the briefest of heartbeats she thinks he has
recognized his mistake.
"The prince was not hers to marry."
Her wide eyes capture the quick movement of the impossibly large fist that is
about to end her life-
Gasping for air and sitting upright, Sansa could feel herself shaking as the
fog of sleep slowly rolled off her. The vivid dream was drying up as well,
blowing away into the dust of the awake, but the residual fear and horror were
what was making her tremble in the dark of their bedchamber.
Their bedchamber.
She cautiously turned her head toward the man laying next to her, quietly
letting out a breath of relief at his continued sleep. She could not fathom
seeing his eyes. Not yet, not even in the dark of the room. There was enough
light with the full moon in the window she would have surely seen her
nightmare.
The sack of King's Landing was something she knew in passing. Something neither
her father, nor anyone else, expanded on except to say it was a barbarous
necessity to crown a new king. So when she absently mentioned it to Tywin after
witnessing the atrocious death of one man and listening to the painfully slow
demise of a second for the sake of the death of a third, she expected no more
than what she had been told previously.
A queasiness emerged from the pit of her stomach at the thought of the
details, of the truth, he had told her. He would not lie and asked her
pointedly if she wanted to hear what he had to say. She should have known
better.
She did know better, and that was worse.
Tywin Lannister was a ruthless, cruel man, who cared no more for babes and
princesses than he did for the smallfolk shredded to tatters in the Riverlands.
Sheep.
"The prince was not hers to marry."
Another truth he told of the matter. One that Sansa easily, horribly stitched
into the reality of her husband's motivations. Another slight, known to those
who caused it or not, was another debt to be paid, which created even more debt
which was ultimately paid by the charming prince.
More blood.
It was always blood, death and misery. They were the currency of vengeance.
Traded commodities as valuable as gold, silver and copper. More so, some would
say, because life is something precious, priceless. Sansa knew differently
though, she knew that vengeance cheapened everything it touched, even the lives
involved. The vengeance she had allowed in the name of her family had cheapened
her own life, but it was a burden she carried willingly.
And that was the crux of it: how you bore that weight of responsibility.
Her father bore the onus of reprisal as a cloak. He wore it for all to see, in
his face, in his actions, in the way he raised his children. Eddard Stark
walked the steps of retribution, only to turn around and face his own. Whether
it was by making amends to families, or by owning the guilt by adding another
layer to his ever-weighted cloak.
Her husband ate his revenge like a meal. He swallowed it, digested it, and
carried on without care or remorse. Tywin Lannister focused solely on the
actions he took, not the repercussions left in his wake, and that was something
of a tragedy. Every bite of harm and debt he consumed, consumed him in some
way.
But perhaps that was the natural course of retribution, she thought. In that it
had its own debts to be paid.
Her husband...
She should be horrified of the man with whom she shared a bed, with whom she
laid with - so full of want and desire when she did. She should be horrified of
herself for not only giving her mind and body so willingly, but for taking of
his with the same amount of passion. But every time she felt something new,
even outside physical intimacy or gained knowledge and secrets, she found she
wanted, needed, more... And her husband was the only person who could provided
what she sought.
Her dream rounded on her again, the bestial giant in the midst of killing her.
She did not know what to make of it, but what she did know was that if she
squandered her focus on a dream she would have a thousand scenarios of equal
validity and be no closer to defining it. The only thing she would gain would
be distance; distance from properly protecting herself from the very real, very
deadly nightmares that walked around her every day.
Closing her eyes again, she concentrated on breathing, on clearing her mind, on
how she could see Tyrion before...
Her eyes shut tighter at the thought of losing one more person she cared
for. When she blinked them open, her vision naturally adjusted to her dim
surroundings and she shifted her attention to the large window with the soft
white light shimmering through it.
The weather was bitterly cold that day and it had carried into the night,
making the moon even brighter.
Then she caught it.
At the berm of the luminous wedge of light was a form.
With stabs of fear and panic rocking through her, Sansa fought back her
instinct to scream at the intrusion of whatever was with them in the privacy of
their bed chamber. It wasn't moving, which gave her a chance to scrutinize it.
She resolved that if there was motion, she would alarm the deadly man sleeping
next to her.
All at once, the pieces assembled into recognition - the height, the golden
curls... Tyrion...
But now she was confused, she had watched him being lead to the black cells...
It was her choice to spectate the trial by combat, Tywin did not give her a
directive either way, but she had to be there for Tyrion. Even if it meant
sitting at a point midway between each side of the trial, in a position made to
look impartial, with the man, his father, who categorically doomed him.
She was starting to make out the finer details as her mind registered the
features she knew by heart. The moonlight was glittering in Tyrion's eyes,
mismatched as they were, and his mouth was a small solemn line. He was looking
at her, she could see that as well. However, his posture was not casual or even
tensed in anger. He looked readied, but she was unsure if that was an accurate
interpretation because half of him was bathed in black shadow.
Until another kind of glittering caught her attention. It was duller than the
radiance of Tyrion's eyes, but just as lethal.
He held a crossbow, pointed barebow in her direction. The string in its catch,
she could see the bolt from tip to fletching. Sansa knew this weapon
intimately, she had been tormented and threatened with one for so long.
So long ago.
They just stared like that, neither moving nor making a sound.
Tyrion knew she could easily call for help, he half expected it. He did not
want to hurt her, she had to know that, his aim was the man at her side. He had
been fueled by a peerless hate and need for vengeance to reach the point where
he stood at the end of his father's bed, but when Sansa sat up, obviously
distressed from a dream, his resolve faltered.
It was as if his mind forgot she would be there, wrapped up in his furor as he
was.
Her eyes were wide, but calm. He could see the blue in them. As dark as the
night and room were, her eyes caught even the vaguest of light and it allowed
them to radiate as though it were the brightest of days.
But she did not move.
Not even when he watched his father's hand come up beside her and stroke a
tender path from her shoulder to her elbow, then move to rest over her hands
sitting folded on her lap.
But she did not speak.
Not even when he heard his father's sleep-addled voice arise from a point
behind her.
"Sansa, you're alright, love. You're safe."
Tyrion watched Sansa's breathing deepen only a fraction as she remained silent
and unmoving.
Love.
Tywin only said it to her when he was teetering on either side of sleep. Sansa
initially thought he was mistaking her for Joanna and that the endearment was
meant for a ghost, but it became quite clear that he was addressing her when
his words would be accompanied by her name and a touch, or a kiss. It was
special to her and she kept each instance locked away inside of herself. This
time... This time there was nothing but unease. 
Sansa felt Tywin's hands curl around hers a bit tighter before he spoke in his
groggy voice again.
"Come, lay down. You're shivering in the cold."
Sansa didn't want to take her eyes off Tyrion, did not want to be left
unknowing, but she was well aware that if she stayed upright her husband would
wake fully and rise as well.
Her choice made, Sansa laid back slowly, letting the hand resting at her middle
guide her descent. It was that same hand that tucked itself around her fully
and pulled her into the warm body beside her. She turned to her side, away from
Tywin, and allowed him to fit against her; coiled tight and possessive, as he
was apt to do.
She could make out the arm Tywin had under her head and grabbed for it. Pulling
it to bend naturally at the elbow, it now draped down the front of her and she
found herself hugging it tightly. More tightly than she normally would, but she
couldn't stop her need to do so.
It was fear, and she was torn.
Sansa knew that Tyrion had suffered at the whim of his father, she understood
his disdain, but she never thought he would be pushed to kill, pushed
to become Tywin.
Her next thoughts were selfish and necessary. If Tywin died, she would again be
a ward of the realm - of the Queen. Regardless of what name she was married to
she would always be a Stark, and without the husband who erased that name,
Sansa was as good as dead herself.
At that, a pang of panic rippled to her belly and she held onto him fiercely.
She could feel his fingers tighten in the thick fabric of her nightgown, a
response to her frantic clutching, and with it came another pang, this time of
sobering comprehension. She did not want Tywin Lannister - her husband - to die
either.
There was a tired growl in her hair. "Are you quite alright?"
She was not. All she could see in her mind's eye was a bolt and fletching
highlighted in the glow of the moon.
She let go of his arm and turned, with some effort, in his tight embrace until
she was facing him in the dark. Sansa could not find any words, but felt she
had to move quickly. Placing her palm against his shoulder she pressed to
indicate he was to turn onto his back.
"What do you want-" he snarled, but was cut off by her quiet urgent protest.
"Please," she squeaked, pushing harder.
No sooner was he on his back than she was overtop him like one of the many furs
already piled on them. Tywin huffed and groaned his annoyance and pain. Her
climb was hurried, scratching in places, pressing uncomfortably in others,
prying at and adjusting her bedgown to accommodate her move. There was no rest
until her knees were on either side of his waist, her arms were tucked against
his sides and her face and head were nestled firmly into the side of his neck.
...as good as dead herself...
It was only after Sansa's breathing calmed to something near normal that Tywin
grouched, "What is wrong with you?"
"I-I'm afraid." It was the truth whispered into his skin.
...as good as dead herself...
She rose and fell with his deep inhale and exhale, then felt fingers gently
stroke their way under her braid to the back of her neck.
"This will not be a habit."
The statement was curt and sounded angry, but the touch on her skin spoke
differently so she listened to the latter.
Yet she did not sleep, even when Tywin's own slumber became hypnotizing. Not
until the morning light replaced the moonlight, when her eyes burned and could
not stay open any longer.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
How long she slept, she could not discern. She remembered being woken slightly
when Tywin calculated how best to remove her from his body and being carefully
tucked in once he was successful. Outside that, her sleep was heavy and her
dreams were nonexistent.
When Sansa finally woke, it looked like evening again and upon inquiring to a
maid that had been seated and waiting in a small alcove by the fireplace, her
suspicion was confirmed.
"It's just past supper, m'lady." Her maid talked as she bathed and dressed her
charge. "Lord Tywin said to let you sleep." The maid plaited her hair and
didn't miss a beat, adding, "And make sure someone was here, waitin' at the
ready."
Sansa's thoughts went to Tyrion and her heart grew heavy and ashamed. She would
not have been able to watch him die, but she should have honored him by
being awake, at the very least.
As she flicked her eyes to the place where she saw him standing the previous
night, she seriously considered his presence could have been a dream. Perhaps a
walking-dream of her own. However, the reality she confirmed, just as blood
flowed in her veins, was that he had been there. That he had been armed, and
that she and Tywin still lived.
Tyrion...
She remained withdrawn through the familiar tugs and pulls of her hair. She had
been wearing it down more in the cold weather and was somewhat disappointed
when the routine ended quicker than usual. But as Sansa stood, her maid
produced a long rectangular paper parcel and held it out.
"M'lord wanted you to open it first thing."
It was then that she realized there had been no gossip. Her maids were silent
in the presence of her husband, but they knew they had a woman looking for
companionship in their lady. They weren't friends, but Sansa's maids were not
afraid to speak in front of her, or to her.
"Deena," Sansa ventured, ensuring her words were soft and welcoming. "What of
Lord Tyrion?"
She watched her maid's face fall to a look of gravity. So much so, the other
woman's eyes dropped to her feet. The change in demeanour spoke louder than
words: threats had been made. It raised more questions than it answered, and
suddenly the additional sleep seemed welcomed.
Lady Sansa took the gift with a gentle smile and dismissed her handmaid.
Sitting down again she examined the package more thoroughly. It was more than
one layer of thick parchment, like the type used for correspondence, folded on
each end with two crimson ribbons wrapped over each side and sealed at their
intersection with the Lannister seal pressed into a melted circle of thick,
golden wax. It was the same pomp Tywin used as the Hand of the King to
communicate with foreign royalty and higher standing lords and
dignitaries. There was also something in it. She could feel that with her
fingers, but the thickness of the paper made it impossible to identify what it
was exactly.
Setting it on the small table's hard surface, Sansa broke the seal and pulled
the ends of ribbons.
She was about to open the folds of paper when she had a white-hot wave of
panic.
Tyrion...
Her husband was many things, and more, but she had to believe he would not
torture her with some gruesome artifact of her friend. She had to believe.
Inhaling deep through her nose, Sansa opened the many layers of paper. And
while the contents were not horrific, they were frightening.
Wrapped neatly, in grand fashion, she had been gifted an extraordinarily
average crossbow bolt.
...as good as dead herself...
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Lyol met her in the sitting room and relayed Tywin's request that she meet him
in his solar. The steward would not defy his lord by speaking more than he was
commanded, but the look he carried in his eyes told a tale of worry - one that
Sansa smiled reassuringly at.
She had left her gift tucked away securely in her possessions. It was not a key
to admittance or discussion, so she kept it as a reminder... of a friend, of a
choice, and of a path taken by each of them.
When she entered the smaller room, she immediately noticed the roaring fire,
then the silent, brooding lion in front of it.
There was only a slight hesitation before she walked in further.
Tywin refused to look at her. The only acknowledgement he gave to her existence
was raising his hand and pointing to a chair that was positioned slightly askew
in front of him, silently commanding her to sit. Whether he was treating her
like this to leverage control or to simply insult her, she did not know, but in
the years of her marriage she knew well enough to not let it bother her.
Gestures were just that, and unless he moved to physically touch her, they held
no concern.
With that, she took the seat being offered and looked earnestly at the man
staring into the hearth instead of at his wife. He kept his eyes away and
addressed her degradingly.
"I have been either with you, or in you, so I know you didn't free him." Tywin
took a calming breath and kept his focus on the flames. "You saw him in our bed
chamber, didn't you?"
In her position on the chair, she was almost facing him, but she might as well
be in another room entirely. Her husband was stewing in his anger, and it made
it seem that he was talking through her.
She would not lie to him. She knew he knew the truth, and to deny it would be
unnecessarily complicated for both of them.
"Yes, I did."
Another hard-learned lesson was to only provide enough information as required
to answer a question. Sansa could have elaborated on where she saw him, at
approximately what time, and that he was armed, but it would only served to
spark Tywin's suspicion and add more questions to his agenda.
She watched his jaw work, and heard his teeth grinding - something he only did
when he was truly wroth.
He bared his teeth and gritted, "Why?"
There was no easy answer for that question - those questions. Why did she not
wake him? Why did she choose Tyrion over him? Sansa supposed it was the latter
question her husband had truly posed.
Tywin saved her any answer.
"You owed him nothing," he hissed, flicking his enraged eyes at her for only a
second.
Sansa looked down at her hands. She knew anything she said would not budge
Tywin in his opinion of Tyrion, but her husband's dour words would not change
hers, either.
"I owed him plenty." Sansa's tone was soft, speaking the words to her lap.
"When Joffrey had me stripped..." she took an involuntary breath that
shuddered in both directions. "When I had already been beaten and was waiting
for more, I knew there was a good chance I would die that day." Sansa looked at
him then, he was still peering past her, his jaw was working furiously, but his
eyes were not so flinty. "Tyrion walked in, in your stead, and ended my
suffering, ended my humiliation."
After a stretch of silence, Sansa hardened her voice. "He saved my life that
day," she said. Tywin met her eyes then, and she vowed, "I owed him plenty, my
lord."
He flicked his vision beyond her again and she watched his countenance shift
and tick through levels of ire and, hopefully, understanding.
Tywin settled on her after several long minutes, and spoke in a bottomless
tone. "His death will be slow and vicious. You have ensured that."
He watched his wife look to her folded hands and mull her considerations. She
was taking too long and he found himself training his gaze on the fire instead
of chastising her hesitation.
"I'm not sorry."
It was the answer he was expecting from her, dawdled by youth and
inexperience. Tywin aimed his eyes at the flames in front of him and his bitter
discourse squarely at his wife.
"I know," he spat. "And while you've freed a condemned man in the short term,
you've saved the life of his condemner in the long term." He blinked long and
slow, accentuating the pause. "The same man you are bound to." His eyes flicked
to hers, his speech turned corrosive, "Some would call you impressively stupid.
Myself included."
The lull between them drew out, Tywin flicked his glare away and flexed his
jaw.
"I didn't save you, my lord."
Sansa's words interrupted the prolonged silence. They were gentle but firm and
were directed, along with her regard, straight at her husband.
Lannister green snapped to and focused sharply on Tully blue, as a sneer tore
through his words, "Really? What would you call draping yourself over me like
a fucking shield?"
She kept his eye and took a long breath, and answered, "My lord, I would call
it saving myself."
Tywin's eyes immediately narrowed and his upper lip began to curl in ridicule.
She could hear him grinding his teeth again and watched as he deliberated his
hatred and malice. He turned away from her though, sparing her no hurtful words
or observations. His attention back to the fire, she could see plainly that he
was still thinking.
In their quiet, observing the man before her, Sansa hoped Tywin could decipher
her intentions. That she had not, in fact, chosen Tyrion over him. It was not
an accident, it was not the happenstance of her actions influencing an outcome,
it was purely the truth of it. She valued each separately, differently, and
chose them both equally.
When Tywin huffed angrily then sat up straighter, Sansa watched his features
smooth to his natural impassiveness, flick his eyes to her then nod his head.
It was terse, but it was all she needed to know he had understood and,
begrudgingly, accepted her decision.
There would be a cost, she knew, somewhere, somehow, but she would bear it
willingly. As it stood, she could tell he had dropped the matter and was
mentally moving on. Not from Tyrion, but from her. Her use to him as an angle
of harm against his son or to further his gain in the matter in general was at
an end.
Deep in her thoughts in the quiet room, Sansa was brought out of them by
Tywin's matter-of-fact voice.
"Your mother has become an outlaw."
Sansa blinked several times, rearranging her internal cogs and gears to
accommodate a new conversation and line of thought.
"My mother is dead, my lord."
It was a practiced response. One that Tywin called a delusional falsity, one
that she defended as truth.
He was of no mood to argue, yet again, about truth and perception.
"As you say my lady. However, the Westermen hanging from their necks would
disagree."
Sansa was not shocked at the news, he could see. She was digesting it, though.
Slowly.
His patience was nowhere to be found, so he continued, "She will be hunted,
Sansa. You must know that."
"I do, my lord," she clipped, not unkindly, but without hesitation.
Tywin looked at his wife then, raised his chin, looked at her through half
lids, and drawled, "Yet you will continue..." He offered a smirk that looked
more like a lazy grimace. "...as you have been, regardless?"
Again, with her lovely natural tone, her eyes just as sure as his, she did not
hesitate her answer.
"I will," she assured.
He stood then, walked calmly to his wife, gently reached his hand out to hold
the back of her head, and pulled her forward. He lightly caressed his fingers
through the loose wisps hair under her plait, and kissed her forehead softly.
Normally she would expect her husband to continue his stride out of the room.
However, this time he made use of his hand's position and twisted her length of
braid around his palm. The tensity applied was not uncomfortable and was used
more to gently turn and pivot her head at varying angles, like Tywin was
inspecting a face he'd seen a thousand times.
He was still looking at her through half lids, and it was not lost on Sansa
that her husband was breathing heavier. Tywin's face had not moved and where
his lips once met her forehead, the pull he applied to her hair tilted her head
back until her mouth was there instead.
Her lips were parted a tiny amount and when his mouth descended again, hers
opened further, willingly. She kissed him back confidently with purpose. Even
with the restriction of his hand firmly holding her hair, she forced her way
through it in order to return his affection. It caused Tywin to growl on her
tongue and make a conscious effort to keep his knees.
When he pulled back from their kiss, he sucked her bottom lip and grazed it
with his teeth. The sound his wife moaned into the pocket of air they were
sharing made his cock throb. She was watching him, her eyes wide and just
starting to haze into lust, her cheeks just starting to pink, her chest just
starting to heave...
Tywin smirked at her, control having been established. Then, just as easily, it
was dismantled as her fingertips swept against the hard length pressing a firm
bulge into his breeches, making him pant quick and shallow.
He let go the grip on her hair and lightly kissed the lips she had kept tipped
up, seemingly waiting for him. Lingering in their sweetness, smirking again for
only a moment before he stood up straighter, turned and left her.
Through his actions, Sansa knew her husband was not praising her defiance and
support of her mother, nor was he condemning her defiance and support of
Tyrion. He was in fact encouraging her challenge.
Some men settled their want of strategy and tactics by playing cyvasse. Tywin
Lannister played with real pieces, for real stakes - wagers set and paid in
lives and blood. It was a game the old lion played with lethal efficiency and
he knew, to his depthless gratification, that Sansa had skill in her own right.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Winter IV *****
Chapter Notes
     **This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to
     physical and sexual assault. Please be aware of your own
     sensibilities and proceed accordingly.**
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Tywin woke his wife at an early hour. Not excessively early however, the sun
had already peeked over the horizon, but early enough to take her where he
intended, then begin council within an acceptable time.
His error had been in not informing her the previous evening that her company
would be required. Thus enduring the long, tedious process of waking her. His
wife had the uncanny ability to speak coherently, alluding to wakefulness, only
to drop into a sound sleep once he or her handmaid had walked away.
After half a dozen attempts to let Sansa wake civilly his flickering agitation
turned consistent, and he scooped her out of the heated cocoon of their bed. He
stood her in front of him, her eyes narrowed and blinking, as they were apt to
do when one was just woken by being exposed to air colder than they were used
to. Her sleepy expression slowly moulded to a look of annoyance at being
removed from her nest of furs and coverings.
Tywin scoffed at his wife's drowsy attempt at anger. "Prepare yourself quickly,
my lady."
She was nodding absently as he spoke and prattled her, "Yes, my lord," through
a badly stifled yawn.
For as much as she looked out of sorts his wife readied quickly, dressed and
bundled for warmth, much to Tywin's approval.
They walked the Keep in silence, her gloved hand on his arm. Sansa did not know
where her husband was leading her. They had taken more than one turn she was
unfamiliar with, descended stairs she knew nothing of prior, but it seemed as
though they were in or near the center of the castle. She could hear distant
chatter, then scrapes and clinks of either a kitchen or a laundry, and
understood they were well out of reach of gentility - it sounded friendly and
made her smile.
The pleasant distraction of genuine humanity did not last long, as Tywin turned
her, their guards in tow, down a narrow passage that was almost entirely in the
dark. The air was getting colder with every step, her breath clouded the air -
even though she could not see it. She gripped her husband tighter.
When they came to a stop in the blackness, Sansa heard one guard careening into
the other behind her. In the same instant she felt Tywin pull her in front of
him, embracing her snugly as the distinct shove of his body told her he took
the impact of the sightless men and shielded her from injury.
A debt paid, her mind affirmed to itself. Whether the internal quip was in
humour or not was not dwelled on.
"F-Forgive me, m'lord," one of the guards offered fearfully.
She felt Tywin straighten and twist to address the men behind them.
"Run into me again and you will spend a sennight in stocks learning to watch
your feet."
Lord Tywin did not utter a threat, though it was flung like one, nor was it a
boneless taunt. It was a problem and its solution. No more, no less.
The men knew better than to speak another word, allowing their liege to
continue in his task. Tywin had no issue navigating in the murk, he sidestepped
around her with the fluid grace he was known for and worked to rattle open what
she identified as a door. She could hear him huff and pull on the stubborn
latch until she began to see slivers of light define the large rectangle
egress.
When he opened the door fully, it was like another world beyond it. Sansa
smiled wide and bright as her nostrils stuck closed and her lungs coughed in
the all-consuming cold.
It was an inner yard, large like a ballroom with tall, tall walls enclosing it
and not one window opening up to it. There was no entrance other than the one
Tywin had led her to and, as she crouched a tiny amount and peered upward to
the sky, winter-bright at the upper edge of the walls, she considered, unless
you can fly.
It was shady and cold in the deep of it, but that was secondary. Her husband
held her elbow as she stepped through the door into the space. She needed
assistance to get past the initial drifts of snow pressed against the entrance
way.
King's Landing was entrenched in winter, but the constant sea winds prevented
snow from piling to any significance. It simply blew until it came to rest
against the sides of buildings or the curtain walls. It stacked itself high, to
be sure, but not in a way that she was used to. Not in a way that she could
enjoy.
She knew then why he insisted on her wearing two layers of heavy stockings. In
the small yard the snow was deep, almost to her knees, light enough to walk in
but also heavy enough that it felt real.
When the guards pushed the thick door closed again, it was like they were alone
at the bottom of a barrel. A place where snow blew in on currents of air but
could not escape again. It was quiet and still in the depths of the barrel. So
much so, she could hear the soft patter of flakes landing on each other.
Sansa turned her head and smiled at her husband, watching him kick through the
snow after her. He did not reciprocate but his eyes were soft. He jutted his
chin slightly as if to tell her she need not be with him, to move away and
enjoy what he had given her.
The smile on Sansa's face widened anyway, in true joy, and Tywin found he could
not stop the corner of his mouth twitching.
Turning away from him, his wife walked to the edge of the yard where the snow
had piled highest, pushed her gloved fingers into it, picked it up, graded it
in her fingertips, and giggled at it. He ducked his head, tilted his ear upward
and appreciated the sound echoing up the walls towering over them.
He would never tell her what the space had been used for when Aerys ruled. The
soft white dunes lay at a depth that hid the scars and burns that plagued the
ground and a small distance up the edges.
The snow acted as a blanket over that history of violence.
It was definitely colder in the shadows, their breath came in puffs of white,
but it did not seem to bother Sansa. She kept her smile made of happiness and
pushed her way through the fluffy drifts. The moment she saw the winter her
husband found for her, Sansa was taken to Winterfell. It didn't matter that
winter only existed in a walled-in box, or that the snow was nowhere near as
deep as she remembered. I've grown since then, she smiled in her mind. What
mattered was that it existed as a peaceful place much like the godswood. It was
quiet and calm, another world altogether in the midst of a place that normally
afforded nothing of the kind.
Tywin looked up. The sky was brilliant even in the well they were standing in,
more so perhaps. It made him squint, but he could see swirls of snow
descending, adding to the accumulation on the ground. He closed his eyes then
and reveled in the feeling of brief moments of cold on his skin as flakes fell
and landed on his head, face and neck, then melted in the same instant.
He remembered snow. Tywin had lived through his share of winters, but he never
really noticed it before, not truly. Never really took the time to see the snow
as anything other than a cursed burden, something fit for hardship and
death. But as the vivid laughter of his wife echoed around him, he acknowledged
that in some instances it only took perspective to transform misery to
happiness, and as he squeezed his eyes tighter he felt the adolescent -
 bloody foolish - hope that maybe it was through better eyes that she saw him.
There was no time to dwell on deep thoughts as he was struck with a large
amount of wet frozen cold, like the falling flakes had congregated and hit him
all at once. As he scraped the now sticky snow off his neck and tried to wipe
the icy water away to prevent it from continuing to into the warmth under his
clothing, he was struck again. This time the congregated snow had a direction,
and Tywin immediately swung his seething eyes to where it had come from.
His anger didn't startle his wife the way it once did, she was able to keep
whatever fear she had well within her. The only evidence his moods still
garnered effect was how whatever expression her face held, in this case mirth
and a smile, dropped to one that was blank and stony.
She threw snow at him, and her childish behaviour earned her his ire. Sansa
knew that may be the cost, but felt that perhaps his thoughtful generosity also
allowed the rarity of his humour.
She was wrong.
"I'm sorry, my lord, I didn't mean to-"
He cut her off with a snarl, "Of course you meant to."
Hers was a calm voice, a trained voice. "I am sorry, my lord."
Tywin walked toward his wife then, taking in how her gloved fingers first
brushed off the evidence of her offence then twined into themselves, all the
while keeping his gaze. He stood toe to toe with her and leaned his head down
and stared into her gentle eyes.
"I have killed for less."
She knew all too well that the man in front of her spoke the truth. Sansa
considered her husband, measured his words and assessed his posture. More than
anything though, she read how his eyes were ticking.
"As you say, my lord," she said, a shade of her previous smile returning. "Snow
is nothing to be trifled with."
His eyes narrowed, the green and gold remained intense and reflective because
of the snow, even in the shadowy yard, even when his lids were no more than
slits.
It only lasted a moment.
She watched his features soften as his widened eyes drifted over her face, as
he methodically removed a glove, tucked it into a pocket beneath his cloak and
used his hot fingertips to melt away a flake of snow that had landed on her
eyebrow. He then brushed a few wayward strands of hair from her face where they
had caught on her lips.
Sansa leaned her cold cheek into his warm palm when it came to rest on her
there, and smiled at him once more, her cheeks red with cold, her eyes bright
with contentment. When he used his other still-gloved hand to scoop away the
ball of snow clumped thick in his collar, she suddenly felt guilty for throwing
it to begin with.
But that guilt melted just as surely as snow at the mercy of any flame, when he
leaned a little further down and kissed her gently. She could feel his long
fingers moving from her cheek, guiding her head to tilt back further, and his
other hand embrace across her back.
Sansa wrapped her own arms around his neck, deepening their kiss as she did so.
His warm fingers on her nape had found their way just inside her collar and
were stroking gently. It was stirring her pool of desire and she could not stop
an airy moan from resonating into his mouth.
Tywin pulled her even closer to him, as close as their heavy clothing would
allow, and broke their kiss - mostly for his benefit, so he could breathe again
and not lose his wits. He settled his lips beside her ear and spoke in the low
rasping voice his wife had coaxed out of him.
"Snow isn't the only thing not to be trifled with, my lady."
Her mind was foggy and could not decipher his words before she felt his fingers
tug her collar back and felt his embracing arm shift upward. This time she
could not decipher his actions, until the shock of wet cold slid down the
center of her comfortably warm back.
Sansa squealed and writhed trying to separate her skin from the cruel
unbearable freeze, but with every move she made she found herself held tighter
in Tywin's arms.
Treacherous lion.
The lump of snow made it midway, until the firmly tied corset of her gown
finally stopped it and she had to suffer through its transition into water, and
wherever those icy fingers decided to travel.
She was still wiggling about, but had started laughing again. Tywin held her
even tighter so he could listen, so he could bathe in the joyous noise of his
lady. Tywin mistrusted laughter normally, despised it even, but hers was
ethereal, and much like her touch, it worked to soothe and calm him on the most
primary of levels.
He exhaled a long white cloud and held on.
Her arms cinched tight and she was breathless by the time her ordeal had ended,
for the most part. Wisps of her hot breath were condensing and freezing in his
side whiskers, but somehow the frost was inviting. Her laughter had sputtered
to a stop, but she would spasm and giggle when, he assumed, the cold water
found a new spot to torment.
"We must go back." His voice was just above a whisper, his mouth still close to
the shell of her ear.
She hugged into his neck and he could feel her nod in agreement. When she
spoke, her tone matched his. "Can we visit again, another time?"
It was an innocent question, but Tywin's mind bastardized it. As though Sansa
thought he would give her a taste only to cruelly deny her. But that
was not what she meant and he knew it.
He fought through his doubts, self and otherwise, to be able to return her
gesture in the embrace they had not moved from, and nod his agreement into her
skin.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Approaching their apartments, Sansa smiled softly as a greeting to her guard.
He had stayed sentry outside the main doors while the Gold Cloaks that normally
had the post followed Lord and Lady Lannister throughout the morning.
Her husband escorted her just inside the door as she kept walking, as she kept
smiling to herself. Sansa turned at the right moment to observe Lord Tywin
round on his heels to leave once more.
"Tywin," she called gently. He pivoted at the waist to look at her. She was
wearing the smile that was his. "Thank you."
Sansa continued to smile and watched her husband blink quickly and flex his
jaw. He was flustered and Sansa knew he would become angry soon enough. The
morning had been enjoyable and she did not want to have it spoiled in such a
way. 
With her lips curved in a sweet grin, his wife inclined her head, slow and
shallow. It was a motion normally used to dismiss, but she had used it a
handful of times to acknowledge him. Acknowledge that his words were choking
him, and that he needn't force anything for her.
At once, it made him grateful and resentful of his wife. She had a power in her
natural considerations, something that could never be learned, something that
could sway to equally effective maliciousness if the purveyor of such power
should ever choose.
He knew what he would choose, and perhaps that was the root of his resentment. 
Tywin took a calming breath, felt his mouth twitch at the corner and spoke in a
his serious tone. "You are most welcome, my lady."
He turned swiftly and left.
Sansa was still grinning when her handmaids arrived to assist in changing her
into a dry gown, something with less layers. Dismissing her maids afterwards,
she walked to the window in their bedchamber, the day had only become sunnier,
the heat through the glass was deceiving.
One of the many tricks of winter and snow.
She thought then of Jon. There had been a missive from the Wall, and even
though the letter was not in his hand, it made her feel warmer than the
sunlight's embrace. He was her family, her only family left and living, and
whether he knew it or not she held his memory close.
Walking to the sitting room, Sansa made a line to their desk and went in search
of the letter from the Nights Watch. Doing so, she registered that the servants
door was opened then closed and footsteps were approaching. She smiled wider
and started talking before her eyes had left the parchment.
"Lyol, I was wond-"
In no more than a heartbeat her smile dropped and the back of her neck
prickled.
Standing across the room was a large man. He was not superior in height to her
husband, but he was wider and did not taper at the waist. Thick through and
through. His hair was dark and not overly long, but it was oily - it shone in
the worst kind of way - and as she took in what she could see from that
distance, it looked as though he was oily everywhere.
He wore no armour, nor did he wear colours or a sigil of any kind. But he did
wear a look in his eyes that kicked her fear into the forefront.
"Lord Tywin is in council, I would recommend taking your business there." She
was steely, without a move or waver. It was a command.
He barked an awful laugh at her then. "My business is right here."
Sansa called for her guard, stern and loud, but there was no movement outside
the massive doors at the entry.
"Keep calling." The man cocked his head and smirked. "Scream even."
Sansa felt cold to her core, that pang of consciousness that let her know it
was time to survive. Such a part of her old life, it had been a while since it
had rippled through her body, but it was as satisfying as it could be in that
moment just to know it was still there.
"What is it you want, ser?" Ever-courteous, but firm all the same, it was a
tone that had been known to stop arrogant lords mid-sentence.
"Your gash and your life, my lady," he said nonchalantly as he took a long
stride toward her. "But I haven't decided which to take first."
"Do you know who you are threatening?" She said it at the same time she stepped
backward in cadence to the man's advance. It seemed an appropriate question, a
redirection to subdue the man's menace.
"Aye, girly." He raised a thick brow and took another step in her direction. "I
know true."
For every step the man made forward, Sansa stepped away, and as she did so, her
mind flickered to the Bread Riots. More accurately, it flickered to the Hound;
to the walking terror that sought to protect her in a way that matched his
demeanour.
As she thought and took steps, she noticed that the man's leathers and mail
weren't oily at all - they were bloody. It was drying in places and dripping in
others. Her mind threatened to panic until she concentrated. She recalled the
speed of the Hound, the pivots and turns he used to avoid attack on that day.
The Little Bird flew.
She was quick, evading the initial grab she saw him make, but his lower height
and larger bulk was to his advantage. Instead of aiming for her upper body, the
man went low and grabbed the closest things to him - her legs. Sansa fell
forward, hard. She had managed to tuck her forearms in front of her so her body
would not take the impact exclusively, but had no time to consider pain or
bodily damage before she was flipped to her back with a ferocious twist.
The man straddled her at her waist, and as he leaned in to pin her hands at her
sides she was consumed with the smell of him. It was sour and rot, worse than
the stink of a man who had not bathed or washed his clothes. She tried to hold
her breath to the offensive smell, but it was settling into her skin.
The sour man leaned down to her, breathing heavily on her neck. She tried to
turn her head further away but she could not escape his voice.
"I'm gonna fuck every hole you have."
He laid more of his weight on her and it was frightening; not the comfort of
her husband, not the safety she was used to, this was malicious and
restricting. Her hands pushed and shoved at the bulk of the man, he was
unmovable but she would not give up so easily. She could feel a hard bulge in
the sour man's breeches pressing into her belly, she knew what it was.
Sansa felt hot tears leaking over her cheeks and through her fight and jostling
the sour man sat up, she could see him smirking.
"That's it girly, struggle for me," he slurped at her, then wiggled - mocking
her, provoking her.
With a drooling moan, he let go of her wrists and shifted, kneeing her legs
painfully, spreading them so he could kneel there. That was when he reached
down and dug in, viciously grabbing her arse in each hand, pulling her center
upward roughly, she could hear her skirts tearing, and feel the press of his
groin into hers.
He dropped her and his hands came around again, below her knees, searching for
her hem, getting past her kicking; scratching and prodding their way under her
skirts. When she prepped to scream, he laid on her again and ate her terror by
mashing his open mouth into hers. His invading tongue was vile and clogging -
she gagged into his mouth and it mercifully caused him to stop. But in ceasing
his assault on her mouth, it allowed him to concentrate on her body.
She was tiring, her muscles were burning, her lungs ached hot with every breath
like she had inhaled a hundred needles, but if she gave up she knew this man
would brutalize her in a way she feared Joffrey would a lifetime ago.
The sour man gripped the wrist of the hand that was repeatedly trying to gouge
at his face with such force she yelped at the feeling of her bones compressing.
She watched him puppet her hand to his groin and rub the bulge there. The
delicate skin on the palm of her hand went raw as it was scraped along the
dried leather lacing, over and over.
"You feel that?" He ground her hand onto his cock again. She whimpered, but it
only seemed to excite him. "Oh, you'll scream for me, whore."
He moved quick and all she could feel was more of his crushing heft, then his
teeth on her earlobe, biting her, tearing at her. The air was pushed out of her
lungs by how he sprawled over her body, she couldn't scream, he brought his
face around to her again and laughed at the fear he found painted there.
His grinning lips were smeared with blood, her blood, and he ran his tongue
over the red, lapping at it.
"I gather you're sweet everywhere, girly."
She didn't have time to be afraid of his words; his other hand, the one that
was still groping under her skirts, made its way behind her and she felt his
fingers digging at her small clothes, working their way to her backside,
clawing their way to her there.
Sansa wrenched her body trying to get away from the man's terror, from the
suffering that waited for her, but his fingers knew their atrocious trade well,
and as they made their dry press, fabric from her small clothes and all, into
the place that was unmentionable, she howled a strangled scream and kicked
upward with her knee.
She caught him, she hurt him. She didn't care where or how, all she knew was
that his hands retracted, let her go, and he yowled in pain. Struggling from
underneath him, she found her feet and made a large lunge for the door.
She did not move.
Her momentum ended before it started and no matter how hard she sprung her legs
to run away from the monster at her back, she went nowhere. The laugh that came
from behind her, from the sour man, was a sound of depravity.
Her gown tensed as it reeled her back to the animal looking to play with its
prey before killing it. She dropped to her knees and screamed in short sharp
waves, matching the tug and pull the sour man applied to her skirts, dragging
her onto her back, underneath him again.
He was still on his knees, his eyes were on fire, the rest of him was
controlled.
With every wail and flail she threw at the man, his mouth smiled wider,
exposing his yellow teeth - just as sour as the rest of him. He was made of it,
the stench wasn't something that could be washed away from the man, it was the
timber he was built from.
Sansa cried harder. She didn't want to die with this in her senses.
With this taking from her what she gave solely to her husband.
Tywin...
Her knee angled and bucked again, but instead of the man letting go like last
time, Sansa felt pain at her jaw, heard her teeth clacking off of each other,
saw sparks and stars in her line of sight. Once, twice, she caught a glimpse of
a fist, balled and falling heavy, the impact rocked her a third time before her
mind flickered to black then resurfaced to pain and awful reality. That's when
she tasted blood, as well as his breath when he bowed close to her face and
spat his words.
"I like your fight, my lady, but it's your cunt I want."
With that, one of his hands was under her skirts again and the other hand
clamped around her throat. Her mind was telling her body to keep fighting, but
her muscles still felt like they were shifting from control to blackness. She
was groggy and the haziness around her vision made her consider that, perhaps,
this was all a dream.
When she felt the pinch and burn of the ribbons and fabric of her small clothes
being roughly ripped away, then bruising fingers pushing her thighs open and
jabbing and scratching at her most private area, she knew that her plight was
no dream. All she could hear was blood pounding in her ears and the sound of
herself sucking and swallowing air past the grip on her throat.
It was not enough. Her vision was blurring as she watched her hands try to push
the man away with all the strength of a little bird.
The name fit again. Differently.
Terribly.
She felt his prick touching her thigh, nudging at her, so hard and hot and so,
so wrong.
Tywin...
She wanted her husband. It was all she wanted in that moment and she could feel
herself weep fresh tears because he was all that she had, and now she
had nothing.
Her bladder loosed, prompting the sour man to let go of her throat in order to
shove her skirts up over her waist, exposing her shame. The man groaned and
used the hand that had been killing her to pleasure himself at the degrading
display of her fear.
He adjusted his body again and she could feel his hardness there.
Oh gods, right there.
Sansa pushed at him, sobbed harder, clawed at him, weak and useless and
defeated, whimpering through her tears, "No no... please stop... no..."
He looked at her then, his sour face full of lechery. "Must wa-"
In a blur of colour and shadow, the sour man was no longer on top of her. Her
thighs were thumped and kicked with legs and boots as the shadow and the man
slid further away. Too stunned to move, Sansa turned her head toward the
tussle, her savior was fighting with high-arched heavy blows falling repeatedly
on the sour man.
Sansa's hero subdued the sour man for mere heartbeats and took that time to
turn his face to her. She didn't recognize him, she could only see the blood.
His face had been sliced open from his ear to the corner of his mouth. The
blood, a spread of crimson all over and caked black in places, gave him a
gruesome lopsided smile. She could see fresh blood bubbling from his neck, and
made the appalling connection that his tunic was not in fact red to begin with.
It was when he spoke, gurgling blood and full of pain, that she knew him.
"Run."
Lyol.
She was on her feet but she couldn't move. Instead she made a step to reach for
the steward only to be lunged at by the sour man. Lyol grappled the man again,
but it was easy to see that he was outmatched in size and that most of his
spirit had bled out already.
"Run!" It was all he could cough out through the ribbons of his face.
Sansa watched in horror as the sour man gained the top position over Lyol and
rained his own blows until the smaller man cowered and covered his face. Her
eyes flicked to the glitter that was now in the sour man's hand and she
squeaked at the knowledge he was wielding a blade.
Lyol had hold of the man's sleeves, trying to control the dirk. He didn't look
at her this time, but screamed, "Sansa! Ru-"
With a muffled squelch, the glitter disappeared into the chest of the older
man. There was a groan with it - of pain or satisfaction, she didn't know. Her
feet had turned her and were running, she watched herself lift the bar on the
heavy outer doors. Behind her she could hear muffled cursing and more hissing
thumps - one for every plunge of the blade.
Her mind was on fire and her body bolted forward out of the doors at great
speed, but she was thwarted when her feet lost traction and her hands and knees
hit the floor of the stone hallway.
It was like ice - slick and dangerous.
Her shoulder took the impact of her precarious slide into the opposite wall,
but at the same time she saw that the passage wasn't besieged in ice, but
blood.
Her guard lay motionless, awkward, on his face, a great pool of red emanating
from under him. There was a girl slumped beside him, on her knees, her face on
the floor. The way her head tilted under her weight made the slit in her throat
gape like a tree that had been notched to fell.
Sansa recognized the girl as the washerwoman her guard had taken to. They were
sweet toward each other-
She had to look away.
Her feet kept slipping out from under her, she couldn't stand in the thick
viscous gore and found herself scrambling on her hands and knees, screeching
for help and guards alike. It felt like days, but it had only been moments
since she fled her rooms. Hindered by her gowns, she kept crawling away from
the horror - sometimes on her hands and knees, sometimes on her belly -
screaming as she went.
A little further down the hall, there were two more bodies wearing Lannister
armour, stacked against the wall, equally as bloody, equally as dead.
She heard rushing footsteps, but could not gain a direction because of the echo
in the stone corridor. She froze, curled herself into a tight ball and prepared
to die. But as the quick steps got louder she could also hear the familiar
clank of armour.
The sour man wore no armour.
When she raised her head she was looking at Lannister red and gold, and the
eyes of soldiers that spoke of both panic and feral anger. Several hands picked
her up, but not one of them said a word. Only a beat later and Sansa heard
commands, strong and concise, spoken like Tywin but in a woman's voice. It was
her own.
"Apprehend the man inside the apartments. Ensure that he lives, and send him to
a cell." Her eyes were chips of ice and her voice was made of stone. "And
retrieve Lord Tywin from council."
In a flurry of acknowledging words and gestures, men ran to their tasks, a few
staying back with their lady.
"Find me a room to use, and summon the Maester and my handmaids."
Her fear was nowhere. She could not sense it within her, she could only feel
anxiousness and a simmering anger.
What she felt was the weight of a debt.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin Lannister did not flinch with any emotion when he was told his wife had
been attacked.
Tywin Lannister did not run when he was told of the blood and death within
their home.
Tywin Lannister had to stop himself from stumbling in shock when he saw his
wife standing rod-straight in a small room that smelled of dust, a scent only
made sharper by the cold. She was bathed in blood, gown and all, and for a
heartbeat he thought they had propped up her corpse.
Her face was streaked, the flecks and smears of blood were washed away in some
places, signifying tears, her hands were almost black with it. But it was her
dress, coated and ghastly, it threw his mind to seeing her bedgown stained the
same way. The same way he still sometimes dreamt of her, only to wake up and
find her warm and breathing, stroking his face and kissing him back to sleep.
He looked at her belly, then looked her in her eyes - they were calm and held
no fear.
Sansa came back, ever resilient.
He took a step toward her, and stopped the frown that was threatening to
present itself when she took a step back. Tywin raised a hand, as one would to
slow someone coming at them, a calming gesture, and seemed to work. When he
stepped again, she remained still.
He was just out of arm's reach when he could see her shivering. Her face was
impassive, her eyes were clear and not hindered by shock. Looking her over more
closely, Tywin could see past the dried and congealing blood on her face and
hands. One side of her jaw was swelling and already starting to bruise, and her
gown had been soaked through with blood in places. His wife was wet in gore in
shivering in cold.
He stood in front of her, made short work of the bone fastenings and yanked
himself out of his heavy winter doublet. While the jacket wasn't as
constricting as the ones he wore in warmer weather, its removal was noted as
soon as the cool air swept into his tunic - and forgotten just as fast.
It was only when he moved to drape it over her that she flinched.
Tywin stopped and questioned her a little too sharply. "Are you injured? They
told me you assured them you were unharmed."
Her eyes went wider, but flicked away from his, she spoke confidently but
distracted.
"I am filthy, my lord," she said.
He flexed his jaw to dissipate his annoyance. Of everything that had happened,
Sansa was more concerned with the state of his clothing. Tywin was slipping
further into anger every time her words repeated in his mind.
I am filthy, my lord.
I am filthy...
Tywin's stomach clenched, then sank in queasiness as he thought of the man now
sitting a cell. He gathered the fury that was bubbling to the surface,
controlled the rage that threatened to consume him.
"Sansa, tell me true, did he..." He huffed a light breath and quirked his eyes
in unguarded concern, "...hurt you... intimately?"
Without hesitation she shook her head. An act that doused his anger, and
rekindled his annoyance. Tywin disregarded his wife's apprehension and draped
her in the warmth she so obviously needed.
"Put your arms through." He held the sleeves out, giving her room to maneuver
within the doublet. Once she was set, he pulled the garment, and his wife, into
his body to add to the heat. Sansa tensed at their closeness, she avoided his
eyes, blushed a colour he could see through bruising on her face, and offered
her words as matter of fact as she could.
"I... Before... I made water on myself, my lord."
She flexed her jaw at her embarrassment, shuffling the pain radiating from the
side that was swollen, and waited for him to step away. She was pulled even
closer. It was only natural to rest the unhurt side of her face over the center
of his chest while at the same time fist the fabric at the middle of his tunic.
There was hot breath on the top of her head and a perturbed serious voice that
followed.
"Don't be stupid."
The air caught in her throat, she wanted to scream and strike him with the
fists she had already made. Stupid. He dare call her stupid after what she
lived through, after everything she had survived?
I made water on myself.
Revelations were never convenient and, like any truth, they were rarely
kind. She was being stupid. Covered top-to-toe in the blood of others because
someone wanted her life, and she was more concerned about what he would think
of her because her body reacted to fear. Sansa leaned harder into the man
holding her. Her man. Her husband.
The longer they stayed like that the more she felt she was absorbing his
strength and confidence. Whether that was the truth of it, it hardly mattered.
She felt better, stronger and she would take it gladly.
"Close your eyes, Sansa."
His voice was sudden but mesmerizing, his breath on the top of her head was
reassuring, the heat of his body where her cheek rested was lulling. She
couldn't stop her eyes from closing.
"Do you remember anything the man said?"
Sansa took a deep breath and nodded into his tunic. "Yes."
Tywins thumbs brushed tiny circles on her back, they were muted by the doublet,
but they were there all the same. She pressed into him a little more, and
he was again guiding her with his tone.
"Sansa, tell me what he said."
It came out in a torrent. "He knew who I was. He said that he was going to..."
She twisted her fingers in his tunic and sounded so very angry. "...Rape me and
kill me."
She felt Tywin hold her tighter and breathe heavier in her hair, but underlying
that, her husband was shivering. He was warm, and the spasms didn't start at
his center like they usually did on cold nights when they would initially crawl
under the furs of their bed. These were in his arms, like he was stopping
himself, like he was restraining something inside.
"Is that all?" The shiver was in his voice too.
"He told me I would scream for him." It was a hoarse whisper.
Her eyes shut tight and she fought a losing battle with her tears.
"Lyol saved me," she choked. "He died saving me."
Her husband did not flinch, did not tense at the mentioned loss of a man he
knew for most of his life. He spoke in a tone that was as cold as the room they
stood in.
"As he should."
The shivering ended.
Sansa swallowed her sadness then, all of it. She bit back her tears and bottled
them for herself. She would mourn the man, she would spend time and thoughts on
the man who saved her, she would do it without Tywin.
As she should.
However, in their current reality, standing in that room with him, Sansa would
be the wife of the Great Lion of Casterly Rock. She would be who she was
expected to be and, truthfully, who she needed to be at that time.
Tywin pulled away from her slightly, his hands on her elbows, his thumbs still
drawing circles where they touched her. Sansa opened her eyes at his
movement. She looked up, looked at him squarely. He was angry, but that was in
the background. There was tenderness there, she could easily see that too. In
amongst all that though, there was something else, something she could not
place directly.
It was not associated with anger or regard, it was more calculating.
There was a gain or advantage presenting itself to him and she just had to wait
for him to present it to her as well.
His wife was not afraid. She was not intimidated by her would-be murderer. That
meant she was an asset in regards to leverage against the man, and whomever
sent him.
Sansa was his edge.
"The man will die. I want you there."
His voice was soft, his touch remained gentle, and it was all in contrast to
what was spoken. The words were tricky, her husband didn't give her a
directive, he gave her a choice - but not a choice at the same time.
He found himself taken by the big blue eyes that stared at him, considered him.
Two points of sky surrounded by carnage. It was a vision that was terribly
beautiful, and when her voice rang, sweet and steel, he had to blink his way
out of her charm.
"Of course, my lord."
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Winter V *****
Chapter Notes
     **This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to
     torture and execution. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and
     proceed accordingly.**
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Sansa had been bathed and dressed for hours before she was summoned by Lord
Tywin. Sitting behind the desk in their apartments, she took no real notice of
the sun as it dropped into evening through the windows around her. The only
indication of time and its continuation was the presentation and removal of
plates containing barely touched food and the refill of her heavily watered
wine.
The quiet of the room enveloped her, tucked her into her thoughts and gave her
peace from the horrors of that day.
Most of them.
In the silence her conscious played loud and rather persistent. Lady Sansa's
focus remained on the tightly woven rush mat fastened to the floor in front of
the desk. It was new. It smelled sweet and still held its natural gleam. It
replaced the mat Lyol had bled his life into. She stared so intently for so
long, her mind tricked itself into seeing the large crimson stain wick through
and resurface even though it had been thoroughly scrubbed from the wood
beneath. 
Sansa continued to stare at the new rush mat.
Even the the quartet of Lannister guards - the deadliest men Lord Tywin
employed, from only the most loyal and established houses - that had been
placed within the room for specific protection said nothing to their usually
approachable lady. Their emotional distance added to the somber mood, even if
it was appropriate and appreciated. 
The break in room's dreary atmosphere came with the announcement of Ser Kevan,
and it was with him that Sansa made her way to a place in the Red Keep she
truly feared. A place known only for suffering.
The place where her father began his end.
It was dark there, and constructed so far under the ground's natural frost line
that with the presence of so many braziers and torches everything dripped wet,
making the space even colder. It was a horrible place - but that was to be
expected, she supposed. She was there for a horrible reason.
Their destination was dimly lit at the end of the passageway and as they
approached, she could see the distinct cloak and armour of Ser Jaime.
Sansa greeted the Lord Commander without her usual dip of a curtsy. Various
areas of her body were just starting to twinge in the pain she knew would only
intensify in the next days. It was like her mind and body worked in tandem,
unburying the cruelty of Joffrey and recalling how best to deal with the
physical aftermath of violence. Her grim history suddenly becoming a cursed
blessing.
Her courtesies, however, would never diminish.
"Ser Jaime," she said, smiling softly.
The tall man looked down at her with a smirk already in place, and drawled
without any kind of sincerity, "Lady Sansa, I'm sorry to hear of your
troubles." As if to accentuate his hollow candor, he raised a brow and
finished, "I would offer to guard you myself, but I fear that position is more
hazard than it's worth."
It was an awkward jape at best, an outright insult at worst.
"It is a position that requires a sword hand."
Tywin emerged out of the shadows of the corridor. The words preceding him were
aggressive and harsh, but spoken distracted, almost in passing.
If Ser Jaime was hurt by his father he didn't show it. His attention and his
words stayed toward his father's wife.
"Surely you haven't been told this is the romantic part of the castle?"
Lord Tywin removed the need for Sansa to answer.
"Lady Sansa's presence has been requested by me." And by his tone, it was
evident the old lion was becoming annoyed.
Jaime turned his head to his father and threw hubris at the man.
"For what purpose?"
Tywin lost whatever distraction he had, focusing solely, fiercely, on his son.
"In whatever capacity I deem necessary."
It was said through his teeth and Sansa knew Tywin was at the limit of his
patience. Ser Kevan did too, as she felt him step ahead of her slightly. The
move was covert, but she knew what he was doing and it warmed her in that cold,
dank corridor.
"Father, you can't think it wise to invite your wife here." Jaime kept his tone
light, but his words were rather biting.
Whether it was one or a combination of things that enraged Lord Tywin, it would
remain unknown; however, something triggered him to roar in hate.
With speed and skill that slept in the old lion - that lulled a foolish few to
misjudge him - he got the better of the younger man. He curled his hands behind
Jaime's breastplate, where it gaped at the pits of his arms, and shoved him
with such a force that it lifted the knight off his feet, only to come to a
crashing halt against the slippery stone walls that flanked them in the
passageway.
Ser Jaime had the breath knocked from him, Sansa could clearly hear his
struggle to wheeze in air.
His father looked at him with eyes he had never witnessed being directed at
him. Tyrion, yes, but him, never. They were wide, wild green and gold, and
radiated the kind of frenzy that made his bowels threaten release.
Jaime Lannister feared for his life.
Tywin turned even more vicious toward his son, digging his forearm into his
throat, growling more than speaking. "And you're going to be the one to advise
me about wives? Is that it?"
Their exchange displayed such a broad spectrum of old grudges and wounds,
presented in so few words, that both men faltered in their stare. But it was a
soft confident voice that disrupted the tension enough to allow for separation
between them.
"Ser Jaime, I appreciate your concern. However, it is my choice to be here."
Sansa spoke in the sharp tone her husband preferred, but offered Jaime a tug at
the corners of her lips to assure him she was speaking truthfully.
Jaime shook his armour straight and comfortable again, then looked at his
father for confirmation. He was rewarded with the same wrathful look as before.
"I'll not be a part of this." Jaime coughed out, still reeling from hitting the
wall.
Tywin spoke to his son with the same disinterest he started with. "Go see to
the safety of the King, Lord Commander."
Ser Jaime didn't spare her a glance, but even in the blackness of their
surroundings, she was able to see the fury on his face as he swept past she and
Ser Kevan.
Kevan was the one to usher her into the small dark room, following Tywin's
lead.
The only light was that of four large torches along one side of the room and
two oil lamps set on a narrow wooden shelf on on the other side. Under that
shelf Sansa could see a row of buckets; what was in them remained a mystery, of
which she wasn't about to inquire.
Although, what truly made her teeth clench, as well as the hand on Ser Kevan's
arm, was what she saw in the middle of the room.
There was a heavy wooden table that looked to have been through battle. It was
scarred and gouged to a degree that even her darkest imagination could not
fathom the cause. Bent over the end of the table was a man. As they had entered
the room they walked in behind the man, and it afforded her a view she had to
physically swallow back the scandal for.
Completely without clothes and his legs spread, she could see every single
intimate part of a man she had only ever seen on one body, and thankfully her
husband had the foresight to avoid her eyes while she adjusted her
sensibilities.
The man was bound, that became clear as she was guided to the side of the room
painted in shadows. His thighs had been lashed with a great amount of rope to
legs on the table that seemed there only for that purpose. His arms were
extended painfully out to the sides and tied under the table, but she could not
see exactly how.
He looked to be tensing against his restraints, testing their hold on him.
Aside from his head turning direction and his legs bending below the knees, he
was immobilized.
Sansa involuntarily shuddered as her mind slid back to the memory of the woman
who had once been her mother and the horror she had been though.
...lashed me to the end of a table and took their turns. Boltons and Freys...
Again she found herself adjusting her sensibilities, but when the man
spoke, the sour man, it was as though her thoughts found voice.
"You mean to fuck me then?"
The sour man smiled and laughed his mocking words to her husband even though he
could not see him, and Sansa watched them roll off Tywin like rain would oiled
canvas.
She felt fear then.
It was absurd, and she tried to piece it together. Her terror was no longer a
threat, he would die, of that she was sure. Ser Kevan stood impassive, watching
his brother with careful consideration. Lord Tywin was steely and unmoving, as
was his natural demeanour. But in concentrating on his eyes, Sansa felt the
comprehension slide flush with the fear she carried.
They were dead.
It was something she hadn't seen since her wedding night, and it terrified her
just as much years later.
Tywin pulled his short sword from where it laid at his hip, and the sound of
steel kissing its way out of tooled leather was eaten by the thick walls.
Instead of being tremendous and beautiful, the sound was ominous and greasy -
like snake about to strike.
She watched the blade catch the flickering torch and lamp light for only a
moment, until Tywin laid it along the length of the sour man's spine.
The tip rested against the base of his neck, and every breath her attacker
inhaled caused the maliciously honed point to scrap and cut at the bulge of
skin gathered at his nape. The noise of it clear in the tiny room. The heavy
guard of the sword laid at the top of the man's backside where he was bent over
the horrible table, the exquisitely ornate gold lions on either side bit into
his flesh where their open maws bared teeth and where the fur on the manes came
to points.
The Great Lion left his steel where he arranged it, stepped back and started to
pull on tight-fitting black leather gloves.
He answered the sour man then, with a voice from the Stranger himself.
"Yes."
Sansa watched the smile on the sour man's face flounder at that one small word.
It gave her a rush of satisfaction and a pang of dreadful anxiousness, equally.
Tywin had vision for nothing save the flesh in front of him. The walls of the
room dimmed to a void, the people standing within blurred to insignificance.
His mind retreated to blackness and he had to fight himself to want for
information from the meat, not just fear and blood.
The meat hurt her, hurt them, and it would die for that action alone, but he
needed to know who sent it - who wanted what was his, for they would suffer
too, more so.
The lion's pulse slowed to a calm as he reached for the blade left resting. He
gripped it like a lover, an embrace tender and thoughtful. Tywin lifted it to a
slight angle, the top third of steel remaining flat on the flesh, the point
digging in just enough to give him a taste of ecstasy: a tiny pool of red and
hiss of pain from the meat beneath it.
The reaction made Tywin blink in flutters, made him breathe deep the fear the
flesh was sweating out. It made him grin.
With a gentle pivot of his wrist, the old lion brought his sword to its edge.
The act earning him more fear, more pain and just a little more blood.
Sansa was taken back to a time and place of love, such an odd contrast to the
room of imminent death that was her actuality. She could see her father sitting
in the godswood, oiling Ice under the great weirwood. She could see him smiling
as her small child-self sat before him.
"Father, is a sword always sharp?" She had asked as she looked toward the great
sword that was surely the length of two of her.
Eddard Stark had looked at his daughter with eyes that pronounced good and
adoration, with eyes Sansa never doubted in her childhood, in the North. When
she was but merely a babe, her father's eyes spoke words of comfort and told
stories of heroes.
He smiled at her with those eyes.
"Not always," he had answered. "A blade's sharpness defines its purpose." Her
father had started to wrap the massive sword in cloth, continuing his lesson,
"Some edges are duller, for a chop..." Sansa giggled when he brought his
flattened hand down like an axe, demonstrating the action he was speaking of.
"...and some are sharp, for slicing."
Her father didn't have a gesture for that action, but as Sansa watched Tywin's
sword sink into the shallow flesh near the spine of the sour man - using no
more force than the weight of the steel itself and the direction her husband
was pulling it - she suspected that that was what he spoke of.
"Tell me who sent you, and you will meet your end quickly." 
Tywin spoke the words without inflection, and they seemed to take a lifetime to
reach the air. The time it took for him to drag his sword the length of the
man's back. The steel left a line of tiny crimson beads from the base of the
man's neck to the top of his arse. The wound was nothing gruesome or flowing,
nothing that would allow the man to die quickly.
"I've not a fuckin' thing for you. You best kill me." The sour man was mouthing
bravado, but his voice wavered at the end.
"Soon," was all the old lion said, distracted and shallow.
As before, Tywin returned his sword to rest along the man's spine, but he
rolled it to the opposite edge and drew a crimson line to the man's other arse
cheek. At the end of the bloody line, Tywin swayed slightly toward the man, the
point of his blade carried his weight and dug into the ample flesh where it had
come to a stop on the man's backside.
The resistance was only momentary before Lord Lannister felt the meat give way
to his steel. He could hear a gritted scream intensify with every fraction he
pushed into it. He leaned into the slow invasion until he met his goal - bone -
midway in the span of the pelvis. It was the stop he wanted, and kept steady
pressure on the hilt of his sword so the meat could not get used to the pain.
"Tell me."
With his words, Tywin gave a gentle twist to the embedded blade, feeling the
tip dig and scrape further into its resistance and the flesh gaping where the
turn held the wound open. The red began to trickle, and with it was the
emergence of power.
What was a man but the flow of his blood? One could be whole, and die all the
same by way of a small nick, by an arrow, or bolt.
"Who sent you?"
Lord Tywin reversed his twist, relieving the pressure in the man's arse cheek.
"No..." the sour man all but hissed.
The old lion took his cue, turning the blade in the other direction. He noticed
the sheen of sweat appearing on the lower back displayed before him, and knew
he had to move on if he was to push the dead man past his tolerance. He removed
the blade without ceremony, the yelp it produced was sweeter than any song.
Without preamble, Tywin placed the sword's flat tip on the tailbone of the man
and proceeded to drag the hefty point down the center of the man's arse. Making
its way, painfully, to the goal that was obscenely exposed in that position.
Tall tales and mummers farces paint torture as a villain's diatribe, a pause to
allow the hero to plan escape and defeat of the villain. The reality was that
there is no introduction, no dialogue to accompany the violence, and even less
recognition of who was indeed the hero.
Tywin plunged a thumbs length of steel in the most unmentionable part of the
man, causing a piercing scream to be let loose from his lungs.
Sansa caught herself before her breathing became too shallow, before her nerves
overtook her mind's control to leave her standing, or even able to bear what
she knew was coming - what was going to continue. She had been witness to all
forms of torture in Joffrey's court, even death, but this was personal. This
man had schemed and killed just to see her savaged and killed herself. She had
to know his motivation, his reason why.
The fact that she had to know was something her prior self would never even
consider, let alone participate in. Yet, as she stood in the shadows watching a
man suffer, she couldn't help but feel proud of herself.
A grisly accomplishment.
Kevan caught her eye then, as the sour man writhed and wailed under the
infliction of more steel biting and cutting its way through bowel. His eyes
weren't the kindly green she had grown used to, they were hard like Tywin's,
but familiar, like when Robb would escort her through groups of men in the
training yards of Winterfell.
Protected by lions, her mind scoffed.
Sansa didn't smile at him, as was her normal course, she simply gave a quick
nod to let him know she fared well and watched him turn his attention back to
his brother.
The sour man was sweating profusely, she could see. His face was set with his
eyes screwed shut against the pain, and a continuous droning whimper emanated
from behind his spittle flecked lips.
Sansa had always been proud of her height, it made her feel older when she was
a girl. Her height gave her presence when she stood hand-on-arm with her
husband. She was also, now, at an advantageous angle to see every sliver of
steel disappearing into the bent body of the man before her.
She loathed her height then.
Tywin was barely halfway into the man when he opened his grip gingerly on the
sword in order to test its balance. The blade seemed likely to stay, so he let
go completely and watched the man agonize. The sour man screamed something
desperate, like a wounded animal, as his lower legs twitched and lifted in a
sad effort to relieve the horrendous pressure inside him.
Lord Tywin walked around the table until he was looking at the man and droned,
"Who sent you?"
Through whimpering noises and chattering teeth the sour man said one word:
"No."
Her husband merely nodded, almost politely, then turned to resume his stance
behind the man. Once in place, Tywin pulled the hilt of his sword with a
vicious force, and in an instant the blade was removed completely.
The shriek that the action produced would haunt her, she knew. But it was the
sound of blood and other fluids hitting stone floor, coupled with the stench
that eventually hit her that made Sansa gag loudly. She was trying to suck in
fresh air, but there was none in the room. Through teary eyes she watched Tywin
lay the blood and feces coated sword on the man's back again, and noticed the
sour man had lost consciousness.
It was a reprieve for them both.
"Wake him."
Tywin commanded his brother without looking at him, then walked to his wife and
offered her his arm.
She had gained control of herself at that point, but accepted his proffered arm
anyway. He lead her out of the room, into to the dark passage beyond, and
with a flick of his fingers Tywin ordered the sentries to step away, turning
his attention to the stoic young woman before him.
"I will have you escorted back, my lady."
It was kind, but it wasn't the husband she knew. This man was distracted and
clearly making an effort to focus on her.
Her hand clasped his forearm a little tighter. "I will have you escort me, my
lord."
His brows pinched at her words and he spoke in a sarcastic tone that told her
she neglected the obvious. "My time is rather occupied."
"As is mine."
Sansa made the statement and watched her lion search her face for a frivolous
want of approval. There was nothing of the kind. Sansa made the decision for
herself, not for her husband, and not to have the pleasure of watching a man
die. Only for the closure her mind demanded in knowing she had, once again,
survived. That even with all the death of that day, there was life too.
His eyes drifted the length of her body, met hers again, then gave a curt nod
before turning them both toward the small dark room.
As she left the side of her husband to resume her place in the shadows, Sansa
could hear that the sour man had indeed woken, but barely. He was moaning in
pain, and slipping back into darkness when Ser Kevan placed a small vial under
his nose. Whatever it contained caused the man to snap open his eyes and groan
louder.
Tywin watched for a few heartbeats. Looking bored, he walked to one of the
buckets on the floor, picked it up by the rope handle and dumped the white
slushy contents over the sweaty shivering back of the man - and, in turn, the
blade that remained where it had been left.
As soon as the partially melted snow hit the man, he wailed in shock and pain,
pulling and struggling against the ropes that bound him in place.
Lord Tywin casually walked to the where the man's head was thumping into the
table, pressed his knuckles into the wet and vomit near his mouth and growled,
"Shall we continue?"
The ever-defiant man smiled is sour mouth at her husband and Sansa prepared
herself to witness violence.
True to her estimation, she watched Tywin's fisted right hand lift high and
come down, his body twisting along with it, straight into grinning yellow
teeth. She heard thumps and cracks as the old lion swung out his rage, but
could not discern what was face hitting wood, or teeth breaking loose, or what
were facial bones cracking under heavy punches.
The man's face changed with each strike: his nose moved, his mouth went from
yellow to split red, to gaps of black. His eyes went from alert to hazy
delirium, and just as they were tipping into blank again, Tywin stopped,
scooped up a handful of snow and wiped the blood and flecks of meat from the
knuckles of his glove.
He had moved behind the man once more and, again, there was no preamble before
he gripped his sword, shook most of the snow off, leaned back on his furthest
heel, lined up and thrust forward savagely. Burying half of the steel into the
most private part of any man.
"We'll start where we left off." The words were almost smiled out.
Ser Kevan had hold of the man's hair and kept the vial in front of his face -
whether it was doing anything was unknown as he was no longer breathing through
his severely broken nose.
Sansa heard her husband repeat his question and heard Kevan calmly trying to
convince the man to talk. It was opposing dynamics and Sansa could only imagine
that it would be overwhelming regardless of circumstance. But under it all, the
screaming, the begging, the questions and coaxing, she could hear one tiny
word.
"Keera."
It was faint, and said like a dream. Sansa had to focus on both syllables just
to know it was a word being spoken. No, not a word, a name. Her mind told
her. The sour man was chattering what teeth he had left, begging for death when
his eyes were shiny, then muttering Keera over and over when his eyes went
cloudy.
She realized he was dying. She also realized that Tywin had no intention of
letting the man die quickly, whether he told him what he wanted to know or not.
Her husband was existing for the fear pouring off and out of the body before
him. And it saddened her that she was not appalled.
Her feet worked on their own and she watched the gory scene get closer. Ser
Kevan looked at her in question, but backed away either out of station or
intuition.
At that proximity, Sansa could see the fine quakes rippling under the skin of
the man; spasms that intensified in waves for every sliver of honed blade that
entered him. But he had quieted at her approach, the nattering had ceased and
he was staring at her, blinking slowly, his eyes wavering in their focus.
"Keera?" It was so full of hope.
Sansa smiled an affirmation at the man and instantly felt a pang of guilt, but
it was quickly eaten by the knowledge that he held information that mattered
more to her than a delusion of identity. She reached out to him, brushed her
fingers over his sweaty, bloody brow, and he responded by whimpering in his
throat - then screeching in pain as Tywin fucked him with a merciless amount of
steel.
She kept her eyes on him, kept petting his brow until he refocused again.
Sansa smiled then, gentle, motherly, and tucked a his loose hair behind his
ear. Her touch matched her smile and the sour man had no defense.
Rubbing her thumb at his temple, she spoke sweetly, asking, "Who sent you?"
He was breathing large huffs, blinking at her. Then he closed his eyes, lifted
his head a tiny amount into her hand and smiled, broken and grotesque.
"Queen Cer-"
He was snuffed out in a painful jerk and gurgle. Tywin had plunged the entirety
of the sword into the man before the name could be spoken fully.
It did not matter, the three people within that room heard. They heard and they
knew the implications. Just as each one knew their duty.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Lord and Lady stepped through the doors of their apartments in the Tower of the
Hand and Tywin immediately stepped to the side bar and poured them each wine.
But as he handed his wife her cup, she let it drop to the floor as she rushed
to the basin at the wash station by the servants door and began retching.
Tywin rushed to her side, gripped her firmly yet gently around the waist and
rescued her hair from settling in the gathering pool of vomit. He could feel
each purging spasm course through her and adjusted his hand, taking it from her
waist in order to rub her back lightly.
"You held yourself though all of that, and choose now to truly be ill?"
It came out as a reprimand, and quite honestly he meant it as one. But she was
shivering and quaking too hard in her fits of sickness and was not able to
answer him. Neither did Tywin press her.
He waited.
Comforting her, caring for her while she trembled and gagged, stroking her hair
and back, fetching a cup of water and a cloth to wipe her mouth once he was
confident she could stand unassisted. He ran the back of his hand over her
forehead, and while she was hot from her efforts she was not sticky in sweat or
shaking in fever.
Cupping her uncoloured cheek and tilting her face at him, Tywin stared at her.
And still he waited.
Sansa became painfully shy then, a maid once more, delicate and ignorant... and
keeping a secret.
"I'm... with child, my lord." It was little more than a whisper.
For some reason she could not meet his eyes, like she had just told him
something terrible and not that she was carrying his babe.
"I have suspected."
Her husband's words were gentle, but said in his tone of perpetual
suspicion. She snapped her confused eyes to him, asking him How? without
speaking a single word.
Tywin felt his countenance soften as he brushed a gentle hand along her jaw
line, then let it drift down her neck, his fingers spread wide and stroked
softly through their descent over her collar, down the side of her breast,
where the journey ended. They both watched him cup its weight in his palm
before squeezing the tiniest of amounts.
Sansa winced at the tender pressure and raised her eyes to find him already
looking expectant.
"You are changing. I noticed." His words were still kind, his suspicion was
still prominent. "You smell different, you taste different. I noticed."
She blushed hot and red at his words, at what he meant, and again couldn't keep
his gaze. His hand travelled a reverse path and caressed the untouched side of
her jaw once more.
"Look at me, my lady." He waited until her wide eyes settled before he spoke
again. "How long?"
Her breath quickened against her will, and she said, "Not yet four moons, my
lord." Like an admission of guilt.
Tywin frowned. "Why would you keep this from me?" His voice held more concern
than annoyance. "You need care, Sansa."
Her first inclination was to question why he would allow her to witness a man's
torture and death if her care was such a priority, but stopped short of
speaking her petulance when she remembered the way he looked at her, covered in
waste and gore in the small room. How he looked at all of her.
He knew then. More than that, she knew all along.
...it is my choice to be here.
Her mind drifted to his question - why? - and it stirred in her a deep, pitiful
sadness. One that she had to get into grip before she could even try to speak.
He watched her eyes pool and gloss, and knew the answer before she uttered a
sound.
"I wanted to be sure..." her voice cracked, but her tears remained unshed. "I
didn't want it to be like the last time."
The sincerity of her awful honesty transformed his frown to a grim line. He
could feel her jaw working under his fingers and Tywin brushed his thumb over
the stressed and tensed muscles, but she pulled away. Pulled back completely,
turned and walked to the window.
There was nothing to see outside. With no moon it was black as pitch, and what
parts of the paned glass that were not capped in frost only served to reflect
the room behind her. It wasn't the view she cared about, it was the cold
without the wind. She could sometimes feel it call to her, the frost and ice,
there was a familiar comfort in it, something she felt even more since she knew
Tywin's seed had found purchase.
Sansa leaned on the stone block sill, tilting her face as close to the glass as
she could without touching it. She watched the frost widen and melt to wet from
the heat of her closeness. It was sorry and beautiful all at the same time, and
in catching herself in the black mirror, she could not help but make the same
comparison to her life.
A moment of melancholy in an existence she knew was better than most.
It could have been worse. She had heard that more than once, said by people
observing her life from a position outside of it. A phrase so ignorantly
flicked off the tongue, like it was advice that carried both weight and
usefulness.
She watched in the cold black shine, her husband, her lion, walking to a
position beside her. They were side by side, but facing opposite directions. No
matter the angle, his face read like a book - he was about to command.
"You will leave for Casterly Rock on the morrow." His voice was soft, but as
predicted commanding all the same.
What Sansa could not control in her own life she had a chance of protecting in
the one she carried, and she would do so with every drop of blood that made
her.
"No, I won't."
It was spoken kindly to his reflection. His reflection spoke back, angry and
tired.
"Yes you will, Sansa. I gave you limited check to build yourself into a lion of
strength, but you forget your place, my lady. You will obey me."
She marveled in the glass a while, at the detail of his whiskers swaying in
movement as his jaw flexed beneath them.
"Will you be accompanying me, my lord?"
"Of course not."
The sneer in his voice was not unexpected. However, in light of the events that
day, she could not tell if he was being willfully obtuse or if he was as afraid
as she was. And it was her fear that ignited her own snarled voice.
"Where will I be safer?" Sansa looked down and away from the glass, his hand
hung strong and slack at his side became her peripheral focus. "Where will you
have total control of those who come in contact with your unborn child:
 here with you, or in the Westerlands?"
They were close enough that Sansa could hear his teeth stutter in their grind
against one another.
It did not stop her.
With every drop of blood that made her.
"She is the Queen, Tywin. Distance is not an obstacle."
In the position they stood they could not make eye contact. Instead, the old
lion leaned toward his wife's ear and presented a menacing growl.
"You think to talk to me like I am some sort of fucking lack-wit?"
Sansa straightened again and went back to observing through the reflection
world, the one outside made of night and cold but somehow warmer.
"No, Tywin, you are every bit the monster you have ever been."
Her words were as bitter as they were calculated.
He scoffed caustically, aiming to get a rise out of her. "Is that it then? I am
a monster?" 
Taking a deep breath, Sansa let her posture relax. There was no fight in her,
he could keep his bait. If he truly wanted her gone she would be, and she would
be a dutiful wife to her husband and heed his decision. But she would at least
say her peace and answer him honestly. 
"No, not entirely," she said gently. Not affording him a look to go with it.
"Just as I am not entirely what you have made me." Mustering a little more
strength to her words, Sansa asked, "Tell me, my lord, when I confirmed I was
with child, were you happy because we created life together, or because if I
bore you a son he would provide you greater gains?"
He didn't answer. He didn't expect him to. She also knew, without having to see
him, that he was clenching his jaw again. Sansa continued regardless, in her
soft natural tone.
"Time has gifted us many things, my lord. Changing who we truly are is not one
of them."
He was unbearably quiet, but did not move from the his place beside her. On one
side, there was an almost startling heat cascading off her husband. That
heat was mingling with the bitter cold of the window on the other side. Each
wave met in the middle, met at the center of her, creating a strange cradle of
warmth.
Without sparing a glance, Sansa reached out the hand closest to Tywin and swept
her knuckles down the length of his arm until her forefinger was brushing over
his smallest. She hooked her finger around his and held on, her focus still
somewhere outside, within the mirror-life ticking by in the large window.
Tywin held her finger gently, as was his way in these times, then squeezed a
tiny amount.
"Good," he whispered thickly, before letting go and leaving her to her
contemplation.
The Great Lion would keep his family close.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It had been six days after the death of the sour man that Sansa felt able to
bare herself to her husband, allowing him to see the marks that had been left.
The ones hidden under clothes, the ones that caused her wake in a fright until
she was wrapped up in warmth and strength and lulled back into slumber.
The marks along her jaw had darkened into almost black, her eye on that side
carried some of the colour as well, but it was the finger shaped bruising
around her throat that made Tywin simmer in his ire and wish to make the
already dead man suffer and die repeatedly.
His wife wasn't afraid to let people see what she had lived through, it was
something of an open taunt. She didn't powder herself or wear her hair
completely loose to cover her wounds, like other women might - some men as
well. She had steel under her porcelain and he admitted to himself that that
only made her more desirable in his eyes.
He had been in front of the fire, on the bench in the sitting room when she
padded her slippered feet around to stand in front of him. She was draped in
only an oversized crimson robe. Her face was serious, but kind. Her hair was
unbound.
His heart sped.
She seemed to like wearing his robe, and he was well past the want or care to
chastise her for donning it anymore. He could smell her in it, faintly, every
morning when he wore it, and he would be no more than a liar if he tried to
convince himself that he did not enjoy having her linger on him. The thought
made his lust sink and pool at his groin, but that was instantly extinguished
when she shed the garment.
He did not anticipate... He was not prepared...
His wife did not speak, and Tywin was thankful. He would not have been able to
even acknowledge conversation, let own participate in it. The bruising was
something he expected, what he didn't expect was that they would be in the
clear identifiable shape of the dead man's gods-damned hands.
They were everywhere on her and it felt like they had suddenly become
functional again and made to choke the staring lion. Purple-black hands painted
her breasts, her arms, her ribs, her hips, and gods, her inner thighs. The
finger marks on her throat were a prelude to everything else. Pycelle told him
she had been thoroughly welted, but failed to mention she lived with her
attacker's hands still on her.
Sansa stood motionless, with just the steady lift and dip of her breasts as she
breathed and watched him. He raised his hands to her, to her ribs, and placed
his fingers with a feather's touch over the bruising there. The marks were
thicker than the hands that covered them - his fingers were long, as were his
palms, and they did not match the large blunted prints on his wife.
Tywin found himself swallowing his boiling fury, he felt his back cool in the
sweat that broke out, but what slashed and bled him was the truth that greeted
his vision when he swept his eyes over the soft curve of her belly - not yet a
bump - to the wiry auburn curls at her juncture. Through the fair red, against
the pale of her skin, were long jagged scratches. He looked closer and keened
an almost silent noise when he saw they were on her mound as well as on her
thighs.
He curled his shoulders as his chest ached and he fought his vicious want to
kill. Instead he placed his lips over a few of the many scrapes emerging from
her thatch and kissed her. Then, moving one of his hands, he brushed his
fingertips over the lines of scabs, again barely caressing her, as though his
touch might gouge her deeper.
Tywin was so wrapped up in his own reaction to her harm that he did not notice
his wife's change in demeanor.
His contact was gentle, too gentle. As if Tywin thought she was beyond damaged
and fragile. A dried flower whose petals would turned to dust if handled any
more than hardly.
Her husband pitied her, again.
She loathed him for it, again.
If she was causing him to consider her that way, it would be something she
would put an end to.
When he peered up at his wife, she was wearing a look of anger. It not only
served to confuse him, but it washed him in embarrassment - a state so foreign,
and so frustrating, that he became angry as well.
"I am not broken."
She was not nettled, nor was she sad, her statement was leaning terribly close
to admonishment.
"This, I know."
His was a growl, unmistakably feral.
This time there was no question, Sansa was indeed chastising the old lion.
"Then why are you wallowing in marks that will fade?" 
How ridiculous. His young wife, naked save dainty slippers, upbraiding the Hand
of the King as though he were a chambermaid arranging gowns in the wrong order.
"I am not," he warned.
"You are."
Sansa did not raise her voice, she didn't have to. When her eyes reflected
disappointment she all but ruined him, if only for a heartbeat, and she knew
this.
"He took nothing from me, yet you act as though you've been robbed."
Sansa watched her husband deepen both his scowl and his breathing, he remained
voiceless even when his eyes became sharp and absolutely focused.
On her.
"I am yours, my lord," she stated with every bit of confidence. "Perhaps you'd
care to remember that."
Tywin stood bolt upright in one fluid motion, looked down at his wife - the
proud beautiful creature in front of him - indestructible, and his.
...remember that.
It was in no more than a blink that Tywin snatched her around the waist and
pulled her flush against him, hard. She bleated in surprise but did not waver
in her seriousness. He would have smirked at her, but his mind was still
influenced by his ego and could not enjoy the moment.
He knew her breasts were sensitive, but it did not stop her from rocking and
bucking into his body - as much as his one-armed grip would allow. Instead she
reached up and dug her fingers into the fabric at his doublet, attempting to
pull his face downward. He let her, mashing their mouths together as a result.
It was almost too hard, too violent, however Sansa was unrelenting. She clawed
her way up his neck and around to his nape, digging her nails into the skin
under his collar and up the back of his head.
She was marking him.
He would gladly walk into council with her passion openly displayed on him. He
pulled her into him harder and rolled his hips at the thought. The friction was
sweet, his cock pressed in his breeches, against her. His hands felt the soft
pale skin his mind was begging the rest of him to touch.
His need was prominent. His need was her.
...remember that.
Tywin crouched down and moved his mouth down Sansa's neck, over the bruises
there. She grunted at the pressure on them but stayed rooted, encouraging his
own marks - which he sucked and nipped into place. Whatever mistreatment that
was illustrated on her body was forgotten,  it had no place between them or
with them individually.
They each were stronger than one man's failure, and together they were surely
invincible.
His mouth moved further down her neck, over her collarbone to her tender
breasts. Tywin was gentle with her there, using soft kisses and being careful
to not even scrape his side whiskers on her skin. Sansa brought one of her
hands to cradle the back of his head and the other she used to stroke the side
of his face that was tilted upward. He closed his eyes at her touch, but did
not stop his light, open-mouthed kisses around the side and under her teat.
Tywin gave one last kiss to her breast before his hands met her hips, and he
moved her like a dance, until they had traded positions. With slight pressure
he wordlessly guided her to sit where he had been, and began removing his
clothing.
Lifting his tunic over his head, his body shook in arousal at the feel of his
wife palming his cock through his breeches. He was stuck in a laughable pose,
mid-strip, groaning with every stroke and tug Sansa laid on him. He could not
see her but he knew what she was doing: unlacing him, freeing his semi-hard
prick.
His hands were over his head, his tunic still covered his arms and face, but
Sansa was transfixed on the low-set breathing in his abdomen, how his lower
back curved toward her when she paid his cock attention, how the muscles in his
stomach went taut then relaxed with each pull and unlace her fingers
managed. Her husband's body was a myth to his age, and she took pleasure in
that lie. With his cock freed, she held the stiffening flesh in her palm - did
not stroke it, did not grasp it.
Tywin regained function of his mind and finished removing his tunic. Looking
down the slant of his body, he was greeted with a sight he would never tire of.
Sansa moved her face close to his groin and pressed her lips into the curls at
the base of his cock, then smiled as she watched it lengthen and harden
further. She felt his hand brush through her hair then fist gently. The air
shivered out of him when she placed her slightly opened lips against the
midpoint of his shaft and kissed that part of him too.
She repeated her affection twice more before she heard him speak.
"No, enough."
His voice was just a whisper, but his hands possessed every confidence as they
pushed her back with care. He stripped his boots and breeches off, slowly, and
watched her watch him. Watched her brow lift in silent invitation.kneeling in
front of her, sitting on his heels, her knees caressing each side of him, Tywin
used a hand on the side of her face, bending her forward slightly, pulling her
to him and kissed her waiting mouth.
This time their kiss played slowly, deeply, without an element of war.
Her fingers dug into the flesh at his ribs, making his cock twitch and his
tongue want more of hers. Using the guide of his body as he sat up taller on
his knees, she descended to her back. He leaned and led until she was mostly
laying flat on the seat of the bench, until he fit against her like gears
working - teeth in their path of contact. Sansa legs loosely wrapped into their
place around his waist, her heels resting above his arse waiting to encourage
and guide him.
Tywin created space between their bodies, his face still hovering above hers,
and slid his hand to the furrow of her cunt. Even with a light touch at the top
of her slit he felt she was slick and ready, and both moaned when he continued
his path over her sensitive bump to the heat at her entrance.
She blinked wildly when he pressed one finger into her, and shut her eyes
altogether when he added another and started fucking her at a pace he knew she
liked. The wet noise of his fingers working inside her and the dry airy
babbling spilling from her lips made him burn. It added fuel and ignited him
from the inside.
He sat up higher, created a larger gap, removed his fingers from her and opened
his mouth in an attempt to communicate.
"Put your h-"
The words, and all thought, were lost in the air he pushed out. Sansa knew
exactly what she wanted, what he wanted, and made the reach to grasp his
cock. One delicate hand wrapped around the base of him, pulling back the skin,
unsheathing him as she went, while the other hand stroked up over the tip. He
was dry there still and the skin was silken on her fingers, allowing her hand a
steady back-and-forth motion.
Sansa knew exactly how to make her husband pant.
The way he had taught her.
He could not stop himself from fucking into her fists, grinding himself into
her center with every push forward. He shut his eyes and let the sensation
cascade over him. He felt her hands adjust his cock in line to enter her body,
opened his eyes as her hands moved away, and took his girl in one solid thrust.
There was no tease, no play to achieve his depth within her. He claimed her
with that one push forward. They both knew it.
Sansa arched her back and gasped a large breath when Tywin sank into her. His
hands curled around her hips and held her in place as he set his rhythm, his
fingers clamping their mark on her skin, ensuring more with every forceful
shove his hips pressed forth. She only felt him, on her, within her, and her
world no longer existed outside the two of them. One of his hands ventured from
her hip to her backside. He gripped a handful of flesh, again as a claim, as a
physical testament to emotional ownership.
In that moment, for and of whom could be debated.
At first she wriggled in the excitement of his new gain, but it quickly
switched to discomfort - not of his grasp, but in the flood of memory regarding
whose hand was there previously.
Her mind started to panic.
The sour man.
He was touching her there with the barest of fingertips, but she stiffened
anyway. Didn't speak a word to tell him to stop, it was her eyes though, her
eyes spoke clearly that his wife was reliving an event that was horrible.
Tywin draped himself over and stilled his movement inside her. His hand stayed
in place, but stopped its tender stroking. He nudged his face and mouth into
her hair, beside her ear, and brought his other hand up from her hip to cradle
her crown.
He spoke low and calm, the same way he had approached her a handful of days
prior to gather equally important information.
"Do you want me to stop?"
The question was not a provocation. He could hear Sansa swallow hard, could
feel her nails dig into his flanks, and just as quick and discernible, he felt
her body relax and heard her breathing deepen again.
"No," she said softly, no fear in it.
Sansa felt her husband start to lightly, gently, sweep his fingers over her
hurt and terror. He did not move otherwise.
"You are mine," he breathed.
The words were there between them, half a murmur, half a growl, but they
weren't necessarily a proclamation.
...remember that.
Tywin pulled almost all of his length out of her and his breath caught at the
guttural moan she sang in his ear. He let his fingers drift from her arse to
the wet that was leaking to meet them in the cleft connecting her most intimate
parts, then pushed his cock into her once more. Slow and firm he thrust
forward, and was rewarded with a sound from Sansa that rivaled the one she made
due to its removal.
His fingers retreated, using the slickness he had pulled from where they were
joined to alleviate any abrasion as he resumed brushing them against her tiny
muscle. Sitting up taller, Tywin looked down at his wife, fucking and touching
her with a slow and steady rhythm; watching her face, the rose of her cheeks
blooming in their lust, her eyes in a half lidded stare, hazing more with every
pet and thrust.
His eyes followed Sansa's hand as it made the familiar journey to pleasure
herself and his body spiked in arousal, causing him to grind into her and push
her fingers onto her clit with a heavier pressure. He wasn't thrusting then,
more churning cumbered and his wife met every motion with a staggered moan.
His need for friction made itself known again, which transposed to hips rolling
over and over.
Sansa's eyes were fluttering in response to the internal heat that was
consuming her, the heat that was coiling tight where her body met her
husband's. Every time she was filled the coil constricted, and as she teetered
on the verge of breaking her limit she felt the tip of Tywin's finger slip into
a place that was forbidden.
It did not hurt, but there was a pressure. A resistance that lent itself to the
pleasure that had been building. She heard the loud mewl of noise, purely
wanton and unbidden, before she knew it was ringing from her own mouth.
She was beautiful, his lady, his wife, his; the sight of her, the feel of her
shivering inner clench, collectively forced his own resolve to fail
outright. His finger slipped out as he fucked into her hard, his hips adding
their own purple evidence to her inner thighs, watching her ride out her peak.
When she focused again, Tywin was near gasping.
Sansa was still heaving breaths, but for him everything stopped when she smiled
- at him, through him. He knew nothing in that instant except that she was his
and, in that fraction of life, he was truly hers.
His body slowed to a broken rhythm and shuddered as he reached his own peak,
spilling rope after rope of seed. His eyes shut as his release crashed into
him. He felt like he was losing control until strong, elegant hands anchored
him. They clamped around the back of his neck and guided his head down to where
his lips met hers - soft and swollen and waiting.
She kissed him like the fool he was; kissed him until his cock was soft and he
was still fucking into her for every last instance of pleasure; until she
pushed him out of her heat and he could feel their efforts run a hot river down
her cleft to his fingers.
Until he was purring and she was humming in contentment.
Sweat dripped between their bellies, he felt it growing cold on his lower back,
but he didn't want to move. Didn't want to break the trance he found himself
in. Instead, he nuzzled into her neck and hugged himself into his wife to keep
her, and the child, as warm as possible.
His child. Their child.
Not equal parts lion, not this time. A lion and a direwolf. Just as deadly,
just as fierce, unnerving all the same. He had planned the first, he knew what
to expect, Lannister through and through. Now there was Stark, northern
blood...
He inwardly chided his own stupidity - the babe was his, just as she was his,
and that was all that mattered.
...he was truly hers.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Winter VI *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
The betrothal and wedding of King Tommen and Lady Margaery was a prospect that
had been drawn out and negotiated through moons upon moons of winter. It was
not until his wife was made a target that Lord Tywin acted to seal an
association with Highgarden.
Of course, the marriage of the King to the Tyrell girl was advantageous for the
Reach, but in order to further solidify loyalty to House Lannister, the
betrothal and wedding of Lord Randyll Tarly and Queen Cersei was announced at
the same time. Lord Tarly's wife had become a victim of winter, of the cold
that permeated even the most hearty. She was not the only highborn to perish in
such a way, but she was the only one that served as a convenient favour to
House Lannister.
Tarly was undeniably loyal to his liege, fiercely so… some would even say he
was also the more dangerous of the two. A point to which Tywin had never paid
much heed. Lord Randyll was a skilled soldier, to be sure, than what else could
be said of a man whose only notable accomplishments were battles that were
nothing if not winnable. Yet Lord Tywin needed that regimented soldier. He
needed the man that could lead a vanguard with cold efficiency, absolute
control, but also held an element of recklessness. Lord Tarly would present
enough restriction to keep Cersei in line, but offer enough careless leeway to
allow her the feeling of advantage she needed to remain focused and relatively
effective in serving her father's interests.
Regardless of her folly toward his wife, Tywin would give her a purpose.
Whether she would make anything of it remained to be seen.
The greater purpose, more the greater need, no matter how long he avoided it in
his mind was that the betrothal and marriage would serve to occupy her in a
place outside of King's Landing. It would remove Cersei's from influence at the
side of the King and greatly reduce the power her station and name possessed in
a place she had come to rule.
The Tarly House was minor, a lesser vassal, and far below that which Tywin
would normally even blink at. But there was gain to be had, and for the safety
of any potential heir to the West Sansa carried, he was willing to make that
sacrifice. And to make it quickly.
His daughter fought and wailed and seethed as he knew she would, but her fire
dimmed rather quickly when her lord father repaid her attitude in kind. As far
as Cersei was concerned her ruse, her assassin, died with its secrets, and she
would continue to believe in her own cleverness. The three that knew
differently also knew the terrible repercussions toward House Lannister that
would occur should the truth ever surface.
It was blatant between Lord and Lady Lannister: both the silence in regards to
the attempt on Sansa's life, and the reasons for that silence.
One of those reasons grew daily inside its mother.
The tall length of Sansa's body hid the advancement of her pregnancy for quite
awhile. It was only within the sixth moon that her belly started to look
tellingly heavy with child.
Some women carried babes as no more than a burden, a tedious duty to the man
they married and the House they married into. While some, much like his wife,
wore this particularly extraordinary femininity like a declaration. It was a
unknown strength until such a time as they conceived.
Lord Tywin would catch himself staring. Not that the pursuit was anything new
by way of his wife; however, instead of tactfully marveling at her charm and
beauty, he found himself carelessly seeing a life ahead of them. A child born
to them. A legacy secured for them.
A foolish act, undoubtedly. He knew the danger of hope and promise, but as he
found his mind journeying more as the moons slipped by he warily and
begrudgingly resigned himself to being a buggering dolt.
She stood next to her husband as the feast honouring the marriage of Lord Tarly
and the Queen Regent wound down to entertainment and dancing. It was striking
just how much she was enjoying herself. King Tommen's wedding a fortnight prior
seemed to quash the dark negativity surrounding these particular events for her
and allowed her to approach this next one with an element of anticipation.
It did not matter who was being wed, it mattered that it was outside her normal
routine and something that brought her back to what made her happy in her
childhood: pageantry and pretty things. Perhaps it was the fact that she was
carrying a child herself that made her think that way. Although, with a forward
path of thought, she found that aspect didn't much matter. Sansa found she
could now wear a true smile and could bask in the happiness others openly
displayed toward her.
Queen Margaery most of all.
Her friend had taken to spending more and more of her days within arm's length,
and when King Tommen would join them, kittens and all, Sansa couldn't turn a
blind eye to the parallels her friend was experiencing.
"I have become a mother without the marks to show for it," Margeary had
confessed to her with a laugh.
And it was true. While Tommen was her husband, Margaery had replaced Sansa as
the boy's surrogate mother.
Those were the types of thoughts and recollections Sansa approached with
caution. She did care for the little king genuinely, and knew only too well the
damage one can incur in being a pawn. But as they spent time together, the
three of them, she subsequently discerned the Tyrells held an interest in
Tommen at a high enough regard that their protection extended fiercely to the
child-king. Whether their actual intent was something nefarious underneath
would only be brought about if ever circumstances changed, and while the
likelihood of that happening was little to none, Sansa was not so naive to
dismiss the possibility altogether.
At times, life as a Lannister seemed no more than a series of contingency
plans.
Sansa was tugged from her contemplation when she felt Tywin drift away from her
side. His continued conversations regarding the securing of more winter stores
in order to extend and resupply those in most need across the seven kingdoms, a
seemingly unbreachable current.
Her husband had told her that as much as conflict invites reason to callously
withdraw support from small folk as a method of warfare, that the aftermath
also brought opportunity. One such was ensuring stores enough for keeps and
lords alike. That it was the wiser measure in the throes of a desperate winter
to provide supply when and where it was most needed. He emphasized that
hardship lingered in memory, but acts of kindness in the time of hardship plant
deeper and carry through to spring - when loyalty from able, productive bodies
would be demanded once more.
In her mind, though it was a stretch, she felt that the spirit of Lord
Tywin's generosity was very much in line with that of her father's rule. Sansa
had half expected an angry retort when she had teased him the evening prior,
saying with a grin, "How very Northern of you, my lord." Tywin had only raised
his brows and scoffed lightly at her cheek.
Deep in thought amidst boisterous celebration, Sansa did not notice her husband
float farther away into the crowd - only then to be replaced by another set of
vivid green eyes. This set in a face of golden beauty. But when the beauty
spoke, the delicate façade was cracked, and a concealed ugliness exposed.
"Finally."
The former queen always had the ability to sling hate and judgment with only a
few syllables, and Sansa was left looking at her dumbly, blinking out her
attempt to focus and trying to decipher that one sneered word.
"Your Grace?" she inquired, genuine and unafraid.
Lady Sansa had long come to terms with Cersei's unapologetic disdain. It was
something she had been fully aware of the night Blackwater burned, and it was
something she, as she reflected now on her time as a ward, had been blind to
when she was initially betrothed to Joffrey. And for every sliver of her that
wanted to strike with words and actions against the woman that tried to have
her removed from the world, Sansa was sated in the larger gain. The one that
can only be obtained through patience and forward thought.
Family...
She was led back to the conversation at hand by bitterness and vitriol.
"You've finally proven your worth." Cersei eyed the obvious round of Sansa's
belly and drawled, "When my father married the North, I highly doubt he
anticipated you to be as barren."
Sansa took a moment to consider the former Queen and had to once again secure
the instinct to lash out in erstwhile protection of herself and her child. Her
mind instead flashed the reaffirmation of duty to her family. Queen Cersei was
once a lady Sansa so wanted to emulate, so wanted to please. Now she found
herself pitying the obviously flawed woman in front of her. She felt as though
Cersei's shortcomings were very much like those of Gregor Clegane. However, the
toy knight causing unstable malevolence in the former took the form of father
for the latter, and to a certain degree even he was not the sole cause of such
loathing. Some people, much like Gregor Clegane, much like Joffrey Baratheon,
much like Cersei Lannister, were simply born with a cruel blackness inside
them.
Sansa's hand instinctively rested on the swell of her babe as she smiled -
modest and natural.
"It was my choice, Your Grace."
"Your choice? " Cersei's curled her lip back in disgust. "Your choice to what?
Share my fathers bed for... sport?"
The Queen Regent spat the last word in such a way it fell into the air as salt
would a wound, and the offensive statement made Sansa blush. Her relationship,
especially anything intimate, was of no concern to anyone least of all the
daughter of her husband. It was with a flood of embarrassment that Sansa
suddenly felt the maiden that she was under the harsh control of this same
woman and her son; her words were meant to be confident but they came out
breathy and unsure.
"I- Lord Tywin wanted..."
It was all Cersei needed to wedge a foothold for her verbal brutality.
"Are you sure it's his?"  The sickly-sweet smile Cersei wore painted her for
exactly what she was: knowing. "I hear you've taken to entertaining sellswords
for sport as well."
Sansa lost whatever hesitations she felt, but would not allow her frustration
to lead her.
Anger is the first sign of defeat.
"I'm sure Lord Tarly will afford you the same courtesy, Your Grace," she
asserted softly, her voice ever-polite. And just as she anticipated, Cersei
worked her face into a look of exaggerated confusion. Sansa continued, charming
and engaged, "Now that his need for an heir has become a priority."A missive
reached them only that morning announcing Lord Randyll's son and heir had
succumbed to the same sickness that took his mother. "Surely you won't be
expected to simply bleed and breed, like every wife before you. Not
immediately, Your Grace."
Without much thought and with her face schooled to a look that was practiced
and courteous, Sansa reached out and patted the Queen, her daughter, on the
hand. A gesture that had been reversed the morning of her own wedding and given
with about the same amount of empathy. At the same time, the stern-faced groom
stepped to the side to his bride and asked, using no more than a suspicious
glance, the nature of their conversation. 
Her demeanour switched to one representing a maid of no more thanten, and words
were out of her mouth before Sansa could even consider them. 
"Will there be a bedding, my lord?" 
Lord Tywin arrived just in time to observe his wife's baffling behaviour. He
would never imagine Sansa slipping into the guise of frivolous girl, but the
question clearly exacted the reaction she wanted as Cersei bristled in a
palpable fury. Even the most flippant of words were a dangerous game, one that
Sansa clearly did not think through. As he returned fully to her side, Tywin
gently flexed his fingertips into the lower back of his abruptly saccharine
wife. In the same instant, his daughter flashed her angry green eyes first at
Sansa then to him.
The Queen's look clearly stated she was appalled and offended at the mere
suggestion of such a thing.
Tywin drifted his inquiring gaze to the lord in question, who seemed to have
paid the idea little thought and opted then to take control and make the
decision for him.
"You have suffered more than enough this winter, my lord - your men by proxy."
 Tywin flicked his stony eyes to his daughter then back to Lord Tarly. "I'm
sure they would benefit from a tradition of this nature." Nodding pointedly at
his daughter, he continued, "It is nothing that hasn't been partaken in before,
and what better way to usher in a favourable notion of their new lady."
Sansa wore a smile and posture that suggested her head was filled with air -
exactly what she needed to portray when Lord Tarly scrutinized the Hand's
normally astute wife to determine if her suggestion had been a jape at his
expense. She placed a hand over her belly and smiled all the wider for him.
When Lord Randyll answered, he did so to Lord Tywin. His use and tolerance for
women outside the duty and function of marriage was well known. His use and
tolerance for dreamy girls speaking of frivolous behaviour was even less, but
his men were sacred to him, and Sansa should have recognized and utilized that
angle from the outset.
Bloody, bloody fool.
"Yes, Lord Tywin. I am sure they'll appreciate the gesture."
The Commander's voice was much like steel yet to be tempered: strong with an
element of brittle. The latter trait was a mystery and had nothing to do with
confidence or weakness and everything to do with unpredictability. Lord Tarly
extended his arm then, his expression remaining stern and unimpressed, and
waited for his new wife to accept it.
Sansa watched a flash of anger exchange between father and daughter - a
momentary widening of the eyes, nothing more. Violence exacted by way of
subtly, and the victor was clear when Cersei wasted no time in resting her hand
on the arm of her new husband before being led away. They were out of earshot
when Tywin removed his hand from her back and partially turned to her.
"I know why Sansa, but you were careless." Her husband's voice was low and
agitated, the hand nearest her front came up and gently cupped the round of
their babe. "Handle yourself accordingly or find the flexibility in your
lifestyle restricted, if not removed outright. Understand?"
Her jaw clenched visibly. Sansa despised being treated like that. She fumed for
a moment at the concept of carrying his child and having him see her as one as
well... but her actions were just that: childish. Sansa took a deep breath,
dissipating her annoyance.
"Apologies, my lord," she offered in all sincerity.
Her husband turned again to look at her fully, his eyes played angry but
softened somewhat when she brushed her fingers over his hand still laid on her
belly.
"I'm sorry," she reiterated in a tiny voice as she lowered her eyes to the
brightly jeweled broach anchoring the wide crimson sash he wore over his
doublet.
The impact of her actions were now becoming accentuated amid them. For the
amount of anger she had seen in the eyes of Lord Tywin, his voice was toned
with nothing of it.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
Sansa complied and was humbled in that his eyes truly matched his inflection,
and it made her foolishness seem even more petty and brash.
He was worried.
They were far enough to the outskirts of the ballroom that Sansa allowed her
mask to fade slightly and let her features tell her husband what words could
not justify. That she knew she endangered them all for no more reason than self
satisfaction, and her conscience was suffering for it. He leaned into her as
though to speak closely, but instead of words he kissed her softly,
purposefully. It was not so quick that it meant nothing, but he did not linger
either. Sansa watched seriousness resurface in his countenance as he stood to
full height again, but gone was the irritation. Her own courtesy slid back into
place, her husband waiting until she was adjusted and ready before taking his
place at her side, gently gripping her hand and slipping it into its place on
his arm.
Theirs was a puzzle whose pieces - physical and otherwise - fit so flush and
absolute no room was afforded between them. However, instead of letting the
build of them become uncompromising, they had, sometimes unknowingly, developed
new pieces and refashioned the puzzle as they went.
Sansa stood beside her lion as he moved them once again amongst the crowd,
casting the immaculate demeanour she had been lauded for since she was a babe,
flicking her eyes around them and turning her head in order to observe more of
the room.
An ominous prickle on the skin at the back of her neck was how she knew eyes
were watching her. Not those that glance, but those that track intently.
Hunting. Not looking directly to the source, and taking advantage of Tywin
stopping to address one lord or another, Sansa needed no more than her
periphery to distinguish Cersei sitting at the high table, glaring. 
She could not help it, she had to. Sansa looked at the woman dead-on, and
viewing Cersei in that moment was like trying to read a single page that had a
hundred stories on it, all overlapping: hate, fury, confusion, and obvious
sadness. Each piled up and fighting for position. It was then she considered
the sitting height of the Queen, instantly acknowledging that Tywin's show of
affection was not only visible to his daughter, but angled in such a way that
there would be no question as to who initiated the intimacy.
Sansa did not smile at the Queen or offer anything other than impassiveness as
she watched the older woman crack and crumble with an eerie, stoic grace. She
wanted to neither help nor hinder that avalanche of hurt consuming the golden
lioness. Sansa's mind shifted the images and considerations regarding what she
was witnessing, until she landed soundly on the conclusion: there was nothing
more devastating to a daughter than watching her father choose the girl he
married for gain over the child he sired with the woman he loved. 
She looked toward Tywin then, struggling with her mind's want to deduce whether
his actions were truly that maliciously calculated, and although she was
confident in the reasoning that such a blow was purely coincidental, her heart
radiated an ache anyway.
Sansa had to focus on her unborn child, not daring to look at Cersei again. The
distraction enough to avoid getting swallowed up in an avalanche of her own.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Lord Tywin had never been a man to rest on his laurels or remotely ease at the
passing of adversity. That was why, when Cersei had finally journeyed to Horn
Hill with her husband, he did not budge in his staunch refusal of his wife's
request to reduce her guard detail.
He had assigned four Lannister men of the oldest Houses to his wife. They were
loyal. Trusted not only to die for her, but they also had enough field
experience to ensure they would not become distracted from their duty at the
first sniff of cunt.
"Even by half, my lord?" Sansa wasn't begging, she was laying out her reasoning
as best she could to a man who obviously did not want to hear it. "Two would
hardly bring the attention that four does."
They had settled at their desk. It wasn't late in the evening, but Sansa would
begin to feel her wakefulness and usefulness sap before long and she wanted
this addressed while she was alert.
"Let them take their look," her husband affirmed. He was making an effort to
keep his ire in check, she knew. "I care nothing of your want to have your
gowns' view unobstructed."
Her lips thinned and her jaw flexed.
"Why do you feel it necessary to punish me?"
This was an anger she felt no control of. These bouts had only become prominent
since she had been with child, her careful patience refusing its usual role.
Being replaced currently by irrationality, which only agitated her more as it
was of no assistance in helping to accomplish her goal.
"It is not about punishment, you thick-headed child."
Tywin had leaned into her some, but was not seething or throwing his words in
an effort to hurt. Sansa found the contrast perplexing, then focused sharply as
he continued.
"You are an asset carrying my asset. I'll have you locked away in a tower if I
so choose."
The reference to her aunt was insensitive, but the point of caring was well
passed. He cocked his head toward her for only a heartbeat before turning back
to the correspondence he was reviewing. His wife looked furious, but her own
words belied her features.
Suddenly her concern over the number of guards was nowhere to be found and she
did not know whether to lay blame at the feet of her seemingly ever-fickle mind
or somewhere deeper. She should have been petulant and venomous, but was
instead sad and distant.
"Will you leave me there to perish as well, my lord?"
Frustration washed clean out of the Great Lion, but his pride was impossible to
sidestep. "Cease questioning me, Sansa." He flicked an intense glare at her.
"Lest you care to tempt your luck."
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead coughed out the air she
inhaled for her words, widened her eyes at her husband, and placed both her
hands on her belly.
Tywin was standing immediately.
"Are you well?" His voice was calm but he did not give her a chance to answer.
"Sansa, are you in pain?"
She blinked rapidly and grabbed his sleeve with one of her hands, the other
remaining on the babe.
"I'm well," was all she said.
The hand on his sleeve moved to his wrist and tugged lightly. This was part of
Sansa's communication when they were alone - touches, tugs, pulls, and pushes.
Each signifying different requests, thoughts and feelings, that changed in
different scenarios. Hers was a silent language Tywin could appreciate and,
like his wife in regards to his levels of seriousness, he had become fluent.
He gave her command of his hand and watched as she lowered it to lay beside
hers on the swell under her breasts.
Tywin knew what was coming. Sitting down again, keeping his hand in the place
his wife set it, the old lion closed his eyes and lowered his head in a deep
bow.
She thought it odd that he would not look at her and for a moment considered
that he himself may not be well. A concern left open until the hand on her
started to stroke in tiny circles. She smiled down at the motion and understood
that while everything that was happening to her was new, it was not new to him.
Sansa hiccoughed at the movement inside her, so strange, the twisting thumping
thing, but his hand remained constant - rubbing and warm. When she looked to
him, his head was still dipped low, she could not see his face, but she could
see how his shoulders relaxed and his side whiskers swayed, how his chest moved
in catches and quick intakes with every wave, and she smiled at the small
growling huffs he would emit for every bump and tumble under his palm.
She let him be.
He looked at his wife when she made a sound, a gasp of surprise. The babe had
shifted in what felt like an internal melee. Meeting his gaze, her wide-eyed
manner the same as before, Sansa smiled broadly, her voice full of wonder.
"I- there hasn't been so much... dancing before, my lord."
With that she looked questioningly to where Tywin's hand rested and his mouth
twitched at her amazement, but dropped to a grimace as he felt himself
acknowledge his ignorance. When his wife looked at him again, her own
countenance floundered from question to hesitation, to a polished version of
pleasant - worn strictly for his benefit, making his inner chastisement that
much more prominent. His lady wife had no idea what was happening to her. Aside
from what was discussed with the Maester, she had no other women in her life to
relate to in this time, to talk to about such things - not like Joanna did.
Queen Margaery was yet a maiden and Cersei was never an option... Genna
perhaps, she could be a suitable companion. Well older, but his wife never had
issue with relating to anyone...
He was getting lost in his thoughts and his wife was watching him disappear.
"Did your mother ever talk to you about such things?"
The pain that gathered in her eyes stuck him even though it was expected. He
had asked the question gently, but there was no way to remove the hurt of its
context.
Sansa dropped her gaze, shook her head slightly and spoke softly. "No," she
said, looking up then and to his surprise she was smiling, small and sincere.
"I think she had always assumed we would be together when I was..."
Glancing down once again his wife rubbed her hand over her roundness, brushing
a careful caress against Tywin's fingers as she went.
Selfishness sometimes liked to traipse around and call itself protection. Tywin
knew well enough that he would never compromise the preservation of his legacy,
but smothering it was equally hazardous. He had essentially kept her to
himself, but there was never a time he felt that that was not the proper course
of action... No, his thoughts argued, she made the choice to keep near as well.
Aside from the new Queen, he was all she had. What a sad truth. Sharp and
double edged because even sadder, his mind ticked away in terrible honesty, was
that aside from Kevan, she was all he had too. It had never been an issue,
being reliant on himself, he needed no one. The moment Joanna died, the
requirement for companionship died too.
Or so he thought.
It took a marriage to a northern girl and the onset of winter to realize that
need never really dies, it only becomes dormant. And although he told himself
that his only need was an heir, like anything that shakes off the listlessness
of hibernation, the slow lumbering truth was that his real need was so much
more.
"Are you lonely?"
His mouth said the words, his thumb brushed lines on the bump of life inside
her, and he did not know which of the two people in the room the question was
meant for. Suddenly he felt like a thick-headed child. But her demeanour did
not shift. When she looked at him, he could see in her stare consideration, not
calculation, something thoughtful and genuine - and he hated the fact that he
was anxious of her answer.
"In regards to being with child, yes."
"In regards to everything else?"
She blinked at him, slowly, methodically, and answered truthfully, "No, my
lord. I am not."
Lord Tywin nodded absently as he absorbed her honesty, and spoke with the same
amount of distraction. "I am afraid I'm not much of an authority on
childbearing."
It was her chuckle that snapped him back into the moment.
"A fine pair of midwives we make."
He scoffed at her sarcasm. It was a part of her that seemed to have developed
on its own. Although she rarely used it outside his company, and never had it
been cruel.
"I will send for someone who will tend to you - someone you can talk to."
Her smile faltered barely a degree, but he caught it plain as day.
Sansa abandoned her humour. "Who, my lord?"
"A woman."
One side of his wife's face pinched in annoyance at his own sarcasm. Although
his was never meant to be funny, except perhaps with her, and even then it was
obscure, sometimes cutting, and always dry as Dorne.
They simply looked at each other for several moments until Tywin's fingers were
wrapped up and twined in those of his wife. She did not break his gaze, but her
features softened. She looked so young without the harshness of courtly
decorum, and when she smiled at him with her eyes he heard her agreement and
gratitude as loud and as clear as if she had sung it by the lungful to the
world around her.
He grinned, awkward and without warmth, but his own eyes were where Sansa knew
to look. It was there she saw a man who seemed to be awake for the first time
in a long time.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It had taken quite a lot of coaxing and training of the four fierce men she was
surrounded by daily to have them not disturb her time alone in the
godswood. No, she corrected. It took cunning.
More than once Sansa had found herself physically pulling them out of the
clearing in which she prayed and contemplated. The clank and rattle of their
shifting stances and occasional investigations into the looming threat of
curious squirrels were enough to yank her out of her meditation and shove her
directly into a fiery temper.
Their compromise culminated in the guards sweeping the clearing before standing
at the gates with their charge out of visual range, but within shouting
distance.
Tywin agreed to the lapse only after the proposed alternative of her joining
him at counsel if he wanted her monitored so meticulously turned out to be no
mere threat. As her pregnancy moved on it left behind her inhibition. She had
followed him into counsel chambers a half dozen times, once even sitting beside
a thoroughly pleased Lord Varys, and for the sanity it would save him, the
compromise was a small tax.
All she wanted was the peaceful freedom of her thoughts and memories in a place
that reminded her of home.
Of the North.
The foliage was long gone from the canopy of the godswood, but the density of
the branches did not allow much accumulation either. The ground was no longer
lush and soft though, it was frozen hard under her feet - a detail that
prompted her husband to insist on a bench being installed and used, as he would
not have his wife kneeling in the frost like a savage.
She smiled as she sat, glad of her husband's stubborn shade of thoughtfulness.
Bundled in a heavy cloak, soaking in the calm, Sansa grinned as she looked down
the front of her. Her cloak was so dense that her pregnancy was thoroughly
concealed - until her hands moved covertly under the fabric to brush an outline
of her babe.
Their babe.
Though there was no weirwood tree in the godswood of King's Landing, Sansa
often prayed that the old gods could see her, could see that she was well and
that she was going to be a mother. She wanted her father to know that she was
strong and that no matter where her child was born, that it would always be of
the North.
Even the persistent caws of the raven that lived within the wood were a strange
comfort.
Movement in her peripheral caught her attention, rustling from the shadows of
her place of quiet reflection. It was common to see one of the many smaller
forest animals that sometimes wandered into the godswood cross her path, and
she watched with a smile to see which it would be, a rabbit, a fox...
But the shadow grew to a height well outside the norm of any four-legged beast
that would be seen amongst the trees. Her hands immediately covered her belly
under her cloak and her breathing became rapid as she stood from the bench.
The shadow took shape of a hulking man, and Sansa's eyes went wide.
The sour man.
"Guards! Guards!" she bellowed, gripping tight the babe inside her, protecting
it as she backed away.
Only moments slid away until the rushing steps and calling voices of her
protectors could be heard. At the same time, the shadow started to retreat and
spoke as it vanished into the shifting blacks and greys from where it had
emerged.
"Little Bird."
Sansa watched the figure disappear completely and was left wide eyed and
shaking her head in quick little movements, trying to dislodge the words she
thought she had heard.
Swords drawn, her four warriors were red-faced and poised to kill.
"A dog," she muttered, half in a daze. "I saw a large dog." Turning toward the
opposite direction from which her past had mingled with her present. Sansa
pointed in a clear way and spoke quite in a daze. "It ran through that
thicket."
Two men pursued her lie while the other two men wasted no time in escorting her
back to the Keep.
The next handful of days saw Sansa visiting the godswood without fail. Even
when the wind was so bitter she had to cover her face and head with a thick
wool scarf, she was there. Without fail. She went at the same time every day,
not praying, but hoping, and hoping not, to see the ghost again.
After a sennight Sansa knew for certain her vision had surely been a form of
mother's sickness. However, on the ninth day, her peace was disturbed by the
flush of a group of birds sent flying away as their own peace at the edge of
the clearing was intruded upon by a giant man shuffling through the underbrush.
Sansa stood once more, still nervous, but not entirely frightened.
The figure was hooded, dressed in no more than scraps and rags - brown dun
mostly, and whatever else could be layered together in order to create warmth.
She knew this man.
Nothing of the dull armour he used to live in could be seen or heard, and he
was walking with a slight limp to his gait. He approached her slowly, as though
she were about to take flight like the birds he had already disrupted.
Sansa had no intention of leaving. She craned her neck further back the closer
he ventured. Even in her growth she was nowhere near tall enough to look at him
without effort. He stopped just within arm's reach, she could hear an all too
familiar growl from within the recess of the frayed hood and could not stop the
grin that widened on her face.
It wasn't that she was necessarily happy to see the Hound, it was more that she
had a confirmation of her past. A confirmation that she was not strictly made
of the events of her here-and-now, that she actually had history. And while he
wasn't the person she would choose to define her, he had existed with her in a
time that she remembered being happy... and in a time that she was not.
There was a large inhale from the depths of the men's cowl, then large hands
rose to push the hood back.
The face of Sandor Clegane was exactly how she remembered: gruesome. Although
his scars were not as shockingly severe as she recalled from her memory. But
then, she wasn't the same stupid little bird looking at him. What did strike
her as frightening was how gaunt his face was. She then realized that it was
the amount of clothing he wore that was contributing to the familiar bulk of
the man before her.
The next thing she noticed was the clarity in his eyes. There was no watery
blur, nothing drunken, nor the constant haze that made it hard to focus on him
- even when he would rage at her to do so. The whites of his eyes were just
that, no longer a sickly pitch of yellow - a hue that was ever emphasized in
the green glow of the last night in which they saw each other.
Sing for your life...
"Not afraid to look anymore, Little Bird?" said the all familiar rasp of steel
on stone bathed in an air of superiority.
It was another strange comfort in the godswood. As though it had not been years
since they had seen one another.
Her voice was confident, if not a little distracted. "I have seen worse."
The remaining brow of Sandor Clegane lifted high, but instead of addressing the
words she said, he questioned the words she didn't.
"Lost your courtesies along with your virtue, girl? No ser or my lord?"
The words rang in the same mocking tone she remembered, leveled with a measure
of cruelty, but it no longer held the sharp edge they once did. No, now she
found it all particularly lacking. A base attempt to rattle her, a tactic long
since outmaneuvered while in the company of men and women who actually hated
her.
"Did you acquire those titles since we last met?" she asked dryly, but not
unkindly.
His snort, however improper, was a pleasant thing to hear. It also seemed to
lighten him a fraction.
"No, Little Bird, I've had everything taken away, not given."
"Is that what you are doing here?" A sense of bravery laced its way around her
countenance. "Begging?"
Sandor leaned his head back and grinned.
It was an ugly thing.
"Aye. Beg and stealperhaps."
She was tired of the game, she needed answers. "Not much bounty in the
godswood."
He ducked his head to look at her straight and she knew his declaration before
his lungs gave it life.
"I've found what I'm looking for, Little Bird," he sneered.
He must have been expecting her to blanch or protest or at the very least
exhibit a look of concern because when her face displayed only annoyance, the
man was at a loss.
"You are no more a Wildling than we are in the North. You'll not steal me."
His face reddened and she thought he would fling his wrath. It never happened.
Instead he spun around, paced away, then spun around and returned. When he did
not speak, only huffed, Sansa asked her own question with an air of
disappointment.
"And where exactly would we go?"
"Pick a fucking direction, girl," he spat, raising his hands as if to display
her options. "Don't tell me you like it here." He leaned down with his all too
familiar glare. "I can still smell a lie."
How do you explain the unexplainable to a man who distrusts the words you
speak? Sansa looked away in an effort to assemble what she needed to say, but
her breath caught at the feel of fingers like iron clasping her chin and tilted
her face to view his.
No one touched her like that, not even her husband, not any more. And she had
to douse the internal want to slap his hand away and upbraid his
presumption. She was not the girl he left behind, but he was blinded by what he
thought he could see: the same indecisive bird waiting for a knight to rescue
her. And he was impeded by what he refused to acknowledge: that he was trying
to be that same bloody knight.
He cared, she knew. His intentions were for the good, she knew. His loyalty was
for her alone, she knew.
And he had no idea.
Sansa did not breathe a sound, neither did she take her eyes off him. Her own
hand wrapped around his wrist - as much as it was able - and pulled his fingers
away from her chin. She kept as much of a grip as she could hold on the deadly
man and continued to move his hand downward.
Sandor's eyes widened minutely, feeling his knuckles brush down the long span
of her pale throat. The air hitched as he tried to exhale when Sansa pulled his
brutish paw into the warmth of her cloak, over her collar and into the dips and
bumps of the thick grey necklace she wore.
Their eyes stayed locked.
He bared his teeth, groaned some sort of whimper, and flipped his palm down
when he felt the softness of her breasts through her bodice - but she did not
stop.
When his hand finally halted, the lips of Sandor Clegane parted, but any words
that were behind them ended before they began. He blinked out patterns, and
Sansa watched through the dark scruff on his neck the heavy rise and fall of
the bulb in his throat. She knew these actions were a man's way of forcefully
comprehending what he did not want to.
Sandor was on the banks of the Trident again, lamenting of his should-haves,
trying to end his life with a con, knowing that he would die a failure - that
he had failed her. And when men removed the possibility of death, he became
restless and needed to try again - and succeed...
...fuck.
The giant man in front of her dropped hard to his knees and Sansa couldn't
imagine the pain of landing dead weight on the pointed, frozen ground. What was
most curious though was that his hand never moved from her belly. Sandor
slumped in what looked like defeat, hung his head and kept a gentle grip around
her baby with his outstretched palm.
"Too late," he whispered. A sound barely heard.
She watched as his whole body heaved to take in air, only to shiver and growl
in an effort to push it out again through his teeth. He was fighting with
himself and it was as though she stepped back in time, her memory flooded with
pangs of old fear and waves of new fearlessness. It was quite something to
observe turmoil in this man from a position above.
"That fucking night..." His utterance came out as a retch. "I should have taken
you-"
Her tone was even but her words were terribly sharp. "With you? Or for
pleasure?" 
Sansa knew what it was to be at the mercy of a man wanting to take what was not
his. Sandor was that man for a brief moment once, the sour man more so, and
after the more recent attempt she further understood that ignorance, on both
their parts - one built of youth, the other built of self loathing - saved
them both the night of Blackwater.
He looked at her then, but made no effort to move. Neither did she.
"Do you have a blade?" Sansa asked in a serene voice.
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, but she was dauntless in the asking
of it. It was what kept Sandor's eyes trained to hers as he used his free hand
to pass her the deadliest honed shit-metal dirk that side of the Wall. A token
scored on his journey to King's Landing from a boy he had to kill for trying to
bleed out his own life in his sleep.
She took it without question and they again were frozen in time and weather in
some sweet pose. The exception being that now one of them was armed.
Sansa had a plan, had an advanced notion of what she wanted to do, but once the
heft of the knife bobbed her palm all she could think about was the weight he
had held her down with that last night. Her mind was awash with the control he
had wanted over her, then it snapped to the icy bite of another blade - one
that had rested on her neck dangerously.
She was becoming claustrophobic in the open air. Long buried fury was burning
its way to the forefront of her mind, licking and charring as it went, slowly,
methodically guiding her hand.
She laid the flat of the bruise coloured blade against the unburned side of
this throat. The action did not startle him, but she could see his pulse under
the growth of beard, through the dirt and grim, thrum a little faster.
Sandor had kept her eye, wariness and a flicker akin to longing danced in them.
She couldn't decide if he was longing for her or for her to end him. The former
was something now that she had grown - lived -she could not deny was in him
during their life before. Whether or not it was coupled with desire, or if she
was simply the entity he felt earned that from him, she did not know. What
she did know was that he was not the same man, just as she was not the same
girl.
On his knees, his giant hand still resting like a warm blanket over the babe
she carried, his face somber, he tilted his head to the side, exposing more of
his neck to her.
A dare? A request? She was unsure.
Focusing on the glint of steel against the thick coarse hair, she angled the
blade a small amount and pushed delicately. The stiffness of the hair there was
made almost brittle by the freezing temperature, but the knife's edge sheared
it without catch or stutter. 
The large man closed his eyes then. If this was to be his fate, his redemption,
then so be it. He was not afraid of death. He had lived for her once, twice
maybe, he would die for her as well, once more, if that was her will.
Sansa felt his fingers loosen on her belly, but his hand stayed. He had let her
go but not all the way, and that was the clearer sense of it all. Of them.
Whatever they were. They were bound by experience and circumstance, by anger
and naivety, by life. It was shared ordeals no matter how terrible, no matter
how rudimentary or complex. It was in them. Even after all the changes and
transitions their history remained.
He would never ask for forgiveness, though she was intuitive enough to know
that was what he wanted. The greater question was if she was prepared to give
it. She angled the knife again and watched the tip slip just under the skin,
watched the first bead of crimson form on the steel and steam and fail to fall
because of the cold.
His breathing slowed, she could see, the features of the unruined side of his
face were peaceful.
She was still so delicate, but no longer a little bird. There was strength
there too, in her eyes, mostly in her confidence. Sandor could easily see -
 feel - she had formed herself around whatever occurred after he had left.
Claimed whatever it was and allowed it to make her stronger. He had been so
sure Tywin Lannister would have shelved her away to breed. He was also sure he
was glad that he had been so wrong.
It suited her, this strength, this steely resolve and mysterious intimidation.
She held it well, and again it was the confidence that allowed her to wield the
thing with lethal precision. Sandor felt... proud perhaps. Maybe even happy
that this was her fate. Something he was able to see for himself before his
end.
He heard various snips and cuts, and wondered if Lady Sansa had also become
cruel under the tutelage of Lord Tywin, until he acknowledged that the cold
blade was no longer on him. The confusion he felt, regardless of how mild,
threatened to spark the anger in him that some including himself had called The
Hound. A threat that was controlled now, sometimes easily, sometimes not, he
willed that part of him to remain buried all the same.
The Hound is dead... and so is his Little Bird.
As Sansa clipped and plucked every gold button, fastening and jeweled bead from
the gown beneath her cloak, she tried to form the words and sentences
explaining her actions. Nothing was lining up. All she could see in her
periphery were eyes, sharp and dissecting, assessing her and culminating their
own answers. When she was finished, her dress looked slightly tattered, no
more, but it was nothing her cloak wouldn't hide. Ridding herself of the gown
would be the greater challenge.
Sansa gave the knife back and watched as Sandor tucked it under the ribbons of
coverings. When she held his gaze again she felt a calm overtake her. A wave
that wasn't to push away fear, there was too much warmth for that, it emanated
from her chest outward and she recognized it as the assuredness she gained from
the godswood.
The little girl who put so much faith in faith was long put to bed, but the
flutter of dreams from that same little girl allowed her more cynical older
self to believe in a tiny bit of guidance.
A tiny bit of conviction.
Using her free hand, she gently pulled Sandor's away from her belly and turned
it upward. His eyes shifted to the glittering bits that were plinking into the
well of his palm.
It wasn't much.
She needed more.
Her eyes must have flashed worry because the deep set grey ones in front of her
narrowed in question. Lady Lannister tilted her vision down to the child made
of her and her lord husband, then looked once more at the man who had just held
onto that life, gentle and protective. 
Bringing her hands up and behind her neck, Sansa dug and fumbled until she
found what she needed and, with a rather unsophisticated grunt, she unlatched
the heavy white-gold necklace with the even heavier ruby that she had become
known for. And even as she held it out to the man on his knees, she knew there
would be a great cost. This single action would be paid for in lives, she knew.
Sansa bit back the sting of tears when she felt her child move, and in that one
tender moment she also understood that the value of life fluctuated. A heinous
circumstance. One that if she had lived in a better world she would never have
to give thought to preserving herself and what was hers over anyone else. But
as it stood, the possibility of benefit for her children's future meant a
sacrifice now, and she would shoulder that burden gladly.
Though, that was the gamble. Was this man worth the cost? Would her venture pay
out in the end? There could be no real certainty in the matter, only chance.
The precious metal and jewels landed sound in the large hand below. Yes, even
her thoughts would brook no opposition, it is worth it. Sansa mustered every
sliver of determination and poise that belonged to her before addressing him.
"You have to live, Sandor." Her brow sunk in a manner more like Lord Tywin as
she became commanding. "Promise me."
The big man took a few swaying tries before he was able to stand at full
height, stretching himself high. First looking down at her, then to her middle,
then back to her eyes again with an intensity that required inner reassurance
that whatever he was radiating was for her, not against her.
And when he spoke, she knew it was a vow.
"I promise."
They were two words she felt rumble out of him, that came from somewhere behind
the blood and meat and bone - there was no question of truth.
He closed his fist around her investment like closing a book and the hulking
man backed away into the shadows again.
Sansa could see while she watched his retreat, as bright as any sun, the
glimmer in his eyes. It wavered slightly but was there all the same: a life, a
hope, a mark to strive for, or simply a soldier tasked with a mission. Whatever
it was, it hung on him like natural finery, priceless and incomparably sublime.
Sansa couldn't help it - couldn't stop it even if she wanted to - she smiled at
Sandor Clegane as one would a friend. And she was sure, as the dark shade
finally overtook him, she was sure Sandor Clegane smiled back.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
 
 
***** Winter VII *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Her dream was filled with conversation; a man and a woman. Sansa had taken to
lying down in the hours before supping with Tywin, and occasionally woke to the
voices of Ser Kevan or Ser Jaime, but never to that of a woman. Never to a
woman crying in pain. What began as a sunny vision of her mother and father
talking idly in her dream, slid into something nefarious as the exchange fell
to accusations. Her mother became faceless in the midst of the yelling and her
father grew taller, leaner... golden...
Her belly had become cumbersome of late, prompting Lord Tywin to have a maid at
her side at all times he was not and Deena was at her service immediately,
assisting her rise from the bed, the noise of the argument growing louder as
her feet found the floor. Standing cold in her nightdress, shivering not for
the weather but for the cut of silence that had now engulfed her, the voices
having seemingly faded, Sansa held out her hand signaling the older woman to
both obtain and dress her in her husband's robe. At the same time she shrugged
into the garment, Sansa inquired in a tone so low it was as though she were
trying not to spook the atmosphere any more than it was.
"The commotion, Deena, what is it?"
"It's no good, m'lady." The woman's voice was even softer than her own. "Your
necklace, m'lord's favourite, it's gone missing." The handmaid wore a look of
seriousness and spoke much like a confession, "The new one, don't know her
name, she was to clean it, but brought the box to Lord Tywin instead. She says
it were found empty, but m'lord says she lies."
Whatever sleep remaining in Sansa fled from the inferno of fear that had
sparked then ignited within her.
This was it. This was the cost of paying a debt owed to a man who had protected
her as well as he could, and who had saved her life more than once - the
exchange of another life. Not that Sandor would care or think at all about that
particular price being paid, but she would.
Wasting no time to ready and dress properly, Sansa padded through the small
corridor quickly and approached the entrance of the sitting room. She no longer
heard malicious words, but what she did hear was just as dreadful. The noise
was sharp followed by a sorrowful yelp, then repeated inconsistently. It made
her lungs forget how to breathe. Every acute slap snagged the air like thorns
on a vine, but it was the utter misery behind it that made her feet move again.
Stepping into the large room, she took a deep breath and surveyed the situation
at hand.
Toward the fire, at the rear of the bench, Tywin had his back to her. He was
standing calmly, no longer yelling, there was no indication that he was
infuriated at all - and that was terrifying. Equally terrifying was what lay on
the ground.
Strewn before the fireplace were the broken remains of the jeweler's box that
had contained her necklace. It had been thrown down with a force strong enough
to bend the solid key and shatter the carefully crafted wood at the corners.
The plush bag that held the finery had landed close enough to the flames to
char, and the two halves of the lead seal had melted into a small reflective
pool right there on the stone hearth.
In front of her husband lay a girl, no older than Sansa herself, who was trying
hard to eat the sobs that were clawing their way out of her. She could see
panic in her eyes and trickles of blood staining the backs of her calves. The
girl was propped on her side, using both hands to keep her body up, but by the
way her legs were together and angled inward, it was easy to see she had
started in a bent position.
The young handmaid was beseeching her lord for mercy.
"Stand up."
Sansa went cold.
Lord Tywin's command was clipped to a fine point, nowhere near harsh. However,
Sansa knew Tywin well enough, she was fully aware that what was not heard in
his voice nor shown as outward physical display lived just below the surface
and was no less dangerous.
The battered girl climbed with her arms, up the back of the furniture and stood
on shaky legs like that of a newborn foal. Much to the same design, the she
then made a pathetic bleat for her life, only to have her words swallowed by
the void indifference, thus her plight remained ignored.
The next move Sansa observed forcefully repelled her, equally in steps and in
years. Tywin's arm raised high and back, and what was initially hidden in front
of his relaxed stance was now frighteningly clear: his long sword. It hovered,
oiled and polished, poised to perform the task it was created for: inflicting
injury. With one savage swing and the striking flat of the blade, the finely
honed edges cut through lesser fabric to punch into flesh.
Sansa felt needling pain working its way through the spiderweb of scarring that
painted her own body. She heard a rushing noise in her ears at the same time
her head began pounding hard on the inside, her skull taking the brunt like an
anvil in a smithy.
Another cold command, and it left the scared girl quaking in submission.
"Put your hands out."
With the maid's hands stretched out before him, her husband once again reached
back with his sword. Sansa watched, horrified as the blade twisted its angle. A
mere flick of the wrist and Tywin had turned the steel in order to chop, to
sever.
Anticipating the conclusion was too much. Her chest ached, but the worst of it
was the cramping spasm starting just above her groin and striking like
lightning up her spine and down the backs of her legs.
The babe... 
Too soon...
"Stop!"
The demand of a word was not what halted Tywin Lannister in his administrating
punishment, it was the way that single word had pitched in broken anguish. Arm
arched back, he pivoted at the waist and saw his wife, dressed in bedclothes
and his robe, barely holding herself up at the edge of their desk. Her face was
ghostly pale under a sheen of sweat, her outer arm was cradling her belly while
her entire body stood shaking.
"My lord... Please..." Her voice was so spent in pain it was all but air.
"Maester!" he screamed at the handmaid, who immediately straightened her beaten
body and turned and ran, calling for help.
Tywin dropped the weapon with a muffled clatter and went to Sansa, picking her
up gently, urgently, taking her back to their bedchamber; ordering Deena to
ready water to boil and gather linens if needed.
Sansa heaved words with each wave of panic and hurt. "No more, Tywin... Leave
her..."
"Hush, girl," he muttered, distracted. "Lay still. Pycelle will be here soon."
"No more..." she whimpered through clenched teeth.
Her husband was wiping sweat from her face and neck with his hand, his eyes
were darting the length of her then back to meet hers. His brow was pinched,
but he did not look angry.
"Yes, fine," he said, his words unfocused.
Sansa gathered herself to ask her quivering, serious question. "Am I b-
bleeding?"
Tywin did not want to look, gods, he did not want to know. His hand pulled her
hem up anyway. His eyes moved to the gusset of her underclothing anyway. His
teeth ground and his chest cinched anyway...
"There is a small amount of blood." Tywin's voice was distant and he could feel
his mind pulling away from her as well. This was not supposed to happen, this
didn't happen before. He held no answer, no experience to fall back on, and it
was making him furious. He could do no more than pet her crown and simply be
there, but she was calming all the same and Tywin only hoped that that would be
enough.
Maester Pycelle hurried into the room surrounded by a small army of similarly
dressed younger men - apprentices, he assumed - and began talking to Lord Tywin
in quick little statements. Whatever the Maester's instructions had been, they
evaporated from his mind before he could comprehend them. The simple truth was
that this was not his skill, Tywin did not know what plagued his wife, nor did
he have the ability to cure it.
He started to back away, but was held fast by a delicate hand clasping his
fingers. No, not held. Not really. There was no strength in her grip to
physically restrain him, but he stopped nonetheless. He curled his fingers and
looked to his wife. The sweat was beading on her upper lip, he knew she was in
pain, but her eyes were so bloody pacifying...
Tywin found himself recouping composure as his frustration drained, and perhaps
that was her intention since she was the one to let go of him in the end
Sansa blinked slowly and smiled a tiny bit.
Lord Tywin felt the threatening crush of hurt that had slipped in at the edges
of his rib cage, the one feeling he refused to acknowledge until that very
moment, start to dissipate as he backed away. The spot at her side immediately
assumed by a young man asking questions.
Turning to leave the chamber Tywin was preoccupied, but as soon as he entered
the sitting room his peripheral registered the figure of a servant girl, the
fucking thief, picking up the pieces of the splintered box at the hearth. In an
effort to deny his emotional ineptitude, the old lion's mind snapped to the one
thing that felt familiar, comfortable because it wasn't a mystery at all: his
darkness.
His sword had been picked up and sheathed in its place with his armour, tucked
away in an alcove adjacent their desk. His hate of the thief, the meat, only
intensified; it was the reason Sansa was going to...
The darkness had him walking.
The darkness bent him down and wrapped his hand around the throat of the meat.
The darkness hauled it off its feet and started to tighten the vice of his
fingers.
No more, Tywin... Leave her...
Breathing heavy at the terrified girl, his eyes glossing at the thought and
want of bloody violence, he growled his disdain. "You will thank your lady for
the sparing of your life." He was clenching the fist curled around the maid's
slender neck. "But make one misstep and I will have you stripped bare and
packed with the wealth you so covet." The old lion eyed the thing from head to
toe, and purred, "Anywhere your body can carry it."
The grip on the girl's throat tightened and he watched in satisfaction as her
eyes bulged and the veins within became more pronounced. Her lips darkened in
turn as she exhaled tiny sprays of spittle in her effort to breathe. Other
handmaids, footmen, and the apprentices Maester Pycelle brought to assist
hurried around them, the lion and his prey, where they stood in the sitting
room, like they were invisible. Not one of them dared risking a side glance for
fear of the Hand's ire.
"Then I will set you loose in Flea Bottom," Tywin whispered gently, leaning to
the girl's ear like one would when making any promise. "Recall what the filth
did for a loaf of bread?" he asked just as gently. "Imagine what they'd do to a
whore filled with silvers."
A telltale sound caused Tywin to glance down to her feet then back to her eyes.
The look that burned in his own was deadly, his voice sounding more so. "You
will sop up your piss, clean yourself, then you will tend to your lady." Each
syllable left his mouth well and truly measured. "As though your life depends
on it."
The girl's neck was constricted so much that speech was not an option, she
gurgled to her liege as best she could, utterly frightened. When he let her go,
the maid's knees gave out and to her credit she knew better than to pass up an
opportunity. Using her rough spun dress, the girl mopped away her water then
staggered on lashed and bleeding legs toward the servant's entrance.
Lord Tywin moved to the center of the sitting room watching the chaos
eventually dissipate to calm, then listened for - and dreaded to hear - any
distress coming from their bedchamber. He didn't know how long he stood there,
but when Pycelle finally approached, Tywin's hands were cramped in the fists he
didn't know he'd made.
"Lady Sansa will be allowed no movement for the next sennight, my lord," the
Maester instructed. Then amended, "Save the natural needs of the body, of which
she is to be assisted."
The stare Tywin offered the man was piercing. The tone of his question, on the
other hand, ambled from his mouth rather lost. "And what of the child?"
A moment of wonder had Pycelle's rigid composure easing. "The child is well, my
lord," he said. His voice knowing and sympathetic. "And will remain so as long
as the mother reduces her strain. What happened today happens to most women in
an environment that can be taxing-"
"It did not happen to Joanna," Tywin snarled.
Grand Maester Pycelle lowered his brow slightly at the shift of Lord Tywin's
mood. He had known the Hand's first wife, and because of that, did not retract
his sympathy. "That may be so, my lord, but neither did she have her
children here."
There was a heaviness between the two men, but it was nothing of rage and more
of knowing. They each were well aware of the effect King's Landing had on even
the healthiest of people. People who had chosen to be there. But Tywin also
knew that his own actions that day were of no help to Sansa, either. And what a
choking, bitter pill to swallow remorse was for a man like him.
The announced presence of Ser Kevan disrupted Tywin's thoughts and prompted him
to dismiss the Maester with a lazy flick of his fingers.
Once Pycelle had left, Tywin looked at his brother and spoke tiredly. "I'll not
hear pity."
Kevan drew near to his older brother, a small amount of levity his offering to
the man. "I'm here to know the well being of your babe and Lady Sansa, not to
offer you pity."
Tywin scoffed a little before he spoke. "She will recover," he confirmed, as he
turned and walked to his desk. "Pycelle assures me the babe is unharmed." His
voice notched darker as he sat and idled through parchments, "This is
some common course, apparently."
"It is, my lord." Kevan waited for his brother to look at him again. "My Dorna
was set to rest for nearly a moon's turn at a time."
Tywin addressed his brother severely, bitterly, "Your wife barely sets foot
beyond your home. How is it she could be burdened at all?"
Kevan did not flinch; he knew this part of Tywin. He knew that this was how his
brother gathered information and made sense of it for his inner reference. So
when he replied, his voice reflected that understanding. "She is nervous by her
very nature, but she has given me three healthy boys-" At that, Kevan blinked
his eyes away from his brother for a moment, remembering that his boys now
numbered only two. Clearing his throat he looked again to Tywin's icy glare,
finishing, "-and a healthy daughter."
Tywin softened his look but only a fraction and gave his brother an
acknowledging, perhaps reassuring nod.
"I had already sent for a companion." Tywin pinched his thumb and forefinger at
his brow, as if holding in the things he needed to remember. "The waterways are
no longer so treacherous, she should be here within days."
Kevan spoke with a groan, in a childish tone that was left unchecked. "Not that
ancient midwife from the Rock, I hope. That woman scares even you. Don't deny
it."
A scoff tumbled from Lord Tywin for the second time, lightening his countenance
just a hair.
"No," he conceded. "That woman is held together by witchcraft, to be sure. She
would thrive here and I'll not give her an advantage."
His younger brother laughed then, and while Tywin took a moment to let him
enjoy it, he did not partake.
"Our sister will the one to grace us with her presence." His look turned
solemn. "She will assist Sansa where she is able."
Kevan's laughter dimmed but his smile did not, and he said, "You may have been
wiser to summon the midwife."
Tywin stood then, cocking his bow and tilting his head, silently agreeing with
the younger Lannister, as he walked toward the bedchamber where his wife was
resting.
Kevan nodded a bow and turned on his heel to leave; like most any brother, wise
to the actions and unspoken directions of another.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sansa feared her husband would have had her own quarters readied for use, but
when he returned after the Maester had left that awful afternoon, she had
weakly begged him not to send her away. He had said nothing, only frowned and
ran his fingers down her cheek before leaving her once more to complete his
duties.
Later, when she woke up again, it was well into the night. She had been propped
up almost in a sitting position with her neck supported, and at her side was a
man, her man, curled into the pillows that were edging her hips and legs in
order to limit her movement. He had his hand tucked, bedgown and all, between
her thighs near her knees and was sleeping soundly.
She couldn't see his face at the angle he had wrapped himself into her, only
the back of his head and neck. Her hand, already resting on the blade of his
shoulder, gently moved upward. Sansa smiled in anticipation and proceeded to
drag her fingernails, light as a feather, from as far forward on his scalp as
she could reach to the collar of his bedgown at his nape. Her smile widened,
she wasn't disappointed.
Lady Sansa had stumbled upon this particular trait of her lord husband not long
after she had conceived the first time. He had hugged himself into her side
then too, an act that was nothing new in their bed, but when she accidentally
traced her fingers over his scalp she thought she had hurt him. Out of his
mouth - out of his throat to be accurate - came a bright and airy sigh that
trailed through the air forever. She had waited for him to say something, to
explain the odd behaviour or snarl at her, but instead she only heard his soft
snoring. It was such a contrast to the man she knew awake; the deadly, vicious
lion. But it was also something of him that was strictly her own, something not
even he knew about.
Something she delighted in every time the opportunity presented itself.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
In the days that followed, he did not turn her away. On the contrary, Lord
Tywin seemed to draw her closer - draw his asset closer - yet whatever the
reasoning, Sansa felt better for him doing so and in turn better on the whole.
Early in the evening of her sixth day confined to bed, Sansa woke once again to
conversation, only this time it was a woman's voice that was in command... and
oddly reprimanding.
"...is replaced easier, Ty, a babe or a damned necklace?"
The distinctive rumble of her husband could be heard easily, but Sansa could
not distinguish what he was saying. Twisting in her effort to focus, she
groaned at the discomfort and stiffness that seemed to blanket her body; Deena
was immediately at her side an imploring her to remain still. She didn't want
to, she was becoming agitated in her restrictions. So much, that she had taken
to walking slow and extended pathways to the privy - often - as it was her only
hint of freedom.
Sansa was brought back into the moment by Deena arranging her hair brush and
washing accessories at the bedside.
"Lady Genna has arrived," the maid started as she set to striping and washing
her charge. "M'lord wanted you readied as soon as you woke, so is to meet her."
Sansa nodded absently, letting her handmaid dress and groom her as necessary,
and remained silent when Deena announced her lady was prepared to take
visitors. She felt a fool really, dressed in a wonderful gown, large as an ox,
surrounded by bolsters, sitting rod straight on a plush bed.
A bloody fool.
When Tywin walked in he was trailed by a woman his physical opposite. Where her
husband was tall and lean, Lady Genna was short and plump. She had the same
golden curls and piercing green eyes that defined her as a Lannister, and her
proportions only seemed to add a character of ferocity. She was painted, but
not as heavily as Sansa had seen on some woman of court, and her dress was cut
lower in the front to accentuate her generous cleavage.
Sansa looked at the woman, looked her in the eyes as she accepted the chair her
brother brought over to her, and knew that everything she portrayed outwardly
was as calculated and purposed as everything Tywin kept locked inside himself.
As equal and contrasting as two siblings could be.
Arya.
Tywin sat at an angle on the edge of the bed, his thigh against her ankle, and
rested his hand on the inside of her calf. It was an action that was more than
subtle, especially when his thumb moved in circles, a gesture she well knew was
his way of offering comfort. When her husband raised his eyes to her, she
smiled at him, a comfort as genuine and profound his own.
"Lady Genna, my wife, Lady Sansa."
The introductions were perfectly appropriate, but in the confines of a
bedchamber they also felt out of place. Genna nodded demurely and Sansa caught
Tywin narrowing his eyes at her - it was a sign that whatever his sister was
doing was outside ordinary. Which was confusing, since the older woman
responded as decorum allotted.
Lord Tywin looked to focus on his wife and made an effort not to speak without
command. "I trust her to advise and prepare you as your time nears."
Again, the speech would be appropriate under normal circumstance, but somehow
it felt awkward between these three people. Either way, Sansa nodded to her
husband and turned her pleasantries toward her new... midwife.
"I thank you, Lady Genna," Sansa began pleasantly. "Your availability in
answering any questions I may have is certainly appreciated." It was said with
a smile, though both women knew it for no more than show.
Tywin interjected in a tone of authority, one that shot him with annoyance from
green eyes and confusion from blues eyes. "She will also be in the birthing
chamber with you, Sansa." He cleared his throat at his sister's continued
scrutiny. "If you wish," he finished displeased.
At that very moment Sansa knew the exact amount of dependency she had on her
husband. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn't be with her when she
delivered; it was a thought that caused her to gulp and fight against the want
to breathe shallow.
"I... want you there, my lord."
A statement made in all confidence, but the eyes she laid on Tywin were in
utter panic. He tilted his head in question at his wife, and before either of
them could make an utterance, Lady Genna spoke in a way that reminded Sansa of
Cersei. It was a tone that harboured a sense covert assessment.
"That may be how it's done in the North, but rest assured, my lady, Tywin would
be about as useful to you in the birthing chamber as teats would be on a bull."
Sansa blushed scarlet and stared at the woman, her mouth agape slightly, not
knowing if Lady Genna understood the consequences her words could earn her. She
looked again to her husband who, at once, stood up, raised his brows and
scoffed as he walked out of the room.
"The same amount of couth as always Genna."
They were left then, the two of them, two ladies, staring at one another. The
older wore a hint of a smirk, the younger a perfect mask of courtly
indifference.
Sansa appreciated Tywin's thought of her well being, but at the same time she
couldn't help but think he sent for his sister out of selfishness too. The only
thing she knew of this woman, with any certainty, was that she was a Frey.
"You don't know me, yet you don't like me." There was no offense carried in
Lady Genna's words.
If she could have, Sansa would have remained silent, but her courtesies would
have none of it. "You're half right," she replied. Perhaps not her courtesies
per se, than more her sarcasm - a lingering trace of Tyrion's influence.
Lady Genna grinned broadly, in a way that included her eyes and not just her
mouth, and barked out a laugh. Tywin's sister was anything but a soft wife,
wrapped in duty and propriety. "Ty said you were friend to the Imp." She
narrowed her eyes at Sansa, her tone remained as pleasant as one could wish
from a Lannister. "I tend not to speak anything of the boy to his father
anymore. However, whatever doubt his insistence left, you've just eradicated."
Sansa's brow came low and pinched. "How would three words tell you
differently?"
The features of Lady Genna's face softened as she spoke. "Who do you think
Tyrion learned those three words from, child?"
Sansa dipped her head to hide her smirk, her scoff was unmistakable though.
"I'm happy to be spoken to with the words of my nephew. But tell me, Lady
Sansa, why do you look at me with the wary suspicion of my brother?"
Any humour, no matter how slight, left the room. Raising her head, Sansa's face
wore nothing of the pleasantness it held before. Instead it was with a deadly
countenance she addressed her husband's sister. "You are a Frey," she leveled.
Lady Genna needed no further explanation. She was cunning enough to know
Sansa's history, to know the singular betrayal that cut her to the bone.
"I am no more a Frey than you are, my lady." Genna looked thoughtfully at the
young lady wearing the stony face, before continuing. "My father was a fool,
talked into giving me away to a second son when I could barely count past what
my fingers showed me. The only person who spoke against my father's stupidity
was Ty, and he was only three years older."
Sansa was rapt at the tale, but outwardly showed nothing of her curiosity.
Lady Genna smiled then and it was nothing like Cersei. It was not overly
gentle, but where the Queen looked on with an air of malicious
judgment, this lioness promised truths - regardless of the toll, yes, but
in that she was like Tywin. She was familiar and something of a comfort.
"Were you there, my lady?" Sansa's voice was small but her eyes were confident.
"At the... wedding?"
She had spent many moons trying to forget what her mother had told her, only to
have those same words haunt her, sometimes for nights on end. But if there was
to be any form of trust with this woman, there had to be benchmarks for
honesty.
The older woman looked at her carefully before speaking, looking almost in
appraisal. "No, child. My interest does not extend to the spawn of Walder Frey
- it barely reaches my husband." Genna paused to quirk her lip in something of
a smile. "I am a Lannister, and would have been quite a prize for the North if
I had been within their grasp."
It was Sansa's turn to scrutinize; she tilted her head as if to see Lady Genna
at a clearer angle. "Did you know about it?"
"I knew that Emm was to be Lord of Riverrun before the crown reneged its
support. I also knew that Tywin would have ensured that agreement was honored
if Riverrun had fallen." The older woman inhaled deeply through her nose.
"Whatever plans that were conceived, remained among only a handful of people
and I was not one of them."
Lady Genna flashed a look first of disappointment then of anger, and it was in
that brief heartbeat that she looked like the former queen. Recognizable was
the look of a woman whose ambition outgrew their expected role, and to be
reminded of that fact was tantamount to slander.
Sansa knew her place in the world, she had known it almost as far back as she
could remember. And for the longest time she thought that meant acceptance of
weakness, acceptance of inferiority and complacency. It wasn't until King's
Landing that she understood the kinds of horror her mother and father had
sheltered her from. She knew that this world had no room for weakness,
inferiority or complacency - die and get out of the way - and required its own
mechanism in order to survive. Cersei had told her that a woman's weapons were
tears and what lay between her legs. Tywin had taught her that those two things
were anticipated lures and a true weapon would be something unforeseen.
The older woman inclined her head and watched Sansa sift through her inner
deliberations. Waiting a handful of moments before talking. "You may wonder if
I oppose Ty for marrying you as a strategy during war." Hers was a tone of
certainty. "The answer is no. He is my brother, he is my lord, and I will
support him to my dying breath." The face of Lady Genna softened then,
considerably, so much that Sansa could feel some of the tension leave her
muscles as she absorbed the offered truce. "I can, however, assure you that I
know how you felt. Perhaps, how you still feel..."
The look of the older woman reminded Sansa of her own mother, how she would
always just know, but Lady Genna was far more openly shrewd.
"Although if you are truly unhappy, you hide it much better than most, girl."
Sansa smiled at her then, a grin to match the older woman's words and opinions
- something honest.
"Come, Sansa," Lady Genna said, making to stand and help the younger lady out
of bed. "You must be close to lunacy sitting stiff as a corpse in this room."
"I have one more day, my lady. The maester said I was to remain unmoved for a
sennight."
"Are you in pain or discomfort low in your belly?"
Sansa took a moment to wriggle in places and consider. "No..."
Lady Genna spoke, and it was with the same air of mischief she both loved and
treated cautiously in Tyrion. "Bugger the Maester! When that man has birthed a
child, we'll take him to heart."
We'll.
She was sharing the blame already and for some reason Sansa felt at ease. The
effect was boggling, but in the same breath it made sense. If this was the
woman that helped shape Tyrion, then it wasn't such a stretch to, at the very
least, enjoy her company like she did her friend.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He did not know if he was remembering this part of childbearing correctly. 
Tywin simply wasn't the man he was three decades prior when his first wife
experienced the same... fits of need. Sansa was young, but he didn't know if
that was directly proportionate to the amount of desire she was exuding. He
couldn't recall clearly if Joanna also demanded attention nightly, sometimes
daily as well, or if it was something he had obliged without consideration
then.
Either way, he was no more that young man than he could conjure the amount of
virility his wife required to be sated - regardless of the persuasion she put
forth.
Although, it was not to say the man didn't try.
However, exhaustion had claimed him mid-stride earlier in the evening, and
coupled with his wife's look of agitated disappointment, it was one strike
against his pride too many. So when Tywin woke to find his wife panting at him
for a second time that night, he pushed her back firmly into her pillows and
drawled in sleepy bitterness. "If you persist in waking me for no other purpose
than to rut, it will be I that sleeps in the other bedchamber."
Sansa said nothing. The only sounds coming from her in the dark were whimpers
and the distinctive noise of her writhing in her want. His wife demanded
nothing of affection, just the act to scratch the itch of lust. And hearing her
beg without words provoked his cock to harden against his will. But even that
initial pooling of arousal drained him of the strength he needed to act on it,
and he knew that if he fought through the lag he would be useless in the
following days work.
His duty to the realm would always be his priority.
When he made to lie back down, he felt claws dig into his shoulder.
"No, you can't..." Her voice sounded of desire, all breathy and low.
She would not command him, his mind snapped. She would not control
him. "I can Sansa, good night." It was final, his tone sharp and impatient, but
her nails dug in deeper as he moved further away.
When she attempted to shuffle her body to follow him, with a great amount of
difficulty, his annoyance stepped forward. She was too far along to be
maneuvering like she was and her disregard was like a slap in the face. Tywin
rolled toward her, and even though his grip was gentle and his hand was guiding
tenderly, his throaty growl as he did so was set in anger. Once he had her
settled again, propped a little higher on her pillows, Tywin roughly grabbed
and yanked at the hem of her bedgown. Hearing it tear he waited for his wife to
protest and end the foolishness on her own - he hadn't expected her to spread
her legs and encourage him with a moan.
It only served to annoy - and harden - him further.
Sansa had been forgoing sleeping in small clothes as of late, and his fingers
brushed the damp curls at her juncture as he pulled material upward. The action
unleashed another moan into the quiet of the room, but from whom it came was
the question.
In the darkness he missed her reaching; she groped the length of his prick
through his bedclothes, which rewarded her with the sound of air being punched
out of him. He gripped her wrist firmly and pulled the adventurous hand until
it was in front of his face. Shifting his grip upward, Tywin straightened her
fingers.
Sansa had begun to speak a plea to her husband, but snapped her lips shut when
she felt her fingers being placed on his tongue. His mouth closed around them
as he laved thoroughly. She wrinkled her nose. Her inclination was to be
disgusted, but her mind presented images of intimacies she had instigated in
that very bed with her own tongue and her mind settled on being confused. Her
husband removed her fingers from his mouth, tugged her hand lower to where he'd
pushed aside her nightgown and pressed them, with his own firmly placed on top,
into her heat. She gasped at the touch, then blinked fast as she felt the buzz
of Tywin's voice, a inconsequential sneer, reverberate from her ear to where
her fingers rested.
"Do it yourself."
This time when her husband rolled away, Sansa did not follow. Her lungs took
air deeply as she moved her fingers in the way she liked, the way that made her
mind feel like it was singing - whose notes sometimes escaped her thoughts by
way of her mouth in a moan. With her belly at such a great size she had to lean
to reach, but there was no strain in finding the fleshy knot she knew would
unlock the satisfaction she was hunting. In small circles and teasing contact,
Sansa worked her clit stiff, she could hear wetness build and even her own
mewling drove herself wild.
"Fuck!"
The angry pointed curse ripped through the room. The word startled Sansa, but
it was the distinct motion of Tywin forcefully getting out of bed that
completely snuffed out whatever pleasure she was careening towards. She
instantly felt annoyed, but then pangs of guilt hit her - she did not consider
how loud she was, how her actions would disturb his sleep. Her needs were her
focus, not her husband's.
She waited to hear the door open and close signifying his leave, but rather
felt his strong arms and hands curl under her tenderly, lifting and pulling her
toward the edge of the bed. She was left sputtering in question, she could not
determine his intent; likely he was taking her to the other bedchamber.
Her bewilderment turned to dust when he rucked her bedgown over her belly,
exposing her, and positioned himself between her thighs. He didn't speak a
word, didn't even remove his bedgown past hiking it higher, but Sansa could
discern Tywin was huffing in both exasperation and passion. The dark room was
to her aid, as she knew the broad smile of victory she wore would have only
made him angry.
That same smile was abandoned the moment her pressed into her. The filling
pressure he provided was more than relief, it was euphoric, and the blissful
groan she cast to echo around them spoke as much.
Her legs were pliable, slipping down to dangle awkwardly even with her best
effort at hooking them around his waist. Tywin took both and brought them
around the front of him, pressed them together and hugged them for leverage,
grunting as he fucked into her with every fraction of his frustration and
desire.
It didn't take long for Sansa to reach her peak, clawing at the linens as the
strong waves of pleasure swept the world away from her. She resurfaced to her
husband losing his rhythm, swallowing air and muttering her name in huffs and
coughs, When he ground into her as his own release claimed him, Sansa reached
one hand as far as her body would allow her and dug her fingertips into the
flesh at his hip. To which he snarled and fucked into her twice more, hard,
before slipping out spent.
Tywin hugged her legs tighter, convincing his body to level its breathing, and
after a few moments could feel them quiver. It wasn't due to the position he
held them in, and as his breath evened and quieted he heard the reason for her
shivering:
His wife was laughing. A low chuckle made of joy as much as peace of mind.
"This is funny to you?" His agitation could not be swayed, not even by a sense
of jubilation.
"No, my lord..."
Giggling sent tiny rippling messages to Tywin, telling him her constitution
remained. "Keep laughing," he huffed. "I will find someone else to do this in
my stead."
Sansa hummed then, a tune that sounded playful, that sounded as though she was
contemplating Tywin's threat as a viable option. She knew there was a chance of
raising his ire, but her mind did not seem to care.
Her legs were still draped up his torso, her heels resting on his shoulder. She
sensed him move back slightly then felt the sting and heard the clap of his
hand swatting her backside. It was nothing punishing, it was almost as playful
as her laughter, causing Sansa to laugh all the harder.
"Be careful what you wish for, girl," he growled, but didn't really growl. His
tone couldn't be described as jovial, but it was certainly more casual than
serious. "Spite is never comely."
Her arse was met with another spank, eliciting a giddy cry to spill from her
lips. At the same time, her husband scooped her up again to shift her back
further onto the bed before leaving her side. Sansa lay boneless, smiling like
the satisfied wanton she was, reveling in the calm her release brought her and
the delicate musky scent that hung in the air every time they bedded. She heard
Tywin approach then, using a soft touch to seek her in the inky black, he
gently cleaned away his seed and her wet.
When finished he once again cradled her in an effort to arrange her comfortably
amongst her pillows, but as he leaned closer she wound her arms around his
neck. Sansa kissed him on the face; aiming for his mouth, her lips landed high
on his cheek - close to his eye as far as she could tell. There was a stillness
between them for heartbeats before his nose nudged along her cheek until his
mouth was over hers.
He kissed his wife deeply.
Tywin's mouth was dry, he was still breathing heavily through his nose - a
testimony of their previous exertions - and that encouraged Sansa to kiss him
strategically. First to wet his tongue and palate, then to slow his pulse. She
knew of her success when he pulled away from their kiss only to rest his
forehead on hers, purring his own music. Her fingers worked along the muscles
of her husband's neck and shoulders as they settled in their silence.
His face was close, so when she spoke she barely needed the air to whisper. "I
am now. Always."
"Always what?" His was a voice of stubbornness fending against exhaustion.
"Careful what I wish for." It came out sadder than it should have, but it could
have been a trait of the whisper.
Tywin let out a heavy sigh as he brought up a hand, rested it on her crown and
stroked his thumb over her sweat-dampened hair. "I suspect you would be."
Dipping his mouth again, he kissed her lightly before standing straight and
walking back to his side of the bed. As he rounded the foot, his harsh serious
voice tore through the haziness of the room. "You'll leave me alone now, you."
The corner of Tywin Lannister's mouth twitched at the sound of his wife's
carefree laughter.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
 
***** Winter VIII *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Sansa supposed she should have paid more mind to the throb in her back, but it
was nothing she hadn't felt before, and she had been walking when it began. Her
time was close, within days, and her body was becoming a misery; ankles
swelling, having to make water even at the thought, mood swings the likes of
which caused Tywin to openly question her sanity - and entertained Genna to no
end - a burning in her throat... and leaking. She was leaking from everywhere.
However, it must have been the culmination of everything else in her day that
had kept her distracted from the ache in her back, because as she was she sat
with Lady Genna and Queen Margaery for what had become their daily meet and
dining, Sansa felt a torrent of wet soak down her thighs.
Stuck speechless, mortified, Sansa thought she had made water on herself - a
thought shared by Margaery if the look on her face were to be judged. Yet it
was Genna who recognized the malady.
The older woman spoke in a tone and manner that was not her usual sarcasm. She
sounded the same way Catelyn Stark did in her dreams - the good ones, the ones
that never caused her to wake in fright.  "It's time, Sansa."
Words so kindly and gently said, Sansa had to fight back the wish to bawl in
want of her own mother. She should be here! However, that was not to be... That
would never be, and she had internally negotiated the terms of that despair
long before this day. Sansa was now on her own journey to become a mother and
it would be with the same determination she had used to survive and adapt to
this point in her life that would see her succeed on the next path.
Helped to stand, Sansa found herself again mortified as another splash fell to
her feet like a bucket being poured from her body - and gods, she could not
find the words to apologize.
None was needed. Genna, in her own way, came to her rescue again. Except this
time the lioness wielded a kind of smugness that rang authentically Lannister.
"Don't look so dreadful, Sansa, that is the least offensive thing that will
come out of there before you're done."
Sansa blinked around the shock of Lady Genna's gaul, of the pains in her body
that only seemed to intensify, of her new reality, and watched a smile stretch
wide across the older woman's face then heard the heartiest of laughs before
she felt gentle hands guide and assist her to where she needed to be.
The birthing chamber had been designated and prepared in one of the suites of
rooms that occupied the same level as their home in the Tower of the Hand. It
had been a distraction for both herself and the Queen, as well for Lady Genna.
Although the latter would never truly admit to the enjoyment of such frivolous
things, the way she commanded the furnishing arrangements told the other two
women differently.
Both Queen Margaery and Lady Genna stayed with Sansa as she was stripped and
washed and prepared, and waited and anticipated throughout the remaining hours
of the day, steadfast by her side. Patiently awaiting the arrival of the newest
Lannister child - her baby - Sansa felt the creeping lurk of anxiousness and
excitement. Yet she could not help but feel hesitant as well, on display as she
was with the amount of midwives and maids that scurried around her.
The sun descended well below the horizon before the pain inside broadened and
lowered, a vice-like thrum that sat stagnant as she slept in fits and bouts. It
wasn't until the sun had risen again and moved to almost the same position it
had been in when it all began that she knew her body was preparing itself to
deliver. It was quicker than she had imagined when the time came and she was
told to push.
Sansa had only bore down twice before her child slipped free of her womb, and
whatever pain ushered the event went wholly unregistered - at least in
immediate hindsight. Margaery sat beside her on the bed, stroking her hair, and
Sansa focused on that particular bit of calm as Genna stood and walked to where
a squalling infant - her baby - was being cleaned and examined by the Maester.
Sansa could feel the sweat streaming like ribbons down her forehead and over
her face. She felt queasy, but it was nothing compared to the excitement she
felt. All she wanted was to hold her child. Between her dreamy thoughts a voice
carried over the din in the room. One that snatched her happiness right out
from under her. However, it wasn't who the voice belonged to that was the
threat, rather the words it put forth.
"More trout than lion this one is, a small fish at that. Our Lord Hand will not
like this at all."
There was a vague recognition that speaking was one of the midwives who had
been summoned to assist, but Sansa was not given time to think on it any more
before she heard the distinctive sound of a swung palm meeting
flesh. That noise was followed by two more matching it, then the voice of Lady
Genna speaking words Sansa had never heard from the mouth of a woman...
The furor grew softer as Sansa could only assume the midwife had been
unceremoniously dismissed from the room. Looking up at the Queen, she smiled
weak and gentle in reciprocation of the grin being offered by her friend, and
as she opened her mouth to talk, Sansa's world angled sharply in a terrible
pain. It was worse than before, she was sure, and she could feel hot liquid
pooling under and around her backside.
His first wife died birthing... I can only hope the same for you and yours...
The pain inside her was causing her vision to dim, at the same time Sansa knew
her mother had been granted her wish. She heard Margaery calling her name, then
heard Genna do the same. The Maester was talking to her as well, but all she
wanted to do was ignore the warbling voices and curl up to sleep in the murk
that was inviting her. More liquid pooled and she supposed it was her very life
slipping away; there was so much pain... Sansa was so very tired, it was so
very easy to just close her eyes and leave; so she did. Sansa gave up… Gave in
to the restful dark and let it consume her; let it bathe her body in tingling
relaxation...
The blackness did not last long before she was brought firmly into reality by
an atrocious agony ripping through her. Death was horrible, she concluded. It
was toying with her.
I want to hold my baby! her mind cried. Sansa looked to the side, to Genna, she
wanted a message sent to Tywin... Lady Genna was smiling at her - a happy grin
that split her face almost in two, the kind of smile used in
celebration... Sansa was taken aback, then altogether angry. Who would smile at
someone so obviously dying? 
A Lannister.
The woman leaned in, her ample bosom helping to prop up Sansa's exhausted body,
and spoke clearly two words that all at once lifted the heaviness from Sansa's
mind and stabbed her with a pang of absolute fear.
"Push, girl."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The only person Lord Tywin trusted to inform him of the health and sex of his
child was his wife. A request to some, a threat to others; regardless, it was
the same policy employed by Tywin the first time he became a father. A
preference that had nothing to do with pride, but was a matter of privacy. He
had no interest in hearing about his family from a faceless, nameless servant.
Nor did he care to hear a maester prattle on about diagnosis and procedure.
In the same way, he trusted his brother to be company, and his sister to summon
him when it was time to go to his wife; like the first time.
And the second.
Kevan knew the unease his brother was suffering. It had been almost two entire
days and Tywin had yet to move from the room in which he chose to wait.
Whatever work he sat down to address was soon shuffled aside or stared at but
not read.
Some men drank in their anticipation, King Robert went to hunt. Not Tywin. His
brother would never be left without control, even under the guise of
celebration. He drank only watered wine and ate when food was brought, other
than that he was silent. Even their best attempts at conversation faded into
distraction and a horribly concealed brooding on the elder Lannister's part,
but Kevan knew - as he had since they were children - that it was
his presence Tywin needed of him, not words.
When Genna at last entered the room, both brothers immediately looked to her
searching her features for hints and clues, but she was just as much a lion as
either of them - giving them nothing. She walked to her oldest brother and
spoke in the manner he demanded of everyone around him, forthright
respectfulness, the exact manner in which Lady Genna was not known to
indulge. "Lady Sansa is expecting you, my lord."
Kevan clenched his jaw wanting to demand more information from Genna, but
watching his brother tense in discomfort at her dutiful statement chased that
desire away. Tywin could be rigid and cold, but it did not alter the fact he
was just a man, and the feelings he chose to share with a select few were well
anchored within mortality. His sister knew this too, and when Tywin turned
stiffly to leave, Kevan watched as Genna caught their brother by the hand.
Wearing the grin that was expected initially, she tugged on her big brother,
beaming at him like she had when she was barely able to walk, toddling after
her siblings in an effort to play. The effect was instantaneous, the old lion
relaxed - first his shoulders then the rest of him - and his face softened to a
seriousness that was untroubled. 
Genna was still smiling, giving her brother whatever solace he needed from it,
from her, when he nodded gently. She took the silent cue and let go, still
smiling as Tywin left.
The remaining Lannisters exchanged a glance before settling in. Walking to the
far end of the room, Genna looked absently out the window and spoke in a tone
to match, "I had a chair placed by the bed for him, he's going to need it."
Kevan scoffed lightly as he poured a cup of wine. "A son then?"
Turning to him in a slow deliberate way, his sister offered him a wry curve of
her lips. "Two of them," she said with an accompanied rise of her eyebrow.
He laughed, genuinely pleased at the news, but he was not about to miss the
opportunity to trade barbs with his sister, especially if they were at Tywin's
expense. "Gods, Genna, you've best left a maester in there as well."
Lady Genna shared the mirth of her brother, laughing in earnest, then flicked
her glance to his wine, again arching an eyebrow and smiling wide, asking for
her own.
Kevan obliged, again talking as he poured. "And Sansa? How fares the mother?"
"Wonderful."
Kevan nodded, acknowledging the continued good news, but frowned as he passed
his sister her cup. She was wearing a look he had only seen on her twice, like
she was fighting the emotion her biting humour and cool cynicism always
overshadowed.
"Kev, she's not Joanna... She's young, but... She's something different, yet
similar at the same time." Her eyes misted then, and her brother knew they
would never develop tears. Genna nodded in the direction of the door as she
spoke. "Those boys are well cared for with her." 
It was a statement said in all seriousness; something that Kevan knew to mean
his sister's words should be considered absolute truth, and one would be a fool
to do otherwise. As he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his
side - a rare show of affection for either - he also knew his sister was
speaking of three boys beyond that door.
However, that specific truth was one Kevan Lannister had known for a span of
years now.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Lord Tywin slowly entered the brightly lit room and felt his steps become
hesitant when he saw his wife. Sansa was holding a small bundle in one arm and
had her hand draped in the babe's basket that was set to her side. On the other
side of the basket, past the bed, was a chair. It became his
destination. Although the new focus did not ebb his hesitation. 
His wife had not looked to greet him. In fact, she did not look anywhere except
at the babe. Sitting down with his natural careful grace, his eyes trained on
nothing but the girl hunched over the child, Tywin Lannister was gripped with a
brutal anxiousness ripping away in the pit of his stomach.
The Imp.
The old lion couldn't see the child clearly, he could not discern if... "What's
wrong with..." He didn't even know if what his wife held was a boy or a girl.
"...It?" he finished near a whisper.
Though she heard him clearly, Sansa did not answer her husband right away;
entrenched in her own thoughts as she was. "Sons, my lord," she started,
turning her head to meet his eyes. Her throat tripped on the newness of the
word, but still it sounded distant.
At the same time his wife looked to him, Tywin flicked his eyes and looked
away. Instead, he reached his hand to hers where it rested in the basket. It
was as though he just then registered her words.
Her word.
There was warmth and movement under his wife's hand. His eyes drifted over the
rumpled blankets until they met the pink face of another babe. Sleeping sound,
wrapped head to toe in plush linen, Tywin could just barely make out the
tiniest of golden curls peeking out from under the swaddling clothes.
Sons.
"Two..." It was flimsy at best, like he sat there dreaming. Tywin looked again
to his wife, his...
She saw a brightness in his eyes at the impact of his own word; a brightness
that faded when her face remained built of fear and agitation.
"Our firstborn..." she said shakily, looking down to the boy in her arm.
Tywin swallowed hard and sat up straighter. "What is wrong with him, Sansa?"
His voice wavered in the worry he dressed as anger, his hand made to grip hers
tighter.
Sansa pulled her hand from her husband's, pivoted the babe in front of her so
he was lying perpendicular and tugged away the soft fabric from the top of her
son's head, exposing wavy wisps of the most delicate auburn.
More trout than lion this one is... our lord Hand will not like this at all. It
was the only thing she could think of. All she could see in her mind's eye was
Tywin taking her baby away without so much as a thought or care, and she did
not want her child to suffer because she failed to give her husband a golden
heir, a proper lion. Her face tensed at the thought, she was far too weak to
fight him - but she would.
"...has red hair, my lord." It was said with as much resolve as she could
muster, which angled to confusion when she heard the man beside her emit
something that started as a scoff, then extended to a throaty growl. Flicking
her eyes to Tywin, she immediately saw his chest drawing and releasing erratic
gulps of air and a look on his face that should have made her feel a fool, but
did not.
"Your unnecessary dramatics will be the death of me, girl," he wheezed out, his
brows pinched in annoyance. "I would hazard to question if you realize this,
but I think it's all part of your ploy."
He thought to break the mood of tension, but his wife still held a look of
consternation and suspicion. He didn't need skill to know what she was thinking
- what she was thinking of him.She was calling him a liar with her eyes and
calling him the worst kind of villain with her silence. 
The all too familiar wash of ire crept into him as he noticed the walls around
him began to disappear; with it was ignited an agony so fearsome it felt as
though the thing was clawing and punching its way out of his chest.
Even though he was concentrating on his words, they came out shaky and
furious. "Do you really hold me in such low regard, Sansa?" He stood then,
equally shaky, so enraged at her persistently hollow perception of him. "Did
you think I would walk in and... and what? Drown him?! My son?! Because
his fucking hair is the same colour as his mother's?!" His bellows were felt
more than heard; Tywin was not so callous as to disturb the babes, regardless
of what his wife thought of him.
Gods, he was hurt and it was to the core of him, to the root of what he felt
for her. She could have done anything, stabbed him, bled him, and it would not
have wounded him as much as her opinion that he would harm his heir for
something so trivial.
Sansa was cringing, her teeth bared, once more holding her eldest in the bend
of her arm and holding the tiny foot of her youngest as he lay in the basket
beside her. She was becoming overwhelmed. Her eyes were red and brimming with
tears, but she held them back; however, her mouth watered in her fury and
sadness causing her to speak in a gritty tone. "I am not blind, my lord. I saw
the way you treated Tyrion." Her tears fell then; no sobs, just angry tears
marking her inability to do anything else. "Is my fear so farfetched?"
Of course it is, her mind sneered, he loved that wife.
At her words, it was Tywin who was baring his teeth. He was wroth, but his mind
was tilting his ire from his wife to him, then back again - it was all getting
too volatile.
She watched her husband, seething each breath that sustained him then turn on
his heel to leave. Sansa's unchecked fury was something dangerous.
He heard a low voice, furious and menacing, completely new and so unlike his
wife.
"Don't you fucking dare leave."
Tywin stopped dead. He had to turn back and look at Sansa in order to ensure
she was still the same person. If he did not know her youthful age outright, he
would have thought the lady in front of him some sage entity, someone or
something he would be wise himself to heed.
Their roles reversed themselves. Lord Tywin Lannister felt a boy then, foolish
and so full of pretension it was vulgar, standing in anticipation of fury from
a politic woman. She wore a face that was not her own, not one of the masks he
had become familiar with, not even a look she had adopted from him. This was a
demeanor all her own, built from a storm of rage so absolute it made the old
lion flinch openly.
It was the look of a mother protecting her children; of a lioness protecting
her cubs; of a wolf-bitch protecting her pups.
It was undeniably breathtaking.
It was undeniably frightening.
Tywin was fidgeting, his eyes flicking and darting. He was at war inside
himself and normally this would be when Sansa would dutifully acknowledge him,
nod her head and allow his ego and emotion an exit. He was waiting for her
reprieve and she had no intention of giving it.
Flicking her eyes to the tiny bodies around her, Sansa cut her question deep,
the words sliding past her lips as less than a whisper. "Would you hate them so
much if I had died?"
Their eyes locked and in that sliver of existence Sansa, for the first time,
saw her husband as an equal. His face was scarlet and sweating, his lips were
quivering, and Sansa could see that it was with every thread holding him
together that he fought to speak his answer. She looked away from him out of
some ridiculous courtesy ingrained into the fabric of her, but when he spoke
she was glad of that same decorum.
"Yes." He had to physically shove the word out of his lungs, an action that
made it hiss long at the end. His whole body was trembling. He could only think
of one other time he felt that way, so out of himself that the threat of
madness made blind lunges at his mind like a rabid animal - the last time he
stood on a precipice above that particular abyss he was staring at a dead wife,
not a living one.
Sansa wept freely now, silently.
No longer angry, no longer consumed by loathing, she let the horrible truth
take her - so horrible because she didn't know if she was appalled or elated at
her husband's admission, his confirmation of emotion, of something deeper.  Her
lord. Her lion. She did the only thing she could and reached to hold the hand
that was hanging limp at his side. Sansa held it in a grip of iron; a grip she
hoped would tell him the words she had never allowed her mouth to make, as well
as the promises her heart had already pledged to the two boys who were now the
entirety of her world.
He held her back. Her hand; the only part she gave him. It did not matter, he
would take it and be grateful.
Sansa had not looked at him, had not raised her eyes from the russet-haired
infant blinking at her from the bend of her arm; of which, her long fingers
wrapped themselves up and around the legs of the babe as the delicate ribbons
of a mother's love were always apt to find a way.
His babe. His heir.
Whatever torrents of bitterness that were between them, mother and father,
moments prior, were dissipating as nature dictated. Washing away the worthless
turmoil and leaving only truths - some ugly, some beautiful, but every single
one valid and necessary.
Lord Tywin sat down again, silent and observing, holding the hand of his
wife, the mother of his children. It was heady and far more than he had
anticipated, far more than he allowed himself to remember it being, but that
was for the best. He would much prefer the experience feel new than yet another
resurgence of past pain. With that he lifted her proffered hand and brought it
to his lips. He did not kiss it or make a show of affection, it was with an air
of absence he pressed his mouth onto her impossibly soft skin as he watched,
hypnotized as his son's own wet lips worked and yawned.
The trance was broken when Tywin felt the slender fingers he was admiring
wriggle as a sign to set them free. He didn't want to let them go, and as he
watched them leave his grasp there was protest on his tongue until he discerned
their intention.
Sansa maneuvered their first born so she could hold him out to his bewildered
looking father. "Hold your son, Tywin."
His wife sounded more like his mother, but it mattered little and less to the
old lion. Biting back his apprehension, he took the small thing - his hands and
arms remembering everything they were taught decades earlier - cradling the
calm and curious babe. So bloody small. He forgot just how minute life could
be; his son did not extend the length of his forearm. He was alert though, this
tiny version of them, eyes wide and dark - the colour not yet set - with the
finest of silk for hair, the same rich auburn as Sansa.
Tywin ran the tips of his fingers over the top of the boy's head just to
confirm the reality. The added reality was looking to his wife and seeing a
second son, equally tiny, sleeping sound where she had lifted him to her
breast.
She caught his stare in her peripheral, nothing exceptional, nothing that had
not happened a thousand times before. So when she looked directly at him, Sansa
was not expecting to once more spill silent tears. She was not expecting to
shed tears that came with a broad smile, a smile that was reciprocating Lord
Tywin's own. Not a grin, not a smirk, but a wide smile that made her husband
young. It removed the severity in his face, smoothed out the rigid lines, and
angled his brows to a position that signified happiness instead of suspicion.
The Great Lion watched a delicate hand reach long and touch the evidence of his
ability to be contented. This time he did kiss the fingers that brushed his
lips and smiled true at her, for her, because of her, as she retracted her hand
and smiled back. The gods be damned, he was happy, intoxicated even, and
nothing could change that fact in that moment.
His eyes again drifted between the pair of lions his lady so bravely set into
the world.
His sons.
"Tysan." It was said to the babe in his arm, but it was meant for Sansa as
well.
She scrutinized him then. Sansa had almost dreaded the name her husband would
choose for their child, children. She felt it corroboration that she had no
control in her life; that outside whatever freedom Tywin granted her in their
union, she would never truly be free. It had been a conflict of duty, but like
most instances of doubt of this nature, Sansa was proven a fool. All she ever
had to do was trust him. Trust him to do best for not only himself and the
Lannister name, but for her as well. It may not have been romantic, but
consideration, regardless of the emotion or motive or gain behind it, meant he
thought about her and weighed her benefit as well.
No, not romantic, but perhaps their version of it.
"It's a good name," she said, smiling at the newly named boy. "Tysan," she
cooed.
Tywin scoffed lightly, in a pleasant tone; of course it was a good name.
"And him?" Sansa looked to the babe who felt no need to trouble himself with
his new world like his older brother. "What of this lion?"
Her husband spoke to the slumbering bundle less than an arm's reach away
without any hint of pause. "Rykar."
She rolled the name on her tongue and was taken by the familiarity, the comfort
it brought her.
It tasted northern.
Their second son would be positioned in the North, of course his name would be
a reflection of that. She felt as though she should want to be angry,
but that specific tinder was damp and she had nothing left to strike a
spark. She smiled down at the golden-haired babe and spoke in a quiet voice,
"Rykar."
They sat there in the comfortable silence that was their way, listening to the
tiny squeaks and fussing of their children.
How odd.
How new.
Sansa thought back to a conversation she had so long ago, one in which she was
to be married to a monster, one in which she was told that regardless of the
immoral machinations of their sire, her children would be the focus of her
love. It was such an elusive concept to be told, and considering the source, it
was never an opinion she held with any regard. But here it was, the truth of
it; the living, breathing embodiment of that particular knowledge. Equal in
truth was that she did not marry the monster from that conversation. And as
Sansa casually tilted her head and looked at her husband - her
uncharacteristically smiling and happy husband - she knew the moniker was a
relative term. More so, she knew that detail all along.
"Red and gold." Tywin did not take the focus from his tiny prize when he softly
muttered the words, but when Sansa did not question or acknowledge them, he
flicked his eyes in her direction. She was looking at him wearing the smile
that was his, but she looked tired too and somehow it was pleasant on her. He
could feel foolish of his sentimentality, but it was already out there between
them, so he chose not to. "You have given me Lannister colours, my lady." Even
his words smiled.
Sansa huffed a small laugh and blinked slow - she was tired - idly gauging the
softness of their son's curls in her fingertips. "I don't know if your
bannermen will agree with you."
Tywin breathed his own scoff, shrugging as he spoke. "They've not much say in
the matter." He looked back down at Tysan, considered the serious babe. "Lions,
but they certainly have wolf in them."
Looking down at the sleeping bundle in her arm - Rykar - Sansa really couldn't
distinguish much more than almost invisible golden Lannister hair and a red,
wrinkled face. More like his father then, her overtaxed mind snickered, then
moved on. "Trout perhaps, my lord," she said "I am of my mother." The words
felt like a random thought even though it was perfectly in line with their
conversation. Her exhaustion was catching up to her.
"You carry Tully markings, true, but not everything about you is from the
Riverlands."
Sansa perked up as he spoke to their child in direction and to her in what he
was saying. What he noticed in her. It was shallow and discourteous to want
praise, but it did not mean she craved it any less.
"When you are well into thought," Tywin continued softly, flicking his gentle
eyes to her. "Or in the midst of conquering men and women with your charm..."
Sansa blushed at him then in such a way that Tywin resolved to make the effort
to compliment his lady more often. "...it is your father in the set of your
jaw, the stern focus of your eyes, and in the conviction of your words and
opinions." Tywin looked back down to Tysan and muttered, "Very much Eddard
Stark."
Her head dipped and she looked at Rykar again. This time fighting the sadness
of thinking of her father and looking for the very man in the babe she held.
And there it was, all it took was a tiny shift of the lips and gentle tilt of
the brow and she saw her father - and Robb, and Bran, and Rickon, and so much
of Arya. 
Sansa was far too tired to weep, so she smiled instead, her flagging thoughts
finding voice as she marveled dreamily to her sleepy son. "You are equal parts
of your father and mother."
Tywin spoke to her claim, distracted in his own right. "All children are."
No they aren't, her mind buzzed. "Joffrey had nothing of King Robert in him."
Her mouth spoke clearly, albeit absently, what was meant to stay in her
thoughts. "Nor does Myrcella and Tommen..." Sansa felt like she had dozed, her
heavy eyes aching for the relief of being closed, but when her husband growled
in a dangerous tone of warning, her mind prickled in sudden wakefulness.
"Tread carefully, wife."
She snapped her head in his direction, he was only looking at her with upturned
eyes - they were angry, but there was something else in them too. Something
telling of what she said and what it meant to him... Truth? 
Here was her choice, her crossroads: pursue what could be the truth that
perpetuated a war and devastated a kingdom, devastated her, or not. Her eyes
drifted lower to the boy Tywin held in his arm, then back up to man who was
silently questioning in which direction their relationship would now
travel. She slowly reached over and brushed her fingers through Tysan's hair,
smiling as he wriggled to catch sight of what disturbed him, then reached
higher and stroked the cheek, and hair there, of her children's father.
"I tread no further than those in this room, husband."
Her honest words were as soft as the touch she laid upon him and Tywin could
not defend against them both. Closing his eyes he leaned into her fingers and
let out the air his body was holding captive.
Family.
Duty.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Winter IX *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Sansa took to her baths as though she were seeking refuge. The bathing chamber
in the Tower of the Hand was at a level of opulence one would expect in
association with Lord Lannister. The room was expansive and held stations for
various forms and stages of bathing, but the jewel amongst them was the
tub. Built of thick copper, the vessel was large enough to accommodate Sansa at
least six times over. Each wall inclined slightly, ensuring comfort at any
angle, and retained enough heat in the depths of the metal that her maids said
it took well over an hour to cool completely.
Edging the outer sides of the tub were embossed ornate gold lions and engraved
flourishes directly in the copper. They were of such fine detail, Sansa found
something new every time she looked. The most intriguing aspects were that
parts of those same decals wandered over the rounded rim to the inside; where
Sansa would place a fingertip over the gold that formed and seemed to drip just
above water level and marvel how she couldn't feel where one metal met the
other, or how the etchings in the copper held no sharpness at their delicate
edges.
But, beyond that. Well above the excess displayed, reaching further into
Sansa's reason for pursuing this luxury to begin with, was the room's true
beauty.
It was quiet.
This was her haven.
She would never deny her children time or love or attention, but she found in
the subsequent moons since their birth that she needed to seek time for herself
as well.
It had never been a thought before, time of her own; Tywin had not tethered
her, really, and only required of her the duty that was expected from the wife
of the Hand of the King, the wife of the Warden of the West, and the Lady of
the Rock. As lofty as the titles sounded, they were simply roles she moulded
into; ones she had been prepared for all her life... At least, the spirit of
them. As a young girl, Sansa had never once imagined those same stints with
such a man.
Regardless, motherhood was like she had been given a sword, shoved into battle,
and told to fight for her life. A smile curved her lips as she sunk further
into the hot fragrant water. Unnecessary dramatics. No, it wasn't a fight for
her life, but it was a change comparable to that same sort of fear.
Her babes. Her sons.
As with their hair, the eye colour of her boys had no compromise, no mix or
dilution. Her bright, bold Tully blue shone under the golden curls of their
youngest and Lannister green, so light and flecked with gold, settled on the
boy with waves of auburn.
"It's a blessing you had two," Lady Genna had snorted the morning Tysan's
colour faded to green instead of the aqua it had been. "Only one, and he would
have come out patchwork."
Sansa huffed a laugh to herself as she watched her maids fill the heating
trough in the hearth with more water. Soaking in her bath, she heard Tywin
dismiss the maids personally attending her and adjust the small stool beside
the tub to accommodate the reach of his legs. She wasn't startled or concerned;
this was a routine that happened often.
From their wedding night, Sansa knew that the act of washing her was something
Tywin enjoyed. In the beginning she acquiesced out of duty, perhaps out of fear
too, but as time lapped over their marriage, smoothing down the jagged edges,
it was a custom Sansa grew to enjoy herself. Never initiated out of arousal or
sexual need; however, Sansa grinned to herself at the thought, it sometimes led
to it. His hands, so strong and lethal, became delicate and restrained in these
times. She had a sudden realization somewhere along the course of their time
together - as her husband was tilting her head and washing her throat and
shoulders one evening - and concluded that this was his form of prayer.
Lord Tywin had no use for invocation, only entering into a sept when
accompanying her, and though his belief in the Seven was real enough so was his
disdain for them. He had never admonished her attendance, he knew that she was
not there for the gods, but for the aspect of reflection and
remembrance. Though he would not participate in that aspect either. At least
not with her.
He only ever arrived to the bathing chamber as he did now: already divested of
his doublet. The rolling back of his shirt sleeves as well as the decisive
placement of washcloths and soap began their silent ritual. He then moved her
hair aside, exposing her neck and jaw line.
Tywin always started at the hairline of her brow, turning her face, sometimes
her body, in order to tailor the reach and symmetry of cleanliness. When she
would watch him wash over the jut of bone at the base of her throat, over her
breasts and lower, gently scrubbing each finger and each toe with a focus as
devout and somber as any septon that she knew he was in his place of worship.
Sansa closed her eyes at the feel of his attentions now and let flow a tumble
of thoughts and memories which, of course, immediately returned to her
children.
Her sons used furniture and people alike to take wobbly steps in their initial
tastes of freedom. They had no interest in crawling as she had been told they
would, seemingly preferring upright investigation instead. Rykar, the golden-
haired Lannister with Tully eyes, was fearless in his curiosity and, she was
sure, removing years of life from his mother every time he stood, walked, and
attempted to climb.
She had smiled when telling Tywin that their youngest's sense of adventure was
a very Northern trait, but stopped short at that, not wanting to remember the
other little boy she had known with a penchant for climbing. Rykar would focus
on the tall leather boots of his father if they were anywhere within his line
of sight and attention, only to scramble as fast as chubby limbs and a not-yet
year of existence would allow, then grasp at the polished surface with
proportionately chubby digits, peering high, smiling toothless at his tall,
stern-looking plaything.
"Insolence must be a Northern trait as well," Tywin had sneered, at the same
time picking up his giggling, drooling progeny.
Sansa knew not to watch her husband directly, but to observe casually in her
periphery, lest Tywin think he was being gawked at or scrutinized in his
interactions - in his affection - which would lead him to curtly distance
himself then leave their company altogether. Like every breath and movement of
her marriage, finding a balance to include Tywin in the lives of his sons was
an accomplishment based on trial and error.
An accomplishment, regardless.
She knew very well he had a desire to be there with them, his family, when his
schedule allowed, but Sansa learned through watching him that her husband did
not rightly know how. It wasn't a surprising revelation. And what began as
subtle timing, having their children sleeping near their desk in the later
evening while he wrote and she read, became a purposeful confluence before they
supped.
There was a war inside Tywin Lannister the first time his sons - one
rambunctious, one serene - were ushered into their sitting room at a time he
reserved, no not reserved - just had always been, for addressing queries and
subterfuge of the realm without the constant eyes of counsel... or the
swindlers themselves. But there they were, his wife and his children, and he
knew the latter would have easily been driven away if it were not for the
former.
Because she smiled.
His wife smiled, and it ticked and pulled at him in a place deep in his bones,
in the marrow of him. The place he conceded to give her, watched her claim,
only to have two more people join her there. It hurt for a while, to make room,
but like everything pertaining to his wife, both time and her patience were a
blessed salve.
They fit together, all of them, the four of them, because Sansa ensured that
they did. When Tywin derided her, informing he had hardly the time to care for
babes and run a kingdom, she proved him wrong by including their children in
the same room they endeavoured in the evenings. When he scolded his wife,
telling her that children had no place at their desk while they worked, he
found himself on more than one occasion cradling a sleeping boy in one hand and
a quill in the other - proven wrong once more.
He couldn't fault her, how could he? She admonished him without a single word,
struck down every argument he presented by way of process, and made it - their
lives - work around him. And as loathe as he was to do so, he would be a bloody
fool not to acknowledge the affinity to Joanna.
It was on one of these nights that Tywin held the eldest of the two, the placid
fire-haired boy who stared at him with his own eyes, reading missive after
missive until he abruptly stopped, flung the parchment away with his fingers
and stared livid at the babe. Sansa did not move past inclining her head, not
wanting to startle the perpetually fussy, newly sleeping son she held.
"What is it?" Her voice was calm yet framed in concern.
Sansa fixed Tywin with a stare he did not return and started to rise - sleeping
babe and all. He himself rose and lifted his hand, gesturing her to remain
seated, allowing his agitated voice to turn silken as it floated over the child
in his own arm. "I've been pissed on."
Her husband flicked his eyes to her and twitched the corner of his mouth,
daring Sansa to laugh, before walking toward the nursery waving off the maid
who started to follow. Ordering the girl to fetch clean clothes for himself
instead.
An accomplishment, regardless. All victories are small victories in the grander
view of life, but none are ever meaningless.
Sansa looked to the man who was deep in a world of his making, washing and
preening his wife, his tunic losing its crispness as the steam from the water
seeped into the fabric. His eyes were soft, and when he looked at her directly
he offered a smile. The truly genuine smile she had seemed to have earned since
the birth of their children.
It was a sad truth, if one were to dwell on it too long. Years in his presence
and it was when he smiled kindly, thoughtfully, that Tywin almost became a
stranger to her. Although she would not discourage the practice; not for all
the gold in Casterly Rock. Even if it was new and potentially suspicious
to her, it was a feature of their father that her children have known from
their onset.
A smile from the Great Lion. A fragile thing she resolved to care for and
cultivate for the benefit of her sons.
Sansa gave her husband a smile of her own just then. The one that had always
been his - kind and natural. The one that spoke tomes in her eyes and honesty
on her lips.
For him.
Him.
The first time they had bedded after she delivered, Sansa watched her husband
bend over her body and lay his mouth on every place she hated: every part of
her that had been stretched, that had changed.
It was more than a shock to realize that once you became a mother nothing of
the girl you were before remained. She was marked along her torso and curvier
in her hips, and though her breasts were drying of milk they were not of the
same firmness. She had wept initially, grieving for the girl she worked so hard
to become, the girl she would no longer be. Until Genna found her in a crumpled
heap and pulled her into her arms, cooing and soothing her as if Sansa were not
but a babe herself.
A moment so very bittersweet; Sansa felt fit to choke. A Lannister playing the
role of her mother because her own mother no longer wanted her, hated her… and
the true pity, the true sadness: Lady Genna was relief and warmth. Lady
Genna was motherly, she was a source of reassurance and knowledge in those
first few moons, and she should not have been.
Sansa inhaled long and deep, taking in the hints of citrus and the floral notes
infused in the water that surrounded her. Sweeping the tips of her forefingers
against the tips of her thumbs she could feel the slight slick of tallow within
her milky soak. The soft cloth and steady hand of her lord husband was now
scrubbing gentle circles down the bumps and nooks of her spine.
She relaxed into her thoughts once more.
Tywin had kissed her everywhere. Everywhere and then some. The soft flesh
behind her knees, the sensitive skin of her inner arm at her elbow, the crease
where her thighs met her backside. He was heated, but he was not rushed; he
coaxed her to turn over more than once in order for him to gently ravish
her. When he placed his mouth over the tip of her breast, there had been a jolt
of shame - that was where her children were nourished. But as he laved and
sucked and moaned and continued to explore her body with his hands, her scandal
tilted ever so slowly into ardor.
If there was anything she had learned about being a Lannister, it was that
regret was folly and stigma only manifested if you allowed it. It was a
strength to think in such a way and that, she knew quite well, meant those
qualities were not gifted only to Lannisters. But as her husband settled
between her legs and into the groove of her body, the one that always seemed to
suit perfectly, Sansa began to tremble. She felt like it was their wedding
night but worse because they had shared a bed for years and now she was
afraid. Not afraid of Tywin, but afraid of how she had changed. She was
different on the outside and had no idea of exactly how different she was on
the inside.
The desire had been there, the pool of heat inside her stirred, she wanted the
man looking at her with patient eyes. Yet she had trembled.
Her husband moved again, this time out from where he fit so well until he was
laid long on his side and encouraging her to do the same. Long strong arms
embraced her, pulled her tight against the body in front of her, followed by
soft lips seeking hers and his tongue pressing for admittance into her mouth.
Sansa had met Tywin's kiss, and fiercely so. Her own hands toyed and explored
the side of him expose to the cool air, finding the peaks and valleys of her
husband's body that she desired so much - his flank, his back, his hip, his
arse. She had missed being so close, being held close without the protrusion of
life between them. It was greedy to think that, the love she held for her sons
was scorching and singular, but she allowed it of herself. Allowed of herself
possessiveness of the man she was quite consciously burnishing with her body.
Even on their side, as her toes dusted his shins, they fit together.
Even where she was still a little soft at her middle, even how her breasts
pressed into his chest at different height and volume, they fit together.
Even through her changes Tywin looked at her with an all consuming heat, kissed
and held her with that same passion...
And that was the pith of it, wasn't it?
She felt a fool. No matter how she had changed or how she thought she was
different, Lord Tywin desired her no less than he ever had. Perhaps now with an
even greater hunger, and that was exactly what she wanted.
Needed.
Pulling away from him slightly, Sansa had locked his eyes and whispered through
her hurried breathing. "Now, please... Now."
Finding his place in the cradle of her thighs once again, Tywin used one arm to
brace himself and his other hand to guide himself into her heat. He had pushed
into her folds slowly, sinking by the fraction - gauging Sansa for anything
other than pleasure - until he had buried himself as far as their angle would
allow. His heart raced at the hot clutch of her, his eyes looked intently at
her as he made an effort to concentrate.
There was no hurt, no discomfort. Tywin had filled her and it caused that
pleasurable coil at the pit of her to tighten in anticipation. When she looked
up, it was at the alluringly familiar sight of his long throat; the cords of
muscle pulled taut and straining further.
She could feel him fighting to govern the rapid breathing that threatened to
end their intimacy far sooner than was customary. His belly pressed firm
against hers, she interpreted the pattern of intake and exhale as it began to
slow; it had been a handful of moons since they shared closeness, but it was a
triumph nonetheless when she easily knew when to sway and churn, when to stroke
her fingers over his skin, when to plant her mouth along his neck.
Tywin started to move in a lazy rhythm, groaning through long huffs above
her. Sansa took her time, enjoyed the feeling of him before hitching her legs
progressively higher from the backs of his thighs eventually to his waist,
granting him her depths until he was fully sheathing himself within her.
His pace had been steady as he looked down at his wife, her eyes glinting in
their foggy wonder, her mouth slightly open and smiling all the while.
My beautiful lady...
"I've missed you." The raspy words fell out of him; they were never supposed to
have caught breath.
It seemed she had known that of them. Sansa always knew. Yet another reprieve
granted by his beautiful wife. And another when she pulled his head down to
hers and claimed his sieve-of-a-mouth, kissing him deeply. 
They had each taken and they had each given, more than once that night.
In the early hours of the next morning, before the realm could taint his day,
Tywin had woken her with his tongue lapping in the most wonderful of places. He
savoured the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound and the sight of her, and
as Sansa woke fully, she took her turn to explore...
Blinking out of where her thoughts had taken her, Sansa blushed hot and knowing
at the tingling low in her belly. Surely it could be blamed on the heat of the
water.
The now became prominent once more when Tywin set his first cloth aside. Sansa
took her cue, accepting the hand he held out to assist her in standing. Turning
away from her husband, she noticed the lingering touch of his fingers over hers
as he used his other hand to retrieve another cloth and begin the tender
methodical scour of her bottom and the backs of her legs.
He kissed her there, on her backside, before turning her to face him, and she
miraculously found the will to repress the urge to chuckle. When her juncture
became his focus, it was washed with high reverence, such a deft touch, and yet
another cloth - this one far softer than the others, it was a pleasure all its
own.
In these moments Sansa would sometimes rest her fingers over his. A wordless
command. One that saw her husband peer upward and wait for the next one she
would give. Her own inclination varied from instance to instance, but it was
how Tywin looked at her every single time that prompted Sansa to offer such a
gesture in the first place.
From her position looking down on him, from the very first time her desire
crested her duty as she stood there, she saw an element of submission within
Lord Tywin Lannister. Nothing groveling or dependent on the fact that she was
elevated and he was not. It was the path of the pious to give in to what they
deem divine, and in his place of worship the old lion reveled in the peace and
awe of the flesh laid bare before him. 
His eyes told of a want only to please, and if she so asked he would obey.
Control was never something fleeting in the man washing her, but it was a
commodity he held terrifyingly tight. Even on the occasions he would pass it to
her, there was always the possibility he would panic and yank it back without
warning or regard for consequence. But in the moments Sansa held this
control, his control, she knew that the responsibility was great. For in those
flitting specks of time it was she alone who influenced the Hand of the King.
She ruled.
And it was gloriously frightening.
Her mouth only had to utter thoughts, logical or brash, and the deed would be
done. Even if her commands were ill-advised, Tywin Lannister would not rescind
his word to her, would not admit to that kind of weakness.
Like everything that made them, the trust he offered in passing control to his
wife was but one more test in choice and respect. Even though she had every
opportunity to be overly demanding, selfish in her small pockets of autocracy,
Sansa had never ventured beyond assisting the Queen in securing means to aid
the downtrodden within the city and immediate crown lands without.
She could have anything, and his wife continually chose outside herself; in a
manner that persistently garnered her, them, his name and House, a reputation
of goodwill, fairness... An overall love of sorts.
A love for her.
Sansa's requests were only ever meticulously planned and considered from
multiple angles. Never would she present a short term solution, only an answer
to a problem and long term benefits of that solution.
His clever girl.
Equally, her commands also involved the encouragement to invest more time with
his children, all of them... and his grandchild.
It was easier to feed the poor, but the effort was made.
For her.
Without a command or request on her part, Tywin finished the most delicate part
of his wash. Then, holding her hand, assisted her in sitting once more. They
both sat in the restful stillness of the room, his ceremony complete, as Tywin
cupped water over the shoulders of his wife; watching fixated as the bathwater
rivulets coursed and descended back.
Sansa hugged her knees close and watched the golden skin on the hand of her
husband breach the surface of the hazy water and considered the contrast, then
looked at her own colourless skin and scoffed internally - she, in fact,
blended with her bath. She blinked a look at the man who was idly stirring the
water, a gentle curiosity so much like their sons. He was beautiful, and that
was no revelation, merely acknowledgement of fact.
As much as her bath was her refuge, her detachment and serenity, there were
times she simply wanted Tywin there. It was no more a request than it was a
need - for him to be close and for her to be safe. The past, those ghosts and
terrors, always skimmed along her surface like the fragrant oils swirling on
top of the water she sat in, and were just as difficult to evade. They clung to
her sometimes, those nightmare apparitions, soaking into her skin, and the only
way she knew to relieve the cinch of fear and darkness was to have her husband
near.
Sansa's eyes were languid, trying to focus on the nothing colour of the water.
When she spoke, her voice was like an audible representation of that same
distraction. "I never wanted to play this game."
Tywin did not falter in this movement, he was well used to her vagueness in
these times between them; though, instead of snapping viciously at his wife's
inept queries, he opted to probe further. "What game?"
"Of thrones."
One side of Sansa's face pinched slightly as though it pained her. It was not
the skin or muscles that were the cause - it was the sudden ridiculousness of
her words. 
Her husband paused a moment, his fingertips dipping lax into the bath and took
a level tone. "The life we lead is anything but a game, my lady. You know that
better than most."
She tilted her head toward him. Of course she knew; Tywin Lannister, her
husband, was a flesh and blood reminder that she was but a piece in the game.
He gave her a knowing glare, one without guilt or regret - nothing of the sort.
There was only a heavy seriousness, the same look that bent men to their knees
and broke the wills of any left standing. It was the same look Sansa had
studied and dissected from her place at his side. The same look she found she
could pull strength of her own from. And when he smirked at her, she knew that
he knew his strength allowed her to choose exactly what piece she wanted be.
"Though duplicity of thrones hardly has the same ring." The words were meant to
be playful, but fell between them as caustic. 
His wife smiled at him anyway. 
Bolstered, Tywin continued, "You were born playing it, Sansa. Just as I was."
His hand returned to tipping water on her flank and back, but he was
distracted, petting her mostly. "And like anyone born to our position, it is
never a matter of want, it is a matter of duty."
"No one ever truly wins." 
Her thought was a summation, not a question, causing Tywin to still his hand
and look at her squarely. "No," he said in a tone built low. "They simply play
their game. The rats scurry and fret and scheme and plot, and forget there sits
an entire realm outside these walls living and dying at their whim. That it's
the kingdom that makes the king, and without it he is just a man. The rats
always forget their duty." Sansa could feel the tremor of rage where his hand
rested on her back. "But they also forget how low to ground they are. That no
matter the confusion they create, there is always someone sitting higher,
seeing how it unfolds."
"Cats always position themselves in the tallest trees, on the highest shelves,"
she said, her tone was startlingly serious. "Even when birds fly over and
taunt, they sit and wait patiently for them to touch ground." Sansa kept his
eye as she spoke his very thoughts then, "Cats eat the rats."
Tywin felt his ire drain, replaced with something lighter. His thumb danced
circles on the skin over her ribs, and the fingers of his other hand brushed
clumped damp strands of hair from her face.
Sansa had returned her focus to the water she was sitting in as she presented
her question. "Why didn't you take the throne? You had plenty of opportunity to
be king." There was nothing accusatory about it.
"You are the second person who has ever dared ask that question." What he would
not tell her was that he had called the first person wife as well.
His wife looked at him sidelong, the corner of her mouth was turned up slightly
but she wasn't truly smiling. Tywin dipped his fingers in the water and raked
them gently in the luke-warmth, and asked, "What position is above a king?"
Sansa pursed her lips a little and thought. She was speaking toward the water,
but her eyes stayed on her husband. "In Westeros, there is no..." she thought
to place her words, "...regency higher than king."
She knew where he was directing her, so she turned before he could steer. "You
rule regardless, Tywin, why not have the title as well?"
They were questions and thoughts based solely in curiosity, Tywin could sense
that easily enough. It was always in the tranquility of the strangest places
that they had their most intriguing conversations.
"There is no power in a title, power comes from perception. Who is feared more:
a king, or a man controlling that king?"
Looking at the swirling oils in the misty water, Sansa arranged the images of
her thoughts in order of sense and scenario. "But when the man who has
controlled so many kings becomes king himself," she took a moment to ensure her
words sounded right in her head before continuing, "no perception is needed to
assign power where it truly rests."
Tywin felt a warmth in him that had nothing to do with the bathwater. He looked
at his wife and smiled. The canny creature. It must have caught her eye because
she turned her head to him fully and smiled back.
Her husband's mirth sunk slowly to seriousness. "If there is nothing above a
king, in which direction is the only option for a king to move?"
Sansa's own smile flattened at her realization. "Down."
Tywin hummed his agreement then spoke with an edge of anger. "I have no desire
to fall. Not when there are so many rats who would gladly watch and encourage
it happening."
She did not know why, perhaps it was a want to alleviate the heaviness their
conversation now bore, perhaps it was simply a want of fun, but she tugged them
out of seriousness by way of whimsy. Sansa didn't look at him, but she grinned
as she talked. "Then lets us run away." There was a pause, and for a heartbeat
Sansa braced herself for his ire.
"And do what? Go where?" Instead he presented only genuine curiosity.
So, she played. "It hardly matters," she teased.
Tywin raised an eyebrow and scoffed, "But it does. How will I provide for our
children?" Narrowing his eyes a little, he waited for Sansa to look at him
before continuing. "I don't know how to do anything else, and neither do you -
and it is for that very reason dreams are dangerous."
Sansa held an indignant pause at his words - they were the truth, she knew very
well the terrible effect dreams had on one's actuality, but it was hardly
reason to ruin a moment of levity.
Her husband took a deep breath, relaxing his features and addressed her
quietly, "You have learned to construe your dreams and aspire toward only those
that are, or are potentially, attainable. You have also learned it the hard
way." Tywin then looked and spoke in a manner she knew to mean his words were
bonded, unbreakable. "Our children will not be initiated in such a way,
Sansa, that I promise you."
The information was serious enough, but it was also nothing she did not already
know. Her newly rekindled adventure clambered for attention, and Sansa found
she could not deny it.
"You have wealth, we could go anywhere," she said coyly.
Tywin huffed. Not in a berating manner for angling back to frivolous
conversation, but something pleasant. "That's not running away, Sansa,
that's relocating."
It was her turn; she smiled wider and laughed lightly - enough that her
shoulders bounced in little movements. When her husband spoke, it was still
with a pleasant tone - perhaps something more.
"I will always be Tywin Lannister, no matter where I go. Just as you will
always be Sansa St-"
Whatever remnants of laughter she held, died immediately. Turning to him, it
was her who was wearing the old lion's serious scowl.
Lord Tywin wore a look that was somewhere amidst confusion and
amusement. "Lannister." he said.
It was an easy gaff, even for her husband. Hers was a name that rolled off the
tongue like a lyric, Sansa Stark; playful and sunny, Sansa Stark. But that was
not who she was. That was not who she made herself into. That was not
who he made her into. Oh, Sansa Stark was still inside, innocent and
unblemished. She was there underneath thought and reality, pulling strings
sometimes, like now, puppeting Lady Lannister in puerile behaviour. But Little
Bird was in there too, and stupid Sansa, and Little Dove... She kept them all,
those pieces of her, because without them the mother of Tysan and Rykar would
not be the same.
"Please don't forget who I am," she near pleaded. Her words sounded so small,
childlike.
Sometimes she let the balance of who she was before and who she had become slip
and teeter, it was a thrill, but Sansa couldn't fathom Lord Tywin doing the
same. More than that, if he lost grip then she most certainly would too.
Tywin took a heavy breath. "I will never forget who you are."
What an absurd promise. What an even more absurd relief. Though relief it was,
and Sansa leaned toward him curling a wet arm around the back of his neck as
she met his lips with hers. She sensed his long fingers working through her
tangled hair until they had a gentle hold of her head.
Her soft lips worked over his in quick pecks and lazy kisses; ones that would
lean into his mouth slowly and pull away at the same speed. Every once in
awhile he would feel her tongue flick, tempting him to try and capture it in
his lips. When he felt her mouth smile on his, he knew she was preparing a
break; it was her tell, but if it had to be anything, a smile from his lady was
the best advantage he could think of.
As Sansa settled back into the warm water, Tywin smirked at the maiden's blush
she still managed to paint herself with at the slightest hint of intimacy. The
corner of his mouth twitched and he knew his eyes were soft in their gaze upon
her; she was a feast of loveliness and he was a starving man.
"And what is it that you want?" His words tasted of charm even though they were
founded in the man's never ending conjecture.
Sansa grinned, sweet and true. "Not a thing, my lord."
He watched her turn her attention back to her hands swishing in the water. She
could be such a dreamy girl bent on sing-song wants and notions, but over the
time of their marriage Tywin came to crave that part of her just as much as he
craved the astute young lady. It was a rarity for anyone to carry both traits,
and even more rare to display either with the amount of tact his wife did.
Lord Tywin set to stand, using the side of the large copper tub for leverage,
picking up an empty bucket as he stood to full height. Sansa observed her
husband submerging the vessel to fill with her water, walking to the drainage
grate to empty, then returning to do it again. The old lion repeated this
action four times; the water level slowly revealed more of his wife as she
watched him, her eyes content, her mouth angled to a shadow of a smile.  Once
satisfied with the amount of water remaining, Tywin turned to the hearth and
lowered the bucket into the long copper trough, filling it with the steaming
contents. 
"Mind your feet." It was a placid command; always the same one he used before
pouring hot water into the bath in order to raise the temperature.
Another ritual.
Always the same routine before he accompanied her.
The first time Tywin shared her bath, physically joined her in the water, he
removed and added water then eyed her openly - first as he stripped bare, then
from under half lids as he settled into the newly added heat - as she twisted
into the smallest form she could create, as far from him as the tub would
allow. Sansa had only ever shared a few baths with her sister, and even then
she hated it because Arya only wanted to splash and be unruly. But her husband
did nothing more those first times than soak and rest, wash then get out
again. He had never bothered or required anything of her. 
She could not remember how many times they sat in the humid quiet before she
reached out and touched his foot under the cover of murk. It seemed ludicrous
to think back on it, as they had been sharing intimacies prior to that
time. But the act of bathing felt sacred to her.
A place of worship.
The old lion did not startle at his wife's initial touches, he kept his gaze
steady and impassive. He allowed her caresses, light and tentative at first -
almost as if anticipating retaliation. When none came, Sansa visibly relaxed
from the ball she had curled herself into and furthered her investigation; in
turn finding solace in the water once more.
Her husband sitting bare and unmoving in her place of comfort and solitude was
an assessment. He was wordlessly, without action or overt pressure, challenging
Sansa's mettle. It was one of the first times in her marriage that she
acknowledged a strength inside her that had not been active, noticeably
perhaps, before Lord Tywin tugged at her poise. Sansa had become proficient at
adapting to everything that happened around her, she was an authority on
overcoming emotional suffering, but to be placed at the edge of the repose she
relied on for both adapting and overcoming required another skill altogether.
It required her to journey deep into the den she kept within her mind and seek
her comfort there.
It meant living in two places at once on occasion, but the more she did it, the
easier it became.
At one time she existed wearing a shell in order to survive Joffrey, something
that made her noticeably wooden, it also allowed everyone around her to know
exactly what she was doing - it displayed her vulnerabilities. This new shell
grew under her skin, it moved with her and left nothing for the vultures of
King's Landing who sought advantageous carrion. It just so happened to be the
same shell Lord Tywin Lannister wore, and had mastered, decades longer than she
had been alive.
Some gifts - and what he had given her was indeed a gift - were weightless and
invisible, but carried a value higher than any bobble or trinket. So when, in
those early days of sharing her bath, her husband beckoned her to him using no
more than a sway of two fingers on a hand resting on the edge of the tub, Sansa
had no fear of getting closer.
When he maneuvered her to sit with her back against his chest, she willingly
leaned into the warmth of him.
When he rested his arm around her middle, she rested her hands on his thighs.
Because he had taught her that real solace does not live in a chamber with a
tub, or in a chamber at all, but is rooted deeply inside everyone individually
and can never truly be taken away. So peaceful and content was she that first
time, Sansa woke up wrapped in soft linen being carried to their bed.
It were those very thoughts she recalled as Tywin settled in behind her now, as
she took her place between his thighs, reclined onto his body and teased little
strokes and patterns where her fingers came to rest at his knees.
"Walder Frey is dead," Tywin stated casually, matter of fact.
He could feel Sansa tense against him only for a moment, then used the
dissipation of that same tension as indication to continue.
"Not of old age, mind you."
At that he felt her body hitch, but whether it was a cringe or a laugh he did
not know.
"Your mother's patience has paid off." Tywin acknowledged Sansa's palm now
placed to rest gently on his knee under the water. "She knew The Twins would
weaken at some point, and after moons of no activity he must have thought the
same as the rest of us - that she'd moved on."
Moved north was in the air but not as words.
"Where did they find him?" 
Her question was far from simple. In the time Lady Catelyn dedicated herself to
the eradication of those who betrayed her, she had done so in the most visible
manner possible. Hanging clusters of Frey and liable Northmen or sometimes just
presenting a head on a pike along the Greenfork. The justice of Lady Catelyn
and her Brotherhood was swift, brutal, and far reaching. Her influence
stretched as far west as Golden Tooth and as far east as the Saltpans.
The Brotherhood without Banners grew in size - a feral battalion, as Lord Tywin
described them - and were well trained and organized. During the lengthy
winter, many a man and woman found safety and purpose within the ever-moving
community. And though their numbers were rumoured to be in the hundreds, Tywin
estimated they were well over a thousand and simply well hidden, both in the
forests of The Neck and at the outer cusp of The Vale mountains along the
Kingsroad.
The group held the admiration of small folk in the Riverlands and beyond, held
aloft as saviours to most, and threatened to children as a comeuppance for bad
behaviour. "The Merciless Mother will find you, bleed you, and string you
high."
The Brotherhood had impeccable structure and hierarchy. Something Sansa could
only assume was a result of her mother's highly meticulous nature.
They were also well funded.
Sansa's contributions became less frequently sought as villages and lesser
lords alike started paying the Brotherhood furtively in exchange for goods,
stores and protection. Lannister gold was never truly forgotten though; she
would find the tiny parchment just as she always had since after watching her
mother's silhouette fade into a forest, and endeavour to shuffle minute sums in
multiple coffers around the books of finance the Warden of the West first
taught, then trusted her to kept. She was always careful, never greedy, only
taking from where it could be spared and never enough that it wouldn't be seen
as nominal loss.
"What was left of him was found in the hall where your brother was killed." A
heartbeat was given. "Trussed to a table and eaten alive by dogs, apparently."
Wolves, her mind corrected.
Only when Sansa felt her husband's arm encircled her middle, pulling her in
tight, and his mouth rest at the top of her head, muttering nonsense words of
reassurance, did she realize she was shivering in the torrid water. She closed
her eyes and let him hold her. Tywin brought his unoccupied hand to drape over
the soft skin of his wife's neck. His long fingers rested lightly around one
side as his thumb drew gentle lines along her jaw on the other. There were no
other witnesses to their intimacy save golden flames from the hearth and a
polished copper tub; each reflected in the soapy white of the water.
As the bath lost the last of its pleasant heat, Sansa broke their
silence. "Have you set a date for us to leave, my lord?"
The snows were all but gone in the South, and receding progressively in the
North. It was time for Lord and Lady Lannister to move as well.
"Another moon at the latest," Tywin replied, his voice somewhat groggy to begin
but steeling with every word. "You can start organizing ledgers and necessities
to travel with us, but don't waste time with excess." The hand that had been
warm on her neck brushed slowly down the front of her, over her collar and her
breasts, until it met with its other at her midriff. "Take only what is needed.
Everything else will be replaced or waiting at Casterly Rock."
Sansa nodded in acknowledgement of his instructions, then inquired, "When will
you come back here?"
His voice was firm and he raised an arm to rest on the edge of the tub -
tapping his forefinger as he spoke. "Eventually. When I intend to sail north." 
Sansa knew he was panning through expectations, speaking carefully around them
as he went on.
"Kevan will remain here in my stead while we establish routine at the Rock. You
will act as the authority in the West on my behalf, until I send for you to
come north." The words rolled out of him at a practiced cadence - they had
discussed those very actions in detail, many times.
What she wanted was the only information that mattered to her. "Will you tell
me your strategy for the North?"
"No," he clipped dismissively.
"Why?"
"Because it does not concern you."
Her fingernails curled into the flesh above his knee and she spoke in a low
venomous tone, "Yes, it does."
The arm left draped around her middle started to constrict, and
while that pressure wasn't terrible it was his fingertips pressing
progressively harder into her ribs that earned Tywin a grunt signifying his
wife's physical discomfort. When he felt Sansa's nails remove themselves from
their dig into his skin, he relinquished his own grip.
It was something of a truce, but Lord Tywin was moody, not neutral, his bitter
tone well established that fact. "Trust me or don't. Either way it makes no
matter." He leaned in, pressing his lips to her ear, and growled low, "Until
you lead an army there, girl, any agenda regarding the North will be of my own
making - not yours, not anyone else's."
Tywin sunk back to rest against the tub, his words causing Sansa to breathe in
deep angry pulls. He could feel the hurt and rage coursing through her muscle,
bone and sinew.
Lord Tywin did not care. Because above and beyond the wounded pride of his wife
he had a plan, and Sansa had a significant place within it.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Spring I *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Tywin told himself he would sleep on the journey, but there he was rocking in
time to the sway and pull of the waves that were cutting past the bow of his
ship, awake and aching, thinking of his wife.
His vessel was the lead cog of thirty that departed from King's Landing, each
with just over a hundred soldiers and filled to the brim with negotiated stores
and provisions from the South. This was followed by another thirty ships
bearing tradesmen and supplies required for both mending the North and the
battle ahead. Behind those boats sailed twenty large carracks; broader ships
farther out to sea, and though their chartered plot was the same direction
their eventual destination differed.
Sansa had been palpably livid because he would not make her privy to his plans;
although he did enjoy the creative methods she employed in her attempts to
discern the information she wanted. In his stately aft quarters, lying in a
bunk equal to his rightful bed in both size and luxuriousness, the old lion had
to adjust his breeches, and himself, at those particular thoughts.
Lord Tywin left Casterly Rock for King's Landing without fanfare, without
daylight even. Accompanied by his personal troop of fifty men, plus fifty to
support and serve. His only farewells were the ones Sansa bestowed upon him in
the nights leading up to his departure.
Again he adjusted.
When he had taken his wife and sons to Casterly Rock, near the end of their
travel, he had stopped the entire caravan and personally retrieved Sansa from
the litter she was travelling in with their children. She had left the boys in
the care of their nurses, donned boots, and accepted his arm and direction as
he lead her to the front of the caravan. They'd been traveling the Gold Road
exclusively up through the mountains where it still snowed in the evenings,
then down again, and on the skirt of the rocky outcrops he assisted his wife in
climbing stony natural stairs then stood with her on the flat jut that allowed
view of the land expanse before them.
First the grey rocks and ground dotted then faded into weathered greens and a
smattering of forest. Their perch offered a view above the treetops, where the
forest became thick. Past the far edge of it a quilt of fields were burgeoning
in vibrant colours. 
But beyond that was evidence of life; of population and movement.
At the northern edge of that population, as though it had been carved from a
punch of mountain itself, was the castle Lord Tywin was born in. The castle
where he knew happiness as a small child, leading his brood of brothers in
mischief. It was the castle his wife would command without him, and the land
they viewed was but a glimpse of what she would rule.
"It's quite large... even at a distance." Sansa's inflection was airy, her mind
obviously in the depths of contemplation. What she would not set to voice was
that the image reminded her of looking out the heavy curtains of the Queen's
litter all those years ago - some would say in another life altogether - and
seeing Winterfell dwindling smaller over the rolling hills of the North.
Even at a great distance Casterly Rock was immense. It was a truth Sansa could
admit freely; time may fade memory, but what she was looking at drew out the
same sweeping awe that King's Landing did the first time she had watched it
grow large on the horizon.
Lord Tywin watched the eyes of his wife flick and glide over the scenery before
her, she was motionless otherwise. He also caught the upturn at the corner of
her mouth; an action that softened the rest of her features.
"To your liking, my lady?"
He didn't smile the question at her in the slightest, but she knew well enough
that he was not asking to create conversation; Lord Tywin truly wanted his
wife's opinion. She turned her head slightly to him and widened her delicate
smile.
It was all the answer she offered. To him it was a thousand fold answer.
Looking slightly left of where they stood, Sansa muttered softly, "Lannisport."
Her husband's agreement came in the form of a small noise. Sansa made her own
when the size of the city she was looking at filtered into comprehension. Even
tiny and at a distance it was vast. She knew the numbers, but they were only
zeros after all, the scale of the city itself was what made it feel daunting -
something that would only increase, much like its physical size, the closer
they got.
"Three hundred thousand," she breathed.
Tywin scoffed lightly at her census recall and corrected, "More than that soon
- I have approved expansion inland."
She merely raised her brow, continuing to stare distractedly, until she felt
Tywin lean in close and breathe his words into the hair at her temple, made
unruly by the wind.
"It is yours."
When she turned to face him fully, Tywin immediately felt his insides buckle.
She looked as though she were about to tell him she did not want it. He knew
she waited for the North, for her home, but as his wife the West was her
station by marriage. The seat was her duty if nothing else, and at her lack of
even basic recognition Tywin locked his jaw to steel and his eyes in a stony
fury...
"Ours," she offered gently. Sansa breathed the word and raised her hand in the
same instant.
The old lion watched his wife settle her hand high on his breastplate, dead
center on his chest. Her palm covered the ornate lion's head roaring fiercely
out at the world, and somehow in hiding the angry animal she doused his
burgeoning ire. Sansa turned her head again to the land he so wanted her to
see, yet her hand remained. He could feel the warmth of it, he was sure, and
brought his own un-gloved hand up to rest over hers.
Returning his attention to the forest, and the land, and the city, and past it
all to the ribbon of sea glittering just beyond, he rubbed tiny circles on the
side of her thumb. Caressing the part of her that lay simply, yet so
complicated over the heart of him; mayhap protecting it.
Tywin didn't know it needed protecting so much, not with any amount of
certainty. However, what he did know was that he wanted nothing more than to
share his own home, the keep he fought and bled for, with his family.
As Lord Tywin stretched in the bed that wasn't really his, on the boat that was
taking him further from the sons whose existence he plotted and the wife he
calculated to bring into his life, he thought to make this the last campaign of
his life.
Tywin Lannister was at an age where most men slowed to stop - atrophied even at
the thought of pursuits which were once chased with limitless zeal in the years
of youth. But he enjoyed the chase. Regardless of what it involved, it was part
of the puzzle that existed around him. More so he trusted no one to perform at
the level to which he pushed himself. In that it was far simpler for him to
step into the fray and control the outcome of what he chased than wither to
nothing in a castle.
A knock on the door of his chambers tipped his concentration to the present,
and with a gruff instruction to wait, Tywin swung his feet to stand, preparing
for the intrusion to continue. He was not surprised to see one of his squires,
a boy from a distant Lannister relation that followed him from King's Landing;
however, what did surprise him was that the youth looked uncomfortable.
"What is it Darin?" he breathed tiredly at the boy.
His squire held up a small parchment with a Lannister seal, cleared his throat,
and spoke, "You have a letter, my lord."
"I see that," the lion gritted out, attempting to be patient.
When Tywin did not reach for the letter, the boy furrowed his brow and looked
at him with bewilderment.
The old lion leaned down, almost nose to nose with his kin, and snarled,
"Who is it from, you dolt."
The blood drained from the boy's face instantly. When he replied, it was with a
squeaky pitch of fear. "L-Lady Sansa, m-my lord."
As he straightened to full height, it was Tywin's turn to wear a look of
confusion. "This just arrived?" he uttered with a tone to suit his features.
"No, my lord. Lady Sansa gave it to me and said to bring it to you once we were
on the water."
"Why would my wife give you some cryptic correspondence?"
"I... I don't kn-... She trusts me, my lord?" Darin's face scrunched up as he
inflected his statement to a question, perhaps hoping his lord would oblige him
an answer.
The only thing Tywin obliged the boy with was an inclination of his head and a
tightening of his lips, which meant the squire was dangerously close to
enduring a reprimand.
"I'm sorry, my lord," he whispered as he ducked his head. "I don't know why
Lady Sansa gave it to me." Darin offered the small letter even higher this
time, his arm trembling from holding it out so long.
Tywin breathed out heavily as he snatched the missive away from the young man
and closed the door without a word, half wondering if he would find the boy out
there in the morning because he hadn't dismissed him verbally.
Walking deeper into his room, his legs as steady on the tilt of the sea as they
were on steady ground, Tywin examined the folded parchment in his hand. A
letter, and it was barely that. The golden seal was heavier than the paper, and
almost as large as the folded square it had been affixed to.
The old lion sat once more on the edge of his bed, dreading to find the
insincere wish-wash that wives thought their husbands expected of them - then
chided himself for the thought. If he knew anythign at all, he knew his wife
was nowhere near that type of woman. Pressing his thumbs down and away, the
seal split and the missive unfurled to expose the neat script of his wife's
hand.
No flourishes, just her:
Tywin,  
Know that I think of you often.  
Sansa
He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace; an answer to the tiny spears
of both agony and contentment, equal in their potency, that her note had
stirred in him.
His clever wife. She knew he would appreciate a terse sentiment far more than
languishing in sentimentality, and it hurt in the best possible way to
acknowledge that. Tywin's hand absently drifted to a centered spot on his
doublet, just below where the lacing came to an end, and gently pressed two
fingers there to calm the roar that persisted even without the accompanying
breastplate and ornate lion.
His musing was brief as a clatter of noise outside his cabin severed his calm
rumination.
Aboard the ship were musicians, a dozen of them and, what he had been told was,
a very gifted singer. Tywin hated them all. He had tasked Sansa with the
responsibility of securing them and she had not asked as to why he would need a
bard, but her passing looks of amused judgment caused him to growl one at her
regardless.
"They provide a modicum of relief for men under pressure of fighting and
dying."
She simply grinned at him at the time then nodded and hummed in her charmingly
defiant way as she began her search by penned inquiry. However, why the
infuriating men were traveling with him he did not know, but if he were to
hedge a bet it would surely land directly at the feet of his wife.
He smirked at her passive cruelty.
Thoughts seemingly influenced reality as Tywin heard the initial chords and
dull thumps of music starting mid-ship. Though they were traveling north, their
ships were hugging the coastal waters, allowing for favourable weather -
allowing for socializing on the deck instead of being relegated below. Not that
he minded; Lord Tywin had spent enough time at sea in his lifetime that he knew
the value of past-time. But as soon as the first line of lyrics reverberated
out of the singer's mouth, Tywin was exiting his bunk in long heavy strides to
match his fury.
He did not have to go far, the boat itself was little more than two hundred
paces from bow to stern, but it was wide and sturdy as was any flat-bottom
trader.
The noise had congregated under the main mast; the scene unevenly illuminated
by oil lamps securely affixed to various rigging. When he approached, there was
a surprised appreciation from the men who had gathered to listen; until, of
course, they realized the wrathful look carried by their liege was in direct
relation to the song being crooned for their entertainment.
The Great Lion stepped into the throng and unceremoniously snatched the bard by
the throat - thus ending his own serenade. "You know better," he growled hotly
in the ear of the young man.
As Lord Tywin pulled away from the singer, he noticed the musical compatriots
riveted to their exchange. The men who were once lounging in the vicinity of
the troop had all but vanished into the sea air. He took the opportunity to
address the group in its entirety. "One more note of it," the old lion's eerily
sedate speech was as terrifying as that of a man prone to screaming, "One
more word of it, and you'll each exit this boat as an anchor."
It was the bard who spoke and bowed in reverence on behalf of the men around
him, "Of course, my lord, of course." The man knew well his error. "It won't
happen again... until... I mean..."
Tywin raised his hand, but did not say a word. He did not have to, he simply
threw a glare that was both frigid and scorching, at the same time flexing his
jaw in anger.
His message was clear.
The musicians were silent the rest of their journey.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The mouth of the Weeping Water was too small for the hope of navigating a boat
the size of a cog successfully to the Dreadfort. It left only the option of
using a tender to transport men, horses, and provisions to shore. The process
was tedious, but it allotted time to send ravens as needs be.
A full six days passed until the handful of ships were emptied and men
organized. Tywin had estimated four at the most, but was ahead of his scheduled
timing by more than seven anyway.
Although it was the extra two days that gave them away.
The gathering of men in any number on the shores of the North were bound to
raise curiosity and fear of all kinds. So when Lannister forces finally made
their push toward the Bolton stronghold, it was little wonder that rows of pink
banners bearing flayed men, met them less than half way into their journey.
Numbers were even on either side of the rough and shallow plane in which they
encountered one another. But Lord Tywin would wager name and title that those
wearing red and gold were the better skilled, better armed, and better led.
A white banner was hoisted on the Bolton side as a party of nearly twenty paced
their mounts to the middle of the space in front of them.
Lord Tywin ordered assembly of his tent prior to raising his own white banner
and leading a core group to meet the Bolton entourage.
"Some might think that white banner is Stark-aligned, Lord Tywin." Roose Bolton
was known as a merciless man, a shadowy figure of high cunning and low morals.
A man whom also purposely voiced himself with a soft timbre that required those
listening to do so with undivided attention.
It was instant leverage.
Tywin would have none of it.
"You know very well what it means, Lord Bolton. I am not here to banter asinine
assumptions."
The Leech Lord was emotionless in his reply. "It's hardly an assumption when it
is well known who your lady wife is." He craned his neck in what could only be
his version of humour and grinned quite fondly. "Did she make the journey as
well, my lord?"
Tywin tilted his head slightly to show his annoyance, his voice was not so
subtle, "The reasons for me being here have nothing to do with my wife, Lord
Bolton, as our correspondence would indicate." The lion narrowed his eyes then,
his tone sunk to murderous. "Would you prefer I leave?"
The northern lord knew Lord Tywin Lannister was not speaking on pretense, and
if he implicated a bluff the older man would ride away as easily as he
arrived. "No my lord, that won't be necessary," Bolton whispered.
"We are shy of a day's ride from your keep, my lord." Tywin resumed,
unperturbed by the tension only moments before. "I suggest making camp and
arriving in daylight."
Lord Roose nodded in agreement and gave instructions to one of the men he rode
out with.
Lord Tywin waited until he was the other man's sole focus before speaking
again. "Care to join me, then? When was the last time you had good Arbor wine?"
At the mention of wine Bolton met his eye, thinned his lips to a devious smile,
and once more nodded his acquiescence. After a war and a winter just about
anything not made of grain or fermented milk was a luxury.
Tywin led his guest into the spacious tent his forethought provided, and it was
not long until Lord Bolton addressed his inference a second time, this instance
more pointedly. "I understand what your letters said, my lord - you want
Stannis. But you have to give credit to my hesitation in that you wed a Stark
daughter, the older of the two, and this is the North."
The marriage of the northern girl and the bastard was contract struck and
signed well before the Crown removed itself from the ploy of the Freys. And
having the Bolton's continue their assumption that the girl was the younger
Stark would remain a deliberate advantage. Tywin waited until his squire laid
out the wine service and left before intoning sedately, "I wed for no more than
an heir. My wife is fertile and obedient, and has done her duty to the West."
It was almost a challenge, Lady Bolton had recently delivered a daughter, not
the true-born heir Lord Roose desired. His bastard was legitimized when his
father was appointed Warden of the North, but it was never a wise man who took
their legacy for granted.
Tywin let out a small sigh. "I am here on the command of the Crown - my
grandson - and my task is to be rid of the last false king who wishes to usurp
him. I have no interest in the North otherwise."
"Not even for the seat of Winterfell?"
"Tell me Lord Bolton, other than a seat and a title, what would be my gain in
the North?"
"Land, men, resources."
"The land is fruitless at best, the men are of no numbers to compare to the
South, at a distance between them that makes even the simplest of summons at
arduous affair, and what resources are you referring to? Wool?" The last word
he drawled out sardonically. "I'm the one paying you in stores and resources,
my lord. You have ice and misery, and you can keep it. As I said, I am here for
Stannis, and to have the claim to the Stormlands undisputed."
Lord Roose remained undaunted by the overt insult to his seat and the land that
was his home.
Tywin cared nothing if he had been, continuing in his hard neutral tone, "Land
of which your king has generously offered acreage and titles for the men of
your choosing."
Bolton gave an airy hum, not necessarily of assent. "The Ironborn have a king
as well."
Tywin made a bitter sound then said, "Let them choke on their own madness. They
are hardly in a position to rebel - they know what happens when they try."
"So do you, my lord," Lord Bolton smirked, "and your entire fleet."
The old lion set his impassive glare on the man standing no more than an arm's
length away. "Indeed," he conceded, emotionless. "And I encourage them totry it
again."
There was silence between the two men, but for neither was it uncomfortable.
"You and your lead men will, of course, be welcomed under my roof for your stay
in the North, my lord." Lord Bolton said the words in earnest as he sat at the
broad table that took up most of the tent. He spoke as a matter of privilege
that was his capacity as the Warden of the North, and if the irony had struck
him at all that particular epiphany was kept to himself.
Lord Tywin raised a brow and scoffed imperceptibly at the quiet man before
answering, "Thank you, my lord. However, I shall stay with my host, as is my
custom."
In offering a cup of wine to the northern lord, Tywin understood the slight nod
of acceptance he was given in return - towards both the Arbor gold and the old
lion's preferences.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The pomp given to the heritage and naming of castles had always been something
of a grating annoyance to Lord Tywin, mainly because his own was the namesake
of those stupid enough to be bilked of it. No one in the generations of
Lannisters had thought to rename Casterly Rock and, as it stood, the
inclination to do so currently would bear more harm than good. Although, as he
was introduced and guided through the Dreadfort, he could think of no other
name so appropriate.
It was a dark place; even in daylight in the open bailey, the high walls and
close-set buildings made it feel as though you were being swallowed into a
shadow. As he viewed and walked and surveyed and observed, what he also felt of
the place was an overwhelming sense of spectacle. Skeletal accents and
fixtures, blackened wood, and tales of what horrors could be found in the
depths of the dungeons beneath their feet. It all added to bolster the legend
of the family who inhabited it.
In reality it skirted the realm of comedic. Not that the man who hosted him was
to be dismissed or taken lightly. Bolton history was a grim as the castle, but
there were obvious chinks in that armour as well. Coincidentally, those flaws
also ran in a garish vein.
Lady Bolton, Fat Walda, was short, round and, like the castle she dwelled in,
fit her moniker succinctly. She had been introduced formally, clutching a babe
that was fussy - trying to tear for her freedom from the strangers she was
being subjected to. The daughter had the markings of her father, straight black
locks and grey eyes shining in a way children's are prone to. Lord Tywin took a
fraction of a moment to care about what it would grow into, then dropped the
thought without qualm or conscience.
Bolton's wife looked out of place in the North, in the company of her deathly
silent husband. She had a look about her that Tywin knew to mean she was
struggling to remain quiet. That with every word uttered around her, she was
itching to speak, or ask, or vex her way into conversation.
She had kept her tongue well tucked in his presence, and what a mercy that
was. It only took the girl walking toward a group of ladies to prompt her
excitedly shrill voice into carrying, and cause Tywin to both flinch at the
sound and immediately want for his own wife.
Her smile, her touch, her reticent grace...
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"Lannister forces have made Barrowtown and White Harbor, my lord." Bolton's man
had interrupted an early meeting of Lord Tywin, his commanders, and Lord Roose
and the leaders amongst his vassals, but the information was integral to each
man. Lannister soldiers had been camped outside Bolton's keep just under a
sennight waiting for word from his other forces.
The lion addressed all those assembled, "They will continue their move north
toward Winterfell, and garrison themselves prior to their march on the
Wolfswood." He looked toward Lord Bolton for affirmation. "From what we know,
Stannis has retreated into the deep of it with whatever remains of his southern
forces and clan men, correct?"
The lord of the Dreadfort nodded, his simple action was degrees above his
normal timbre. "It looks that way, my lord," he offered. "My son has estimated
Stannis carries no more than twelve hundred men at his service, those who
survived winter."
Tywin internally scoffed at the man's use of son. Legitimized or not, natural-
borns will always be bastards. Flicking the thought from his mind, he refocused
on the task at hand. Anything less would drift his concentration to his own
sons.
True-born sons.
Heirs.
Lord Roose was fixated solely on the old lion, quietly taking in the older
man's distraction as he continued in his quiet debrief. "It has also been noted
that after the attempted raid on Winterfell, the Ironborn, once relegated as
captives to Baratheon, are now fighting in support of him."
Tywin took the information in stride. Anything could have happened to change
that scenario - winter survival a main reason. Above tactical failure on
Stannis' part, the raid on Winterfell saw a heavy loss of Bolton forces, as
well as the disappearance of the bastard's own Stark bride - news of which had
reached Tywin by other means than the man in front of him. Whatever the reason,
the true question was exactly what kind of catalyst would be needed to change
the heart of a Greyjoy.
Tywin articulated through his disruptive line of thought, "Numbers alone will
see them fall. As long as your... son... is confident in his estimation,
Stannis will prove little threat. And we can move forward with the dispersal of
the Stormlands."
It was Ser Condon who spoke next, almost urgently. "The Crown will also follow
through their commitment to replenish the North..."
Tywin looked sharply at the man of House Cerwyn. If he were his own, the knight
would be given an exit and no share of any bounty to serve as a testament of
his skepticism. But the larger truth was that every man in that tent, at that
table, save those who came from the South, looked hollow. Their pallor was
frightening and their eyes were no more than watery orbs sunk within dark pits
in their skulls. The heartiest was Lord Bolton, but even he was but a shade of
his ghostly self.
"Supply ships and tradesmen have already been staggered in launch, they will be
ready once Stannis and his forces have been eliminated."
The knight spoke in unbelievable relief, "Thank you, my lord."
Ignoring him, Tywin carried forward with his means and procedures. "My
regiments here are preparing to move toward Winterfell in two days time. They
will group and organize with those already there and lead the charge to
Stannis." He glanced over the faces at the table and was pleased to see that
while they were weary, the Northmen were alert and comprehending. He spoke
directly to Lord Bolton. "We will leave in a fortnight, flanking high through
the wood with your forces."
Roose quirked his lip and nodded.
Tywin narrowed his eyes, his tone remained dry and serious, "I trust you know
the wood better than Stannis and the Ironborn."
Roose looked pointedly at the older man, never once faltering under his glare,
offering his soft inflection, "There are hunting trails my family has been
using for hundreds of years, my lord, some traverse underground." He quirked
his lip again. "No, they'll not see us coming."
"Why not eradicate Stannis before now? Why not use these advantages and rid
yourself of him altogether?" Tywin couldn't understand not exploiting an
obvious weakness to achieve a goal, but as the quiet lord answered, the old
lion knew exactly the type of man with whom he had made his alliance.
"They have been well trapped in the Wolfswood for nigh on three years, my lord.
I find it far more entertaining wondering what Stannis has been reduced to
eating this time around." Bolton smiled outright. "I hear his family perished
in the snows."
Tywin scoffed lightly at his host and moved on all the same. "Your banners are
present and accounted for, correct? I wish to have the stores and provisions
doled accordingly prior to our leave. I'll not have any of my men left to
deliberate petty squabbles for grain and lard."
"They are, my lord." Bolton, for the first time, looked slightly uncomfortable.
He cleared his throat and began, "We would like to host a feast, Lord Tywin,
something of a celebration."
The old lion twitched the corner of his mouth, the rest of him stayed serious.
What he was witnessing was a man acting on behalf of his wife. A feast would be
expected under any other circumstance; however, true decorum in the instance of
famine would state otherwise, in that food stores were nowhere near adequate to
support such a thing.
Lord Roose answered his thoughts, "We have been anticipating your arrival, my
lord, and while it won't be opulent, a feast would do well to display
solidarity with the crown to those who may still be left unsure."
The northern men at the table nodded, muttered, and, as Tywin scrutinized
closely, exhibited a feral look of hunger. Pure and simple, these men were
starved. He could only assume what sacrifice had been forced upon these men at
the expense of his arrival.
Lady Bolton certainly had not suffered. Tywin smiled at that, inside and to
himself.
"Of course," he said with disinterest. "If it please, my lord, I would like to
contribute from my personal stocks. But, if I may suggest, the feast wait a
fortnight - until we are readied to leave.
"There is no need for the bulk of my own men to deplete what stores you have,"
Tywin continued, "and the small contingent that will remain at my aid will
provide whatever clarification of unity you require amongst your banners."
Lord Bolton considered this and nodded after a short while. "The hall is large
here, but the reduction of men will help accommodate a higher comfort."
Tywin angled his head to side a tiny amount, pensive. "Hold it outside, my
lord. My host will be gone, the space needed to house guests and serve a meal
will be more than enough." There was a murmur amongst the northerners. "The
cold will not rankle my sensibilities, I assure you," he smirked casually.
"Wood is what you have in abundance, yes?"
The chatter slid into happier tones, but it was Lord Roose that looked most
pleased. Roguishly so. "If you insist," he whispered with a smile.
It was an effort not to address Bolton's shift to calculation and assessment at
securing a casual setting for his Southron guests. In light of the man's
celebratory history, Tywin had every reason to be distrustful, but whatever
fraction of apprehension stirred in his gut he bit back and pushed forward.
"I do, my lord," the old lion placated. "I also have infernal musicians I will
gladly contribute - whom I also insist that you keep... As whatever form of
entertainment you fancy."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Precision.
As Tywin watched his men stack and store essential supplies, as had been
negotiated, it was a word that ticked and flowed through his mind. It was a
word that had described him for decades, and yet it was a word that seemed his
current antithesis... in part.
He felt himself two men now. Between the regimented soldier - the leader of men
and ruthless warrior, the Hand of the King - and the other - the man that found
life behind closed doors, the one that existed in private moments and peaceful
lulls - he was unsure which he preferred. More so, which was to his benefit.
Each was useful and effective in their own way; one circumspect, one resolute.
Each was a deficiency; one of too narrow a focus, one of too broad a view.
His only hope was to live carefully between the two. Something his wife and
sons tugged at and nudged when necessary in order to maintain that delicate
parity.
Sansa.
Gods, he could not remember the last time he spoke her name. He knew well
enough that he thought of it, thought of her; in the slivers of night when his
body forced him to sleep. But the thought drove nothing of arousal, not like
those first nights rocking at sea where he ached from the recent memory of her
skin and breath and heat. This was something else entirely, as though his mind
were petrified it would forget. That it would easily misplace her from his
thoughts, remove her loveliness from his dreams, replace them with something or
someone else...
...Like it did with Joanna.
The ache in him, of Sansa, another ghost, had unmoored and drifted in the days
since setting for the North. Like a shadow it progressed to settle north
itself, to lodge itself deep in what felt like a hollow in his chest.
He missed her.
Shaking his head as if to muzzle his contemplation, Lord Tywin walked around
the camp to better glean progress. There were men building what looked to be a
dais and long tables and benches being transferred from within the castle to
outside its curtain walls.
This feast was to be large, and his generosity would not go unnoticed.
Further aside from the dining area, were stacks of casks. Hundreds of barrels
contained everything craved by the men and women who would be attending: Arbor
gold, Dornish reds, plenty of sweet reds on behalf of the Tyrells, and other
things. Far too much to drink in one night, but nothing that wouldn't
eventually make it into the castle on his behest.
Tywin never enjoyed the gluttony of feasts and celebrations, but he thrived on
the fact it was he who would provide edacity for others. More than that, it was
the way people acknowledged it to him, of him. It was power. Regardless of
where it was based - awe, terror, respect - it was power all the same. And once
gained, it was only a matter of maintenance.
As the sky began to darken into evening, Lord Tywin dressed to suit the
pageantry expected, even in the wilds of the North. He braced himself for the
long observed ceremony aspect of celebration. It was the part of his station in
life that he never truly loved or despised.
Endless faces of lords and ladies.
Countless compliments and whispered favours.
Yet here, treachery was nothing so overt.
Beards hid subtle conversation, shaggy hair obscured covert observation, furs
covered blades that had been promised to be left behind. There was an ingrained
element of suspicion here, a wary politeness that he could not remember ever
seeing in his own northern bride. Yet it was an attitude to which he could most
certainly dole esteem.
As he sat high on the rough-planked dais, Tywin looked over the men and women
and children who had come as their duty required, as their hunger lead them,
and he better understood his wife's iron will to survive.
They each had it, these Northerners, a tenacity all their own - bred into their
bones. An organic form of kinship and courage, something they displayed
proudly.
To a fault.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It will always be the tiniest of things that work to betray a man: a word, a
glance... one knuckle of one finger.
The evening progressed. The night was cold, but nothing a heavier layer could
not warm to something pleasant. The feast moved past food and drink, tables
were moved, and under the stars of the impossibly black northern night, men and
women danced and laughed in a carefree manner the old lion was duly
unaccustomed.
The frustratingly intolerable musician, the one Lord Tywin restrained himself
from indulging his want to run through, was suddenly in a light that made him
useful: entertaining those around him. 
In the choral midst of what he was sure was some northern dirge Tywin saw it.
Saw Lord Roose minutely lift his hand and brush his knuckle in a barely
noticeable trail over the back of his lady's hand. In the normality of things,
there would be no reason to question the affection a husband may show toward
his wife; in the actuality that was the Bolton patriarch, particularly when he
was in the company of the Hand of the King, Tywin knew it for what it was.
Complacency.
And complacency tends to breed opportunity. But what opportunity could there be
for an old lion flanked only by a handful of his own men?
"Bard!" Tywin clipped loudly at the first lull in the music, if only to prolong
the gap.
The other musicians dampened their instruments and watched their leader scamp
to the raised table that summoned him, waiting for the instruction of a new
song. "My lord," the singer gaily chirped with a flourishing bow, "My tongue is
yours."
Tywin's hate flared openly at the chit and was made doubly volatile at hearing
the sniggering along the head table - lead by the trill giggling of Lady
Bolton. "Address me again with pluck, bard, and consider your words truth." His
tone was like the summoning of winter, his thunderous glare equally
elemental. The warm mirth of the head table froze and shattered at such icy
disdain, as did nearly all of the chatter at the tables close to the makeshift
dais. 
The singer spoke first to break the spell of awful silence. This time there was
not a sliver of mischief or coy in him, his eyes were suitably lowered in fear
and submission. "I- I am sorry for any offense, Lord Hand." His eyes were still
turned down, his voice terribly somber, "Allow me to apologize, my lord, allow
me to honour you."
Tywin said nothing, letting the insignificant man flounder in his terror. It
was Lady Walda who turned to him and offered calm respite. "He is quite good,
my lord."
The bard looked up in the direction of the praise, but it was the furious gaze
of the old lion that at once captured his attention.
"Prove it," snarled Lord Tywin.
The singer gulped loudly, bowed without a word and traversed the expanse of the
feast area without seeming to place a single step on the ground. The next
moments there was heard a shuffle of instruments before a loud cheerful tune
carried through the crowd, cascading from the mouths and fingers of the
musicians.
Tywin had no idea what the song was, nor did he truly care. What he was riveted
to was the seduction of the music and how the crowd fell into the rhythm of it.
People drank in time and talked within the cadence of the drum. Women fawned
and cajoled normally steadfast men into dancing, with no more than smiles
offered like lyrics themselves.
He stood. The people occupying the head table each turned to look, but they
were nowhere near his focus. Each step taken with grace and ease placed him
squarely in front of a genuinely smiling Lady Walda. "Your assessment of the
bard is correct, my lady," he purred at her with a twitch of his mouth, "Take
my offer to dance as a confirmation of your opinion."
Holding his hand out to the girl, Tywin flicked his eyes to those of her
husband. Lord Bolton would no more deny his request then he would have expected
it in the first place. With a nod from her lord husband, Lady Walda took the
hand of the Great Lion and followed his lead from the dais to the flat hard-
pack ground ahead of it.
Lord Tywin stopped there rather abruptly. A curious act to be sure, but Walda
could only assume that Lord Tywin did not want to mingle too deeply in the
throngs of merriment. At the same time he turned to her and arranged his hands
in a manner that suggested he danced well, and often; he moved to the slower
time of a new song that seamlessly blended with the first. She smiled and
leaned closer. This was an opportunity that only happened once. Not only was
the Great Lion of Casterly Rock engaging in a dance, but he looked happy to do
so. His eyes were bright and his demeanor was fairly open - as far as she could
tell.
Lady Walda kept her smile as he led, step after step, every one well timed and
precious to her. She loved to dance, but her husband never indulged her.
The song once again changed; once again seamless; once again slower than the
one prior.
The musicians were only a few bars in when Walda realized she and Lord Tywin
had danced themselves far into the shadows, past the torches along the
perimeter, outside of the feast area.
Walda giggled, "We've been carried out of the warmth of the crowd, my lord,
perhaps-" She was cut off by his hands, large and strong, making a calm journey
over her arms, up her neck, to cup each side of her jaw making her swallow hard
and her breathing quicken.
His face was shadowy in the dark, but she could see his silhouette bend the
distance needed to bring his mouth just above her own. Walda licked her lips -
out of habit of course, nothing more than that. Her eyes shuttered when he
swayed closer the smallest of fractions, again she told herself it was out of
habit. His breath was of wine and spice; her insides fluttered - he tasted
Southron. She felt the barest of tickles when his lips moved, but what she did
not expect was a statement to fall from them. One that cut like a blade.
"Speak one word and you die, woman."
Her eyes snapped wide, trying to see in the black where they stood; she must
have heard wrong, something altogether different than a threat from Lord
Lannister. The fingers that once graced her with a gentle touch now dug into
her skin.
Tywin could feel her shiver in his hands, but she was trained well enough to
obey his command. 
With a nod in the direction behind them, Lady Walda gawked as the features of
the man who danced her into the darkness were illuminated as though it were
daybreak. She then saw the barreling rush of flames, from all sides of the
feast, column to the height of the tree tops. The base of those same trees
looked to take life; there was movement in waves - a trick of the light
perhaps...
Perhaps...
Along with the blazing brightness, Lady Walda heard the brandishing of steel at
a volume that was an awful acquaintance. Coupled with that horrible sound were
the immediate cries of fear and death and pleading for lives. She began to
tremble. A firm hand gripped a hurtful hold of her fur collar as a warm flow of
breath caught and swirled in her ear.
"Seem familiar?"
That was all the mesmerizing breath said before it moved away from her, and was
so much more than just a cruel taunt. She stood, made of shivering stone, the
very air she needed to live choking her in her terror. For as much as she led
others to believe, Lady Bolton was hardly stupid and her immediate
understanding was what led to the inconsolable rush of tears and sobs that
throttled through her.
Walda blinked and swiped angrily at the water that was blurring her vision,
trying to see. Looking toward the head table she witnessed Ser Condon being cut
down mid-stride in defense of his liege.
Her husband.
The man who was paid so handsomely to take her as a bride was standing tall and
defiant, fighting against being forcefully handled in an effort to haul him
away - all the while searching methodically over the massacre before him.
Looking.
He was looking for her.
Their eyes locked for only a moment, but it was more than a lifetime. Lady
Walda saw within that blink the man that only she knew; the man she had grown
to care for. And it was in that same heartbeat eternity that her husband
acknowledged their fate. She watched his eyes slowly close as his body stopped
resisting the Lannister men battering him to move - it was the apology of a man
who had never once thought or cared to utter one.
Walda doubled over, keening wails of fear and torment. Her painful realization
was a lightning strike: the sounds she made were just like those she heard so
long ago. An echoing menace that had followed then found each and every Frey
woman and child in the nooks and hollows in which they were hiding the night in
which Guest Right was broken.
Her own screams now mirrored those of Lady Catelyn then. A fact that
was nothing cathartic, she merely felt empty, but before there could be any
further contemplation, a set of rough hands grabbed her arms and pulled her
away from Lord Tywin.
Away from the anguished bewailing of so many men and women and, gods, children.
Away from the blood that was already flowing like little rivers from the
mayhem.
Away from the scores of crimson-cloaked soldiers butchering those not wearing
the same.
Away from the music still being sung and thumped and strummed slowly; a loud,
grotesque accompaniment to such a horrific scene.
The music...
Her soul shocked absolutely cold.
The Rains of Castamere.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Spring II *****
Chapter Notes
     **This chapter contains graphic descriptions of and allusions to
     violence related to execution and child death, as well as allusions
     to rape. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed
     accordingly.**
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Breathing deep the calm of daylight also meant inhaling a fine mist of soot,
dust, and blood that always seemed to breeze around and cling to everything
after any battle. 
Aside from small skirmishes in the West with sea raiders, land marauders, and
the Brotherhood, this was the first true assault in which Lord Tywin had been
personally involved since the Battle of Blackwater. With it the old lion
expected to feel weary, bone tired, and to want for nothing more than sleep,
but there was no tiredness of any sort in him. In fact, the only feelings he
could truly discern were satisfaction and anticipation.
He stood watching as the bodies of the dead were stripped of finery, weapons,
anything of value, before being carted inside the Dreadfort and piled like
cordwood in its main hall. Living captives, lower vassal families, lesser
knights, and servants were herded into the hall as well. High-born and more
influential captives were relegated outside and penned in, confined to a
heavily guarded cluster of tents.
Lord Tywin turned away from the bustle of activity, entering his own tent in
order to be apprised of progress.
Sitting around the large table were familiar faces, ones that had been around
him most of his life. Granted, some of the faces were of sons that mimicked
their fathers, but they were familiar all the same. Ser Merlon Crakehall caught
his gaze, and in turn spoke first - with a voice, Tywin conceded, more like the
knight's mother.
"Winterfell was of no issue, my lord," Ser Merlon informed. "What men were
there under Ramsay Bolton fell into our swords willingly, for the most part.
The rest, assorted Freys and Northmen, were shadows wielding steel heavier than
they were."
"And Lord Manderly?" Tywin asked as he sat at the command of the table.
"His men were waiting at White Harbor, as assured." The knight adjusted this
posture a little straighter, continuing, "The man himself held lead of a
ramshackle force including Umbers at the Keep, my lord. There wasn't much left
for us once we entered... Seemed Lord Manderly was keen to end the lives of any
Frey or Bolton man he could lay eyes on."
The old lion lifted a brow at the assessment and spoke seriously,
"Wyman Manderly led his men into battle?"
The younger man swallowed loudly and shifted slightly in his seat, his rigid
stance faltering now he was under the scrutiny of everyone at the
table. Clearing his throat, Ser Merlon thought best how to explain what he saw
when he and his men entered the gates of Winterfell. "No, my lord," he began
slowly. "Not leading as it were." His eyes were focused at a point on the
table. "He was..." swallowing again Merlon lifted his eyes to meet his lord and
spoke with an air of wonder, "taunting every man he could. My lord, the fight
went to him."
There was a flit of chuckling around the assembled men. All except Lord Tywin,
who did not waver in his seriousness; whose look pressed into the knight
expectantly.
"He wore no armour," the younger Crakehall stated like stone, the jovial sense
at the table blunting immediately. "But he swung his blade like a man
possessed. No finesse, his girth barely let him pivot, but he stood in one spot
and tore through those who thought he was an easy target, my lord."
Tywin nodded his acknowledgement at the tale. Wyman Manderly was the only man
he knew that could gain weight during a northern winter. But when the same men
who slaughter your son deliver his bones and strong-arm your fealty, a father's
fury knows no bounds. Of this, Tywin was sure. And that same surety proved an
advantage as it was part of the reason he sought the allegiance of the fat lord
in the first place. The other part, of course, was Lord Wyman's fierce loyalty
to the Stark bloodline.
"And Bolton's bastard?"
"Tried passing himself off as a kennel man, but it was an Umber who sorted
things out for us - Manderly's men vouched. He's been caged in the kennels
since, my lord."
"And Stannis?"
Tywin watched as the young knight squirmed again. When he was satisfied with
the look of torment, he glared at every single set of eyes at the table; each,
in turn, feeling the same heft of discomfort as the first man. He did not need
an answer from any of them. He'd already received the message of Stannis
Baratheon slipping southwest through the wood to the Ironborn boats hidden in
the waterways that severed the Rills and the Stoney Shore.
Lannister forces had Baratheon flanked north and south, beat by rights, but the
wood was something unto itself. To hear his men speak, it grew thick and tall
only to clear and become boggy as though it had worked against them. Tywin knew
the evasion had nothing to do with magical trees and everything to do with
failure of command. As he looked at the two chairs purposefully left vacant at
the table, he was sure his visual reminder that failure to such a capacity was
punished by way of death presented that fact quite vividly. Truth indeed if the
sweat-laden faces avoiding eye contact before him were anything to go by.
They were gone, of that he was sure. Stannis Baratheon would recover and
regroup well away from the Westeros mainland. Regardless of the fact Lannister
forces had destroyed the bulk of Stannis', it did not stop his agitation and
disdain, and he would be damned if the rest of his commanding men were not
going to live and worry under a cloud of suspect.
Tywin looked casually toward Lord Estren - though his voice was nothing of the
sort. "I want the castle stripped of value, anything and everything:
documentation, livestock, everything. It will be your charge to ensure its
delivery to Winterfell."
"Yes, my lord," the man of Wyndhall said as he nodded in affirmation.
"Take seventy men and begin now. Start at the top and work your way down,
remove walls and floors if necessary." His mouth twitched. "Leech it dry."
Rising from the great table, the older man offered a small grin of his own
before bowing his leave.
Lord Tywin then addressed his council in general, "Set aside hay and pitch and
be ready at first light. I'll not wait - you have a full day to secure and
complete your tasks." With that he allowed time to his leaders and observed the
quiet rumble of conversations dictating and confirming assignments amongst
them.
A voice at the far end of the table summoned Tywin's attention, it was the deep
grit tone of Flement Brax. He was a younger man who looked twice his age,
having led and commanded Lannister forces throughout the War of Five Kings and
kept vigil first at the Twins during what turned into the Red Wedding, then
again at the siege of Riverrun through the first year of winter. This was a man
who enjoyed war and, more so, was good at it.
"Karhold was an easy fold, my lord. The wanted captives have been penned with
the rest." Before Tywin could respond, the young commander spoke something
sinister - and altogether expected. "The ones confined to the hall, my lord,
surely there are some that can serve the men? At least for tonight."
Lord Tywin considered his man in what he was asking. Even by boat there were
camp followers; women and men who found work in the mainstay of a moving
military environment - washing, cooking, labouring - and yet they earned even
more by expanding their trade to include their bodies. But some men have other
wants, other preferences, those that are not found in the confines of a
transaction...
It took Tywin no more than a heartbeat to reply, "You have your orders, ser,
you know your priorities. As long as those are met I do not care how your ranks
occupy their time." He leaned forward ever so slightly. "Be warned, it goes to
torch at dawn, and any man who feels the need to dip his cock at the same time
will left to burn." The old lion turned sinister in his own right. "No
exceptions." He floated his gaze around the table. "Let the rest of your men
know that those in the hall are for their use, but also let them know the
consequence of stupidity."
There was a murmured wash of thanks and acquiescence. When the noise had
subsided, Tywin centered on Ser Forley Prester. "I want you to take your
regiment, as well as the Umber men you rallied from Last Hearth, and pick a
path northward along Last River to the base-mountain plateau and hold there."
Taking a drink of his wine, Tywin cleaned his palette, concluding, "You will
wait for the mountain clans to emerge, and bring their... lord here."
The brow of Ser Forley dipped in confusion, his face flashing a look like
affrontedness. "My lord, we encountered no mountain men in our descent from
Last Hearth, not even a scouting party-"
Tywin's fatigue made itself known in that moment. He looked of cool fury and
spoke of finality directly at the factious knight. "I need no more than a hunch
and the cunning of a simpleton to predict the strategic maneuvering of
savages." Narrowing his eyes, he seethed, "Turn north and wait."
Ser Forley stared blankly, blinking intermittently - as though he had to
transpose his lord's words into pattern in order to understand them.
"Now!" Tywin snapped and the knight jumped to stand, scurrying away with all
the grace of a scolded pup.
The old lion took a moment then to compose his thoughts and realign priorities,
asking at length, "Where is the fat one's babe?" The question was of no one in
particular. However, when only met with silence, he clarified in annoyance,
"Bolton. Lady Bolton. Where is her fucking whelp?"
The closest commander to him, a knight from Kayce, spoke without hesitation,
"With a nurse and the rest of the captives, my lord. Awaiting transport to
Winterfell."
Tywin's momentary ire ebbed, leaving the familiar comfort of
indifference. "Take the nurse and babe to perish. If the mother squeals or
resists, kill it in her arms." He looked at the man steadily, unmoved and
absolute. "I don't care your method, blunt or sharp - it dies. The same
with any children in that transport, they will not make the journey."
The man nodded, equally unmoved, as was each man in that tent, and rose to
follow the orders he had been given.
As though the knight's exit were a cue, Tywin dismissed the rest of his
officers until after the noon hour. Watching his men leave Tywin could almost
hear his brother, as if he were standing at his side. The Northerners were to
be left to the discretion of Lady Sansa, Kevan's voice chided inside his
head. Even when imagined, Tywin's brother did not remember his place, and the
notion made the old lion scoff into the emptiness of the large tent.
However, beyond conjured censure stood real truth. The Northerners were to be
held for northern justice, but this was a choice he simply had to make,
accountability for which he would own willingly. Sansa would not make this
decision. The death of those considered innocent would not be a path she would
take.
The sharper truth was that Tywin did not want her to.
...you are every bit the monster you have ever been.
The Great Lion swallowed his thoughts, hardened his resolve, and lived his
lady's honesty.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Roose Bolton's request to meet came only a few hours after the screams of his
wife, as well as other men and women within the confinement camp, had finally
grown hoarse - then petered to nothing.
Without preamble, those under the age of three-and-ten met the mercy of a
blade.
The process was anything but merciful.
As a matter of tactic, the encampment was upturned and swept for children. As a
matter of control, those found were herded and swung upon just outside the
perimeter of the captives' reach, but well within their sight.
The action was brutal if nothing else, and the event proved something of a
slaughter. Although it was found useful in the culling anyone who would have
been a nuisance during the march to Winterfell, and proved to quell the fire of
defiance living in those left to look on - those preferring judgment from a
Stark rather than a Lannister.
When Bolton was announced and brought in front of Lord Tywin, he looked no less
than he did the previous evening: stood tall, askew from where the lion sat at
the war table, his grey eyes piercing in their indelible fury. Yet his mien was
pretext, and it was openly apparent.
Tywin looked on with placid eyes, almost drowsy and bored in their appearance.
His were contrary to the prisoner brought before him.
"What is it Bolton?"
"Lord Bolton-"
"You are no such thing," Tywin corrected offhandedly. Refilling his cup with
wine, he eyed the man, then sipped without so much as an offer to
partake. "If that was the clarification you were seeking, you'll be escorted
back to your accommodation."
There was nothing outwardly palpable in the Northerner. Even in light of his
own ruin, Roose Bolton could not be swayed to falter, emotionally or otherwise.
It was a behaviour so ingrained that it had become the embodiment of his
character - something Tywin knew of intimately.
So he pushed.
"Your family is... comfortable, I presume?"
Bolton tilted his head back a minutely, his jaw flexed and worked in fine
tremors. "Under what authority does the Crown attack the North, my Lord Hand?"
His inflection was soft as ever, his respect remained intact as well.
Tywin raised a brow slightly then took his time to sip once more; as the cup
descended, so did the edges of his mouth - frowning in disappointment as one
would to an unruly babe. "I am not here at the behest of the Crown, Bolton."
His brow raised higher as if to accentuate his continued displeasure. "The
Stormlands have been long seized and occupied. Stannis Baratheon is no more a
threat than... you."
Roose took a moment to absorb the fallout of deceit before narrowing his own
eyes and peppering his words with as much bravado as his timbre would
allow. "My banners will be called, you've only succeeded in starting another
war."
The old lion snorted derisively. "And what bannermen will those be? The ones
currently lying dead, the ones that have been captured, or the ones that
welcomed me with open arms since the outset?"
He held his cup higher and paused, half toast half smug contemplation. "Your
banners are as loyal to you as you were to your own king." Tywin sighed then,
spiritless, "It seems the North is quite short on loyalty."
"Leave it to you to hide behind your position, my Lord Hand, for the profit of
betrayal."
From any other man, the statement would have been sneered and spit out. From
Bolton it sounded like a calm claim of truth. Tywin waved his hand at the wrist
and dismissed the notion like addressing a maiden. "Betrayal nothing. Like I
said, the Crown is well removed from this endeavour." Tywin felt an element of
pity for the man. "My signature is the same regardless of document, yet if it's
the only thing to warrant your interest, that only proves your own fault."
"So this is about your wife." This time Bolton did hiss his words, and at
volume.
The Great Lion inhaled long, and exhaled in the same manner; his eyes closed
for a moment then opened to his natural severity. "Shouldering my wife's debt
is my pleasure, Bolton. That is my duty to her not only as her husband, but as
a Lannister."
There was no defeat in the Northman, nothing that physically told tale of
resignation. "Then what of us, my lord? You say we are marching to Winterfell,
but to what end?"
Tywin wore eyes of granite and spoke in tones of steel, "The fate of your life
is not for me to determine, but I can only guess it will be forfeit - as well
as those of your vassal lords and what remains of your families." The old lion
continued speaking as he looked to parchments laying on the table in front of
him, "My concern are your lands and coffers - no more."
He was about to order dismissal when Bolton sounded almost a shade of
impressed. "Nothing by halves, my lord?"
Tywin flicked his eyes to the man, smirking after a moment. "As you will soon
see."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
True to his word, Tywin looked on as the Dreadfort was set ablaze at the first
light of dawn. The main hall of the castle was fortified, save one entrance;
the perimeter of the room having been packed solid with mounds of hay. It was
the soldiers amongst the group left alive in the hall that truly knew their
fate. Truly knew Lord Lannister was offering charity. And though some of those
same men still had it in them to lunge and fight for the freedom of dying by
way of steel, most others simply sat and waited.
The women and children who survived the night, enough to be more than a
bleeding husk, could be heard questioning the silent red-cloaks as to the
reason feed was being piled around them. Yet once the dry forage was lit, those
same voices could be heard coughing in gasps through their recognition, then
willingly gulping the smoke to end their misery.
To escape the inevitable flames.
It did not take long for greedy tongues of orange flame to lick around and
taste the timber of the structure, coughing out a thick oily fog from cracks in
the mortar and broken windows.
Amongst the hundreds of barrels of wine so many Northmen happily tapped and
drank from, before it was cut out of them, were stores of pitch. The black
sticky fuel that was currently igniting every level of the nightmare
castle. The Dreadfort would be razed beyond imagination, and Tywin meant for
the proof his scourge to be seen in the sky from the Wall to Winterfell.
Nothing by halves.
It burned for three days before the heat was low enough to afford approaching
the stony carcass. There was nothing of wood remaining in the building. Trusses
and roofs were smoldering open, nothing more than screaming maws aimed at the
clouds; floors and beams holding up levels had collapsed on themselves - some
taking walls with them. Even the mortar of the castle's outer walls had turned
to sand in some places because of the enormous amount of heat exuded from the
furnace that was the main building.
The hall itself still burned. As with oil in a lamp, the fatty flesh of those
trapped inside refused to yield quickly. The room burned with a small but
continuous flame, and the red glow of the dead climbed the walls of what was
left of the hall. It was the only thing one could see in the dark, a lurid
living hell that emitted an unnatural heat and offered a smell that should have
repelled hunger instead of encouraging it.
There would be new songs scripted to laud this conquest, of that there was no
doubt.
"The fire has done most of the work, my lord," Lord Estren began as he stepped
to the side of his liege, each of them looking at the orchestrated devastation.
"The walls that haven't fallen will only need a push."
Tywin didn't look away from the debris, eyes squinting at the mercy of the
stinging ashen air. "Bring everything down," the old lion turned then to his
subordinate, a malevolent sneer painting his mouth, "and burn it again."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
When Ser Forley Prester reentered the Lannister camp, he did so with more men
then he had set out. As predicted, scouting parties of mountain men had
descended out of curiosity. Always weary of southerners, it was only with the
encouragement and assurance of the Umber men accompanying Prester that secured
an audience with their leader.
The Harclay was large man, both in height and size. He wore a full beard that,
like the shaggy hair on his head, was odd mix of golden blond and dark brown.
But his eyes were the contrast, such a light blue they were almost white, like
the ice atop a frozen lake. He was a young man, no more than five-and-twenty if
one were to estimate, but the harshness of life no matter where it was lived
always seemed to add a decade. There was a fearlessness about him, in how he
casually left his own men to walk with the handful of red-cloaks; in how he was
more intrigued than cautious of meeting the man who carved the flaying men from
existence.
He was not disappointed.
Lord Lannister was standing as he entered the tent, and though he was nowhere
near his bulk, Harclay knew the tall older man was anything but frail. And only
a fool would assume otherwise. Harclay took the seat offered him at the large
table, along the side, a short distance from where Lord Tywin sat at the head
of it.
There was no preamble between them.
"What are your intentions, Lord Harclay?"
"Depends."
Tywin lowered his chin, his eyes clearly conveying annoyance, silently
demanding clarification.
Harclay understood, but demanded his own clarification. "What are your
intentions with my people captured after attacking the King?"
"I can assure you, my lord, whatever Northmen are left from Stannis' camp will
not find prosecution with me."
"And why'd that be?"
"The North has been torn apart for too many years, and it will take just as
long for it to be mended. It would not serve to have it ravaged further."
"But you hold Northmen captive here already - burn their castle, kill their
babes." There was no malice in his words, they barely held interest, the
mountain man simply needed to know why he should be inclined to trust.
"The Boltons and their ilk will answer for the murder of Robb Stark and his
banners-"
"No, south man," the Harclay swished his hand as if to push aside the lion's
words,"why do you care?"
Tywin took but a heartbeat to assess the burly young man who thought to
question him. "The Seven Kingdoms are best unified."
Harclay made a show of sniffing the air, taking in the acrid reminder of what
the lord in front of him thought of unification. "The North survives better on
its own," he said.
Tywin arched a brow. "Yet you follow Stannis, a southern king?" 
"He made promises, lands and titles and all," Harclay sighed. He had nothing to
do with those negotiations, had nothing to do with the unhappy looking king his
elders knelt to.
This was something the old lion could understand, this was something
tangible. "Did he follow through? What have you received?"
"His war still goes on. We wait till after to be squared." At his own words, a
pinch developed in the mountain man's lips, signifying displeasure.
Lord Tywin used it. "Stannis Baratheon's war has ended. You can die waiting for
your wandering king, or you can swear to my son when he sits in Winterfell."
The look Harclay wore was one of incredulousness, his scoff bore the same
distinction. "A lion instead of a stag? All Southron."
"My lady wife is a Stark, a direwolf." Tywin assessed the reaction of the man
in front of him, at the same time he felt a surge, of something, at his own
words. The Harclay remained unmoving overall, yet a mysterious light flickered
over his countenance; something Lord Tywin immediately exploited. "Lady
Sansa, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, has bore me sons, Lord Harclay.
Stark blood will once again be seated in the North," he narrowed his eyes at
the chieftain and offered something no man could refuse, "along with Lannister
wealth."
The mountain man smiled then, and even that looked wild. 
"When you leave today," Tywin instructed, "take a share of spoils collected
from Bolton's men - armour and steel." He moved in quickly to secure his newly
purchased trust. "I will also offer you food stores and horses."
"Land?" The Harclay eyed the lion shrewdly, his demand made in equal measure,
"I'll take this burning demon-castle too."
The minute curve at the corner of Tywin's mouth was an indication of something
close to amusement. "As we speak, it is not mine to give, but what
I can promise if you pledge fealty is first right to this and more once the
North knows peace. There are many keeps that now stand empty."
"How many are mine?" The Harclay pressed, interested at last.
There was neither hesitation nor indecision in Lord Tywin's negotiation. "How
many clans can you convince to kneel with you?"
Again there was a bright feral smile beneath the heavy brown beard. "All of
them."
Tywin lifted both brows and scoffed lightly, "You do that, and I will
personally see that you get your castles, my lord."
"You have mountains in your west-lands, Lord Tywin?" This time, the Harclay's
words were rigid and commanding. "You have castles there too?"
Lord Lannister leaned forward to the man, and for every hair-breadth of
distance lost his seriousness turned into a more subdued kind of fury. "Yes,"
he ground out. "There are both in the West and no, there's nothing there
for you."
When the mountain man angled his head back, squinted his eyes and chuckled,
Tywin knew he was the lesser of the two - that Harclay had been given exactly
what he wanted.
Anger is the first sign of defeat.
He could have the man killed for the sake of his own satisfaction, for the
pleasure of watching him die eating his laughter. But it would serve no purpose
other than that. For as much as Lord Tywin was ruthless he was equally
premeditated. Producing a heavy parchment, laden with both the Lannister seal
and that of the King Tommen, Tywin placed it in front of Harclay with a quill
and ink.
"I presume you know how to sign your name, Lord Harclay?" The words implied
insult, but the old lion left nothing in his inflection that would support the
notion. The mountain clans were brutish, but they were integral in the North,
and he would not afford even himself the snobbish want to berate a leader of
those people. 
It took a handful of moments before the younger man nodded at the contract, as
if agreeing with it instead of the lord presenting it. With a surprising
finesse, the Harclay's name was scrawled, and with unsurprising skill the same
man reached under his heavy fur cloak and produced a blade. The action was met
with the sentries edging the inside of the tent drawing their swords,
wordlessly waiting for reason or command to use them.
Harclay shook his head and laid the knife, pommel first, toward the older
man. "Words are wind, Lord Tywin. I offer a gift proving my loyalty to Stark
blood."
The blade was quality, castle forged, that was easy enough to see. The hilt was
a bone or a large tooth that had a black patina caused by decades of
handling. The weapon was nothing if not fine, and it took no effort for Tywin
to acknowledge this.
Leaning back as much as his chair would allow, the old lion unfastened a large
leather and crimson-velvet pouch from just behind where his scabbard would
normally sit, then reached forward again, setting the bag gently, respectfully,
on the table.
Harclay lifted the pouch with interest, hefted it in his hand, admired the
intricate tooling of the leather, before pulling open the draw and huffing a
small laugh. Of course the west-man would give him gold. More gold than he had
ever seen in any one time. Burrowing his hand in the cold pack of coins,
listening to the distinct sound the precious metal made when tumbled against
itself, Harclay removed a handful and left them beside his own offering.
He made to stand and watched Lord Tywin scrutinize the fistful of currency left
behind. "It's never wise to leave a rich man poor," he grinned.
Tywin neither confirmed nor denied the chieftain's prophecy, instead he opted
to ignore him. Waving a silent instruction to the guards, he sought to dismiss
him altogether.
At the entrance of the large tent the Harclay stopped, turning his attention
back to his host, addressing him, "Your wife. She's the one they say is kissed
by fire."
It was not a question, and this time the chieftain's coy smile did nothing but
ignite suspicion - Tywin's voice was evidence of that. "She's built of it," he
vowed unyeilding. "You'd do well to remember that, savage."
Harclay was markedly undisturbed by the great lord's words. He simply nodded
his head in little movements and spoke without humour, an uncanny echo of the
first men themselves. "Then you're the lucky one, lion."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin sat in silence for the remainder of the afternoon, stewing in
agitation. There was a melee within him, one that fought and charged at the
thought of his fire-built wife. Sansa had now become a noticeable weakness, and
it infuriated him.
Her last raven spoke only of political necessities and assurances from the
West. Her words were detached and it was like receiving correspondence from
himself. A detail that should have pleased him to no end, instead drove his
longing - his weakness - and left his will abandoned.
He wanted her.
He wanted.
Tywin stood and summoned one of the guards standing outside the entrance of his
tent and spoke as he turned to the young man who entered. "Send for a girl,
make sure she's clean," he said, flinty and emotionless.
"And willing, m'lord?" The young soldier japed, all smiles and good humour. To
which, Lord Lannister bore a look of such malevolence, the guard could be heard
shaking in his armour.
"I want a girl meeting my specifications," Tywin growled, his tone matching the
deadly intensity of his eyes. "I don't care if it's your sister and you have to
bind and drag her."
The young man swallowed hard. "Y-Yes m'lord, right away."
Tywin barely flicked his fingers and the guard was gone. And it seemed no time
at all before that same insipid boy returned with the requested bounty. 
When the young girl was shown into his tent, Tywin waited for the guard to
leave before he lifted his eyes to her. She was pretty enough, looked clean...
She would serve.
"Do not speak, just nod or shake your head. Do you understand?"
The nervous girl nodded at him, barely making eye contact.
"Do you know how to please a man with your mouth?"
She blinked rapidly for a moment then nodded her head once.
"Good. Strip."
The girl's wide brown eyes darted around for a heartbeat, it was the only
interruption prior to her starting to untie and peel away her simple dress. The
gaze from her lord was so acute it made her forget how simple lacing worked,
but the cruel curl of his lip quickly revived her knowledge. 
She stood shaking, her rag of a dress piled around her feet, and he could tell
she was stopping herself from covering her teats and cunt with her hands. The
girl was underdeveloped, barely out of childhood by the tell of breasts, her
mound had hair but it was still fine.
...She would serve.
"Step further into the light and get on your knees." Tywin pointed to a spot in
front of him and the girl did as she was told, kneeling near the feet of her
liege. 
When he came nearer to her, the girl applied what she had learned at an even
younger age and reached for the lacing on his breeches. At that exact moment,
Lord Tywin struck like a snake, slapping her hands away with such a force that
it turned her body with the momentum and caused her fingers to tingle sharply
then go numb.
"Put your hands on me again, and I will relieve you of their burden." He glared
at the frightened girl and seethed further, "Do you understand?"
The girl fought the tears that were creeping up on her and nodded emphatically.
"Sit up taller, put your hands behind your back, and open your mouth." It was
an order made almost in anger.
Watching the girl follow his instructions, Tywin unlaced his breeches himself,
pulled out his cock and began stroking it over her face. When her mouth was
open enough for his liking he rested the tip on her tongue and addressed her in
warning, "I'll not feel your teeth, will I?"
Her attention flicked momentarily to the shining blade sitting amongst the
parchment on the large table before shaking her head a tiny amount, careful to
keep his cock on her tongue.
"Suck," he commanded.
The old lion closed his eyes at the feel of her mouth closing over him. In his
mind when he looked down to his cock, the vision also projected wild waves of
auburn that made the habit of tickling the sides of his thighs, pale freckled
shoulders that swayed in cadence to his shuddering moans, and the delicate bow
of pink lips accommodating his length.
He huffed a groan involuntarily at such lovely debauchery.
Tywin's memory leapt to a time early in their marriage when he had taught Sansa
this singular pleasure - at which a wave of excitement flooded his prick,
prompting the mouth there to take him deeper, to suck harder. His wife had so
wanted to please him, thoroughly embarrassed as she was, and at first it worked
to his advantage as she would gag and choke and apologize on the verge of
tears. But for every sigh that dripped off his lips and every twitch she felt
under her hands or on her tongue, she became confident, bolder, and before long
it was an act he feared was shattering his restraint.
Until Sansa would look at him.
She would look up directly at him with eyes that he could always read. No
pretense, no lies, just honesty, and it would remove all doubt from him. It was
as if she could sense that in him as well, because it was only after he was
past his own hesitations that she would smile. Gods... Her lips would curl up
and around his girth, so filthy, so beautiful, and all she wanted to do was
suck his cock. But her smile... Her smile told him she was seeking and finding
her own gratification from taking him to such heights. At that he would gently
fist her tresses and watch her wriggle and churn in joy and concentration,
until he spent. Oh fuck, she would lap his seed like it was water found in the
great sands of Dorne.
Tywin's hand reached forward and fisted into the head full of hair at his
groin...
His error.
It felt different.
She felt different.
She was different.
He saw Sansa behind his closed eyes again, this time without the context of his
pleasure, and she smiled all the same. The smile that told him he was wanted,
that he was adored. The exact smile his sons offered when they themselves were
happy.
Every fraction of arousal he exhibited moments before retracted to a void,
replaced by... guilt? Whatever it was, it bloomed into something like a rage
that caused him to back away from the naked child in front of him. There was a
hint of terror in her eyes and it only added to his already unsteady
fortitude. He stared at her, his limp, wet cock hanging just outside his
breeches; stared at the girl kneeling, bared, her mouth opened slightly, her
lips and chin slick with proof of her trade.
Tywin could not stand to see her anymore and flicked his eyes to the disarray
of the table he was leaning on.
"Another p-part of m'body might p-please, m'lord," the girl whispered, her
voice as nervous as the rest of her.
Tywin looked at her pointedly, addressing her with brutal honestly, "You have
nothing I desire, whore. And I told you not to speak." He tucked his cock away
and leaned down to the still-kneeling girl. "Stick out your tongue, whore."
The look on the girl was utter panic, her eyes darting to his hand where it
rested on the table just next to the dagger. She whimpered, too fearful to
comply.
He curled his lip and sneered at her, "Stick it out yourself, or I will do
it for you."
Tears were pouring down her cheeks, she was barely holding back her sobs, but
he watched as her tongue emerged slowly. When she heard metal scraping across
the table top she closed her eyes, and when she felt its coldness on her
tongue, she whined out her despair even harder. There was no pain, but she
figured that would come eventually, the heaviness of the metal just stayed on
her tongue and she prayed to The Seven that Lord Tywin would end her misery
sooner rather than later.
Instead, she felt his fingers under her chin, applying pressure to close her
mouth. She did so quickly, pulling her tongue back in so as not to bite it, but
startled as she determined the cold, dreadful weight remained upon it. Snapping
her leaking eyes open, all she saw was Lord Tywin staring down at her, hatred
still in his look, a snarl still on his lips.
"Is your tongue worth three dragons?" Frightfully quiet words, so full of
venom.
With the coins on her tongue, the girl's only choice was to nod.
"Get out."
The girl moved quickly to stand, gathering her clothing; however, when she
started to dress, Lord Tywin advanced on her in one stride, peerlessly
livid. He grabbed her hair viciously and kept walking to the entrance of his
tent, pushing his naked catch ahead of him. Not speaking a word, his grip
tearing her scalp and causing the young girl to keen and scream around the gold
behind her teeth, Tywin used the hold he had on the girl's hair to pitch her
forcefully through a near-hidden side flap of his tent. The startle-turned-
mocking of the guards stationed and passing just without confirmed his aim was
true.
He cared nothing of them, or her.
Her.
The only her his mind could focus on was the only one that mattered, and she
was nowhere near.
Not yet. Though, she was away and getting closer.
Tywin returned to his seat at the head of the large table. Out of breath and
highly agitated, he had to concentrate in order to regain his composure.
Bringing his right hand up from his side, resting it in the center of his
chest, cushioned in the plush of his doublet, above his heart - over the roar -
he closed his eyes and thought of his wife.
His wife made of fire, not gold.
Digging fingertips into fabric, he felt a sense of calm instantly roll through
him that deepened his breathing just as fast, but couldn't cure the ache where
his palm lay.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The march from the Dreadfort to Winterfell was made all the more dangerous by
sudden heavy snowfall. The cold wet hazard that befell the Lannister troop and
their convoy as they picked their way along passages through the Lonely Hills
was something unknown in the South, and would be an experience that could only
be related amongst those who witnessed it.
With so many men and women traveling by foot, and whipping flurries coupled
with stretches of knee-deep mud, the trek was made treacherously slow, and
deadly. There were casualties amongst the prisoners, but no one of immediate
importance - a second son here, a distant cousin there. Each were left where
they fell, feeding the other animals trailing such a cavalcade of misery.
But even the excruciating journey could not compare to what Lord Tywin found at
Winterfell.
In the moons since his forces arrived, and behind them tradesmen, it looked as
though no work had been accomplished. Winterfell was little more than
mismatched workmanship: unskilled roofing over-top impeccable foundations,
flimsy gates of trash-wood manhandled into place sporadically lined the
formidable inner and outer granite walls. The moat between those walls had been
left to rot - and even with the passage of years and the freeze of typical
weather, the stink of putrid flesh sullied the air up into the guard towers.
Buildings were scorched, walls had collapsed, most rooms were uninhabitable,
yet Tywin could not help but see what the castle could be, would be, in the
moons to come. His wife would ensure it, and he would do whatever it took to
allow her that feat.
What he planned as a cursory inspection of the castle turned into hours of
detailed investigation and casual adventure. The Great Lion had never seen
Winterfell in all his years. In his youth, he had sailed as far north as Bear
Island, but had never ventured onto mainland higher than the Fingers. His
concerns at the time were solely of the South and the West; his father the
cause of the latter, Aerys eventually the excuse for the former. The North was
little more than a jape, existing for the amusement of those far more
sophisticated - intellectually and otherwise.
Yet it was the North who proved the catalyst of ending a dynasty reign and
changing the course of history.
Not the North, he corrected, a northern girl.
His northern girl was more than a fortnight of travel away from landfall, if
the sea fared well. He refused to let her journey the King's Road - not with
her name, not through the Riverlands, not with her mother... She would come by
way of boat, by way of White Harbor, still allowing for necessary exposure to
the land and its people, just on a more limited scale.
These were his thoughts as he wandered the Great Keep, as he stood in one of
the only rooms not damaged by fire or squatters. It was a guest suite, and
while he had an inclination to ready the lord's chambers for his wife's arrival
he was not so much a fool to think she would sleep well, if at all, in that
particular set of rooms.
Though she would more than likely want to consider them for a more permanent
residence...
He'd let Sansa make that choice when the time came.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The burgeoning light of morning saw Tywin walking into the expansive kennels at
the west end of Winterfell's bailey. It was an area currently functioning as a
gaol for the overflow from the taxed dungeons, and held captive within was the
reason he had been summoned from sleep.
Sword drawn forth and presented just before reaching the low sloped building,
Tywin's irritation since he was awoken played just as sharp. "What kind of
prisoner matter sees my own gaoler beyond purpose?" The words were spoken to
the Lannister man with as much cold as the morning frost defined the air used
to create them.
"It's the bastard, m'lord," the man said, trying to salvage the reasons for
calling his lord. "He'll not give up the toothless cripple. Fucks 'im for all
to see, then says the thing's highborn."
Tywin flicked his annoyed glare toward the two figures penned up behind the
makeshift bars. Bolton's bastard had a white haired gimp kowtowing at his feet
and was stroking the thing as though it were a dog.
Lord Tywin returned his attention to the gaoler, sneering in disgust, "The
bastard was to be held solitary, why is this man even in there? Where did he
come from?"
"Seems he came in with the flow of stragglers from Stannis' camp, m'lord." The
man nervously cleared his throat. "He'd not harm anyone, the cripple's barely
got fingers left. Just found him in there last night and he's not left, even to
threats. We were told not to open the bastard's cage for nothing, m'lord." The
man was almost panting out his last words.
Looking back to the figures inside the cage, Tywin spoke softly to the man at
heel to his master, "Come here, ser."
Ramsay bellowed in defiance, "He's a lord!"
Without missing a beat, the lion purred, "Come here, my lord."
Snow kneed the stooped man in the side to prompt compliance of Lord Lannister's
request, the white-haired man crawled the distance blind and obligingly to the
front of the cage. Not once did he lift his head to look at or acknowledge his
new liege, and as he approached the gate of the enclosure, Lord Tywin
instructed the gaoler to open it. Only the did the cripple turn his head to his
other master, waiting for Snow to nod before crawling out.
The gate was being secured as Tywin addressed the thing made of rancid stink
and shivering bones. "What is your name, my lord?"
The man did not look to his master for permission, or even an answer, but
stuttered out a voice that sounded of absolute suffering, "Reek... It rhymes
wi-"
The madman's introduction was ended by the unfaltering swing of a heavy golden-
hued blade. 
For endless moments, every set of eyes were mesmerized by the rolling tumble of
white hair, followed by the belching waves of thick, dark blood purging from
where that white hair once rested. 
The spell was broken when Lord Tywin clipped with an air of smugness at his
remaining captive, "A lord no more." 
Just as quickly, he spoke to two of the guards flanking him. "Take this
imbecile," pointing his gore laden sword at the now begging and apologetic
turnkey, "to the stocks and rouse his commander." A quick nod to punctuate the
command and the guards seized the man, dragging him away.
At the same time the bastard flung himself at the entrance of the cage,
frothing in his fury. "Do you know who that was?!" It was said with a
conviction indicating Tywin had indeed removed an advantage from the man.
"I don't care who you fuck," he said in a tone that was everything save
interested.
The bastard was livid, every muscle set to shiver, but his eyes were calm. It
was a combination that signified the ability to act and think independently,
that he was a well practiced liar.
A mummer...
But it was an attempt to bait that sprang from younger man's mouth instead, and
while it was assurance of Snow's lack of suitable faculties, Tywin found it
entertaining all the same.
"Of course you don't care, my lord. Who are you to judge?" the bastard sneered.
"Tell me, do you make Lady Lannister sheer her cunt so she feels the same as
the first time you stuck your cock in her?"
...and a fool.
The old lion gave the young man nothing, no words, no indication of offense,
simply turned on his heel and made to leave, the headless carnage left to
finish dying in his wake.
"My Reek was a masterpiece!" Snow keened, a shriek that told of his unraveling.
Tywin smiled inwardly at the easy victory then turned, addressing the bastard
dismissively, "Breaking a broken man is hardly an accomplishment." Tywin
suddenly realized that the idiot grinning, smug as you please, actually
believed his own words. "Do you think your depravity is something special,
bastard?" Tywin leaned forward with a tone that pierced the air, one that
ensured a listener's undivided attention. "Had you ever heard of the Mountain
that Rides?" 
The ugly young man curled his lip, but nodded his agreement regardless. Tywin
continued, "You are cruel, to be sure, but you have nothing that doesn't live
in every man. The want to hurt. Even in the sport of torture there is always a
purpose - a greater reason as to why." Tywin tilted his head slightly, his
features remained impassive. "Ser Gregor, on the other hand, had no purpose
whatsoever. He would enter a town looking for drink and for no other reason
than immediate want, kill his way into a family home, split a wife open, and
fuck a babe still corded to its mother." The lion inclined his head, looking
bored, and finished, "Then find his drink." Raising a brow a fraction, he
emphasized his point. "Now he was a masterpiece of depravity. He was special." 
The old lion offered the man a look of such contrived pity. "No, you're just a
maiden in this real world of monsters."
Turning his query to the newly arrived commanding officer flanking the gate of
the cell, Tywin felt inspired. "Clegane's men - what of the ones remaining?"
The older man answered readily, as though he had been waiting for just that
question. "They're over a dozen in total. Traveling on the skirt of the host,
my lord." The commander hesitated for only a heartbeat. "We can't have them
amongst the rest of the men - they're not... compatible, my lord."
Tywin knew full well that any man assigned to Gregor Clegane was doomed to turn
into an unmentionable threat, so care was always made to filter those
predisposed to that sort of behaviour into the Mountain's camp. Now leaderless,
the band of men were simply tolerated and used as a weapon of fear and torment.
"Fetch them."
The officer nodded, relieved there was no retribution for his gaoler's idiocy,
and made to leave.
Lord Tywin then took a moment to contemplate the prisoner in front of him
before turning to a young guard at his side. "Find a frock amongst the Bolton
belongings, something large - start with those of Lady Frey; something pink."
How appropriate.
Ramsey spat at Tywin as he barked, "I'll wear a gown. You'll not humiliate me,
old man."
Tywin cocked a brow, but his tone remained dry and serious. "You misunderstand
Snow, gifts should always be wrapped." At his words, and with a task, the guard
set off to find the requested object.
The old lion leaned on the sturdy wooden slat of an adjacent stall, wiping his
blade of carnage, waiting idly for his men to return, soundly ignoring the
half-bred fuckwit trying to rouse his attention. He smirked at the thought of
Bolton's legacy, then grinned outright at the obvious end of it.
It was the young guard, quested like a handmaiden, who returned first - gown in
hand.
Tywin flicked his gaze at Snow. "Remove your clothes." It was an open
invitation for rebellion, but it was exactly what he expected of the younger
man.
"And if I refuse?" Snow now held the haughty timber of a proper high-born.
Lord Lannister moved not one fraction. Inflected his voice not one
fraction. "The only reason you would be unable to oblige would be for lack of
use of your arms." Finished polishing his blade, Tywin rested the tip just
inside the scabbard, set his foot on the slumped corpse of the bastard's dead
pet, and spoke further, "Continue dallying, and you will be assisted in your
ailment."
There was no fear in the bastard, but then true madness never allotted that
kind of room. What it did allow for was calculation. And as futile as it might
be, letting the young man assume an advantage by changing his role and
environment at least persuaded compliance...
A rank stench of filth assaulted the old lion before he heard the footfalls of
the men it belonged to. For a heartbeat he thought to blame the moat a curtain
wall away, but theirs was a specific rot that identified Clegane's men without
sight of them. As though on cue, those same men filed into the kennel, closing
in on their liege, waiting for the orders they lived for.
Tywin spoke toward the men as his fingers flicked to the angry man in a gaudy
dress, he spoke quickly and concisely so as not to have to endure any more time
with his own pets than he had to. "She may not be comely, gentlemen, but she's
yours for a fortnight."
No sooner had the gaoler swung open the gate then, without hesitation, the men
climbed in with Ramsay. They inspected him like chattel: bending him over so
fingers could jab cursory prods, pulling his lips back to devise how to best
remove teeth. The bastard tried to speak with them, appease to the group on
their level, but was struck for his efforts, lashed with a blade until he
learned to be silent.
There were no words of approval or thanks, or any kind of propriety to their
lord for their gift. What there was was a collective noise of salacious
gibberish and wet groans from the group of men... and one skittish boy. A youth
no older than four-and-ten, who looked just as deplorable as the rest of them.
Tywin's face could not help but twist mildly at the cringe of realization that
the boy amongst them was more apt a child they snatched along the way. A child
they used as nothing more than a camp follower - a rag for their
degeneracy. Yet in this scenario the boy seemed to have leverage, a higher
status than the pink-frocked man being held down, and the men seemed happy to
let him lead.
The youth looked at the bastard with wild eyes, like Snow was the prettiest
wench this side of the Neck. But the boy's words were brutal, and with very
little perception one was told the tale of his own horrible existence. "Our
blades are sharp too, princess. We'll carve new holes to get into ya. One's
just as tight and warm as another."
Tywin took that cue and addressed the motley assortment of miscreants as a
whole, "I want him alive. Broken if you must, but alive all the same. If he
escapes or dies, each and every one of you will pay the toll."
A scab-infested man, the leader if Tywin were a betting man, was who grinned an
answer on behalf of his brothers, "Yes, m'lord."
And it was with dubious assurance that Lord Tywin left his men to their
liberty.
The old lion had greater considerations at hand.
...And she was getting closer.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                      . 
 
 
 
 
 
***** Spring III *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                      . 
The last time Tywin Lannister saw his wife was mere hours prior, while he was
dreaming.
The last time Tywin Lannister saw his wife astride a horse was over a year ago
at Casterly Rock. An event which had seen him frustrated and cursing a litany
of ugly, toothless threats at the same walking away from both her and her
mount.
Sansa wanted to learn how to better ride, she'd said. Something she had
detested blatantly before that time, but it was also something she saw as a
credible strategy for her reintroduction to the North. The reasoning played
absolutely sound; however, Tywin himself held nowhere near enough patience to
actually teach her. Looking at her now, though, it seemed rather obvious
someone did, and it was to his greatest satisfaction that his wife tended
toward ignoring his more scathing criticisms, opting instead, almost with an
air of defiance, to conquer tasks on her own terms. 
Spite to that degree was certainly useful, Tywin mused; Lady Sansa looked
incredibly striking as she approached - on a hand-selected mare bred from the
finest stock, gifted from the heir to Highgarden. The horse was of a dark fiery
amber colour that seemed to shimmer with every step; certainly one of the
more serene horses he'd encountered, showing an outwardly docile demeanour.
Though she could be a feisty bitch as well if commanded, as quick and bold as
any steed Tywin had ever seen. There wasn't much of a quandary when the cripple
Tyrell presented his selection. The moment Tywin spied the horse among the
others in the paddock he knew the mare and his lady wife were as well suited as
any pair.
Jonquil.
Tywin could not suppress the derisive snort lurching from him at the
recollection. An appalling name for such a fine creature, but his wife had
merely looked at him all dewy-eyed, with a kind of innocence that only crept
out of her in rare moments, and he found himself thwarted, unable to speak a
bloody word against the obscenity. But to look at her now - his eyes squinting
slightly due to the light just behind her on the horizon - it didn't matter the
name of the gods-damned horse, because his wife's assumption proved absolutely
correct: The very sight of her riding stoic and proud through the wintertown
was a display both breathtaking and hopeful for every soul lined along the road
leading to the King's Gate. 
She rode tall, perfectly postured, and evenly flanked on either side by her
four fiercely protective sentries, closely followed by another two hundred
soldiers. Behind them marched a veritable consortium of tradespeople, crofters,
and her own support. Each scattered amongst an extensive envoy bearing food and
supplies.
Until you lead an army there, girl...
Seven words rattled a trail through the old lion, from collar to boot, and he
resolved himself to the fact that he had best eat them, for that was exactly
what she had done. 
There were no red cloaks among Sansa's men, only the rich grey that had once
draped around her neck and cradled atop her breasts. Lady Sansa wore a cloak of
the same colour, though its edges were trimmed with a thick edge made of the
deepest crimson. On the back of that elegant cape lived a startling contrast;
the likes of which exacted gasps and mutters throughout the gathered
townsfolk. 
Northern men and women who came to see for true, believe for true, their long
lost Stark had returned to them, greeted Sansa with reverent awe and murmurs of
the Lady of Winterfell reborn, of new eras and blessings of tree gods... until
the procession passed fully. Only then did the reality hit those waiting for a
miracle. Adorning the sweeping length of Lady Sansa's cloak was an emblazoned
lion, fierce and rampant, glittering and shifting even in the overcast weather
the North called daylight. Each thread of fine spun gold moved as though it
were alive.
In the time that Lord Tywin had ousted Bolton, the North looked past the
legendary lion from the South and focused solely on the promise of a Stark.
When that woman arrived in grey and glory it was a hope yet again ignited.
Nevertheless, as what tends to bloom from hopes and promises and dreams and
wishes, it did nothing more than remove vision and blind them to the truth.
They got their Stark.
They also got a Lannister.
This would be the delicate balance, the test of faith for his wife from her
people. It was also the reason Lord Tywin was leaving as soon as she was
established.
One more nail in their delicate structure.
Another saw Sansa arriving to Winterfell, the castle of her ancestors, without
its heir. Rykar remaining behind had been a deliberate plan of his making from
the beginning, and a vicious battle between them for the duration of a
sennight. Leaving their sons in the West under the care of his sister was a
necessity, and Tywin knew that over time his wife would see it as such. The
boys were still very young and the North was not yet solidified, and he simply
refused to risk the focus of his wife's attention anywhere than on the task at
hand.
His wife concealed her hurt very carefully, although the manner in which it
carried in her eyes reflected the certainly of that very thing. Tywin could see
her pain clearly, but the prospect didn't concern him in the least. Because
along with the pain shining in the depth of her blue eyes there swirled a
tenacious determination, an unbending resolve to claim this, her home, in the
name of her son.
A fluttering surge of selfish delight rallied in center of Tywin's chest. There
was no question of her ability to rule and delegate, he knew. Sansa had
shadowed him for nigh on three moons at Casterly Rock before he stepped away
after escorting her to the reception hall, leaving her to fend for herself - a
tactic much the same as he had used in the company of lords and emissaries in
King's Landing. However, as was policy at the Rock, she would not be alone in
Winterfell either. Sansa would be left in the North with the benefit of
good counsel, from more than one side, even though Tywin's ego implied his own
tutelage was more than sufficient to see her succeed alone.
Lord Manderly obliged to stay until a token of order was established, and serve
doubly as a presence trusted by other northern lords. His pledge to Sansa was a
reiteration of devotion to her family.
The second man in her counsel she had selected herself. Although he had
supported her choice as though it were his own.
Ser Brynden Tully rode second in formation behind Lady Sansa and was her only
preference of advisor. She had never met her great uncle prior, but when she
brought her selection to her husband, her reasoning had been flawless. The
Blackfish was not only a loyal blood-relation and renowned for governing in his
own right, he had also established himself as a man with an uncanny ability to
gain and maintain the respect of anyone who crossed his path. He possessed a
natural influence, and his turns of leadership at the Vale and Riverrun were
nothing if not exceptional. That he had no ties to hold him now that his nephew
had been reinstated as Lord Paramount of the Trident worked to Tywin's
advantage. 
Tully's devotion to his wife was proportionately immediate and fascinating, to
say the least. The look of abject reverence the first time the Blackfish met
Sansa was telling. What the older knight would not admit in words was as
obvious from his every look and action: Sansa was Catelyn Tully incarnate. She
lived as a sort of redemption for the man, whose eyes were ever-steeped in
regret and guilt for what he had escaped at the Twins. 
Something so raw was nothing if not an asset to the old lion, and while Sansa
would never think to hone that kind of leverage from her great uncle, it was
done without so much as a second thought on Tywin's part. He had told the
Blackfish that Sansa's very life was in his hands, that he was entrusted with
her care, that the knight would meet his own death if he failed the task of
bringing her north to him unmarred.
"Family. Duty. Honour." Was Ser Brynden's only reply.
Normal course would be to immediately dismiss any man with gall enough to sling
house words like a bloody oath, to mock their insipid try for sentimentality
with the disdain it deserved, but the Blackfish was no fool, nor was he some
unseasoned boy fresh-weaned from the teat with nothing to his spirit save the
shine of his own conceit. The old lion instead devoured that pledge set so
passionately at his feet, subsisting on that gnaw of hope through each step of
his own journey northward.
With every strategy devised and implemented on behalf of his wife, he consumed
that very vow. All at once it filled his belly and made him hollow. Until Sansa
had indeed been delivered to him a pillar of wild northern glory riding a
poorly-titled horse.
His wife was safe.
Only now could he be sated.
And yet he wasn't. There was something out of kilter and his guts turned to
knots at the sense of unfamiliarity.
Watching her, Tywin could help but feel that something had changed. He
considered his wife's formality when she progressed through the King's
Gate into Winterfell's considerable bailey. Trotting slowly passed the scores
of men and women lining her path and waiting for their chance to bow
a respectful greeting, Sansa sat tall in the saddle looking powerful, her
features thick in seriousness. At that he found himself standing straighter
in a spontaneous shock of pride.
Good, his thoughts confirmed, this is hardly a game.And yet there was a small
part of him that wanted to see in her a sliver of joy, observe a taste of
something good she may have remembered echo on her face, but her placid gaze
gave him nothing. She was still his Sansa, this fact was undeniable, though it
felt as if they had been separated by decades.
It was with a sudden perverse pang Tywin realized the uncanny shift.
Sansa looked older to him. And she was every bit a woman.
More than that, more than anything, Tywin wanted to fuck his northern bride. An
urge of the most base and vulgar kind, but it was the truth of the matter.
The old lion stood planted, just as struck as everyone else from White Harbor
to Winterfell. This woman radiated. Her porcelain pallor that had clashed so
ridiculously with the norm of the South, nearly glittered when it was set
against the hazy grey of the northern climate. She was a jewel here, and the
old lion could not help but stagger slightly at exactly what that truth meant.
He observed her halt well within the bailey and swallowed back the want to push
away the horsemen who were assisting her dismount, to draw his blade and sever
the hands that thought to touch what was his.
Jealousy. Gods.
It was an intense fire in his belly that took everything in him to remain
still, but the weight of his restraint played on his face making him look
disappointed.
It was a fair trade.
She walked toward him then with the elegant grace he feared he had forgotten,
and though she took her time as decorum dictated - steps at an even pace
designated for regency - he could see her fight her own want to simply run. And
oh, how it pleased him. It ate the burn of envy and replaced it with the cool
wash of contentment. And though his face was stern, his wife knew exactly where
to find the confirmation she was looking for.
Sansa greeted her husband stiffly, as was expected, and watched as his eyes
drifted slowly to her lips.
Focusing on how they moved, how she slid her tongue over the bottom one as she
spoke his title and his name, how that same lip was pulled back and scrapped
under her teeth at the end of her greeting, found Tywin uncomfortably hard in
his unforgiving armour.
He struggled to remember words and how to make his mouth work. Abandoning
speech altogether, Tywin simply nodded and held out his arm. Sansa smiled
demurely, a feature to which only he was privileged, and his free hand fisted
to fight the reflex to find her face, her neck, her skin, in order to touch.
The tips of her fingers curled past the edge of his partial vambrace and
pressed into the mail underneath. It was her silent instruction for him to
move; to walk and carry on with the business of themselves and Winterfell, and
of the North. It was also a promise of things to come, and a subtle message
letting him know she felt the same way he did.
They walked, hand on arm, as a pair; so striking in their refinement, it caused
those around them to step away and look on in veneration.
Tywin ushered his wife into Winterfell's Great Hall, and though she looked
around in obvious pleasure, appreciating the work that had been done prior to
her arrival, he could not stay to enjoy her excitement - to enjoy her. He had
obligations elsewhere and an army to gather and coordinate.
"I will leave you in the capable hands of Lord Manderly, my lady."
Sansa didn't even look at him as she said, "Of course, my lord."
And if Tywin were honest - which he was to himself, always - her detachment was
what he preferred then and there. She kept walking when he had stopped, and he
could not help but simply watch her a moment before forcing his feet to pivot
and his legs to stride away.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Lord Manderly was sat behind one of the raised tables, parchments and quills
strewn about. The scene was completely out of place for a dining hall, using
the table as a makeshift desk - quills and loose parchment strewn about and
rows of reams stretching the length of it - but absolutely appropriate at the
same time judging by the amount of documentation it held.
The large man grinned at her as she approached, something knowing, and Sansa
tucked that look away with how he had intently watched she and Tywin enter the
vast chamber to begin with. There was nothing subtle with this man, he was as
heavy in his mannerisms as he was in his physical stature. 
"My lady," he greeted, but made no effort to stand as was customary.
Sansa did not return Lord Manderly's greeting or levity. She remained detached,
but approachable in her demeanour - she would not be the wife of Tywin
Lannister if she don't know better than to grant immediate confidence in a man
who willingly admits duplicity. On the other hand, the man before her was also
a man from her memories, from memories of her father, and that type of knowing
made it difficult to maintain the icy rift needed to keep an open mind.
"The Bolton captives," Lord Manderly started, easily reading the young woman as
she seated herself in the chair across from him, and dispensed with any idle
banter he'd initially planned. "Have you decided their judgment, my lady?"
Lady Sansa cast a critical eye on the large man, picking apart what he was
truly asking. "I have, my lord," she offered flatly.
Manderly's smile crept wide on his face. It was usually a disarmament, but
Sansa retained her steely will, immune to his practiced charm. Regardless, he
kept up pleasantries and allowed it to colour his words. "There are many men,
myself included, that will gladly volunteer to the task of execution on your
behalf, Lady Sansa."
"That will be unnecessary, Lord Manderly."
Frigid. That's what he would call Lady Sansa's manner. No, he amended, wrong
direction, he would call it Southron.
Ser Brynden interrupted whatever assessment was ticking in Lord Manderly,
walking to his charge with an armful of parchments and sitting directly beside
her. It was he who was overtly amiable, he who had offered a smile in return,
just as easy and calculating as Manderly's own. In that precise moment, Wyman
knew exactly to whom he would have to prove himself in order to earn the trust
of Eddard Stark's daughter.
The Blackfish littered the table top with his own documents and set to
prioritizing. He handed the scroll pertaining to the name and details of
captives off to Lady Sansa and watched, not overly surprised as she placed it
to the side. He knew of her intent, he also knew this was not the time to
discuss it.
The communication Sansa set aside may well have been scripted in stone for the
gravity it held. She had hefted that onus the very moment it had laid on her
palms. 
Once they had landed in White Harbor, Sansa had received the register of Bolton
captives. It was a long list of some one hundred and fifty names; a thoroughly
detailed report. And for all the husbands, wives, and youths - it was curiously
lacking any children. Even Lord Bolton's daughter was missing from the roster.
A child she confidently knew to exist, a child she resolved to ward with Lord
Manderly. But as she stared at the diminished index, Sansa knew their fate.
Just by looking at a scroll of parchment her heart sunk, forged of iron,
excruciating and cumbersome inside her chest.
She knew what Tywin had done, and it made her physically ill for the greater
part of her stay at the port keep.
But that was who Tywin Lannister was, had always been, and she had become too
contented with the man he became in her presence. Sansa never thought to change
him - what an absurd notion considering her circumstance. Even under favourable
odds it would be no more than a futile effort. 
However, it had been a time since she had been cut open by the double edge of
truth, and it made the impact of such a deed much more brutal.
She had been welcomed to the North and to White Harbor with a flourish of pomp
reserved for royalty. There was not one face amongst the men and women, commons
and lords alike, that did not show happiness. That did not wordlessly express
relief and joy. And to that, Sansa wanted to provide that succor for the people
so ravaged by loss and war and winter. She had waited for the moment when she
could begin to mend their lives on behalf of their fallen king... of their
fallen lord... but she could not reconcile her desire to mend with the fact her
husband had already torn out a bloody swatch - starting with little children.
Sansa herself was a now a mother, and this savagery struck her far stronger
than she expected. It was in the quiet ticks of time, the ones away from those
she assured her promises to, that the heft bent the steel she had been made of
for quite some time.
It had been her great uncle who saw her distress, intuitively knew she needed
calm and reassurance. So when he sat with her on a bench overlooking the rough
northern waves, not speaking a word, just being of comfort, Sansa had no
recourse other than handing him the parchment in her fingers and asking her
dismal question.
"What do you think happened to them?"
Her tone was leveled. It would have been one that surprised Ser Brynden if he
had not spent the past handful of moons with her at Casterly Rock, watching
this young woman rule with a strength and finesse he had not seen in anyone so
young - not even her mother when she became de facto Lady of Riverrun.
"I suspect they're in the ground," he'd said, his eyes soft and sincere.
She had been adamant that Ser Brynden remain honest with her, like her husband,
but the difference was overwhelming. Where Tywin spoke of truths like they were
blunt objects - battering with information to provoke comprehension - the
Blackfish gave those same truths like a drink of water. They flowed, even and
sedate, and seeped to understanding without a hint of violence.
But her worry was still evident, a crease in his niece's brow that had no
natural right to be there. Brynden offered her more honesty. This time of a
harsher kind; the kind meant to carry the heavier types of guilt. 
"Do you think your husband is the only man to kill babes, my lady?" Such ugly
words were spoken so gently. "Do you think your father hadn't killed children
during the Rebellion, then again at Pyke? Your brother in his march south? Me
wherever my sword is needed?" He scuffed closer to her along the bench, his
warmth enough to prompt Sansa to lean against him. "It's easy to read judgment
on a ledger, my lady," he whispered. "But the reasons of matters are never so
clearly inked."
"I didn't want this."
"Did you want the North, my lady? Winterfell?"
There was nothing more than genuine inquiry in him. And as he regarded her with
such a familiar warmth, Sansa could not stop the squeeze in her chest and the
watery blur of her vision. "Yes," she breathed.
"And that's more the reason Lord Tywin removed the option of choice. Your man
settles matters in sharp lines - there is no slope to leave room for regret. No
opportunity for retribution against your son once he takes his seat."
Her great uncle leaned into her a little more and for a quick moment Sansa
wanted to view his comfort as suspect, but those thoughts were just as quickly
stomped away by a riot of caring acceptance. She relaxed against the man who
had become so much to her in such a small amount of time. With her great uncle,
Sansa was allowed to become the girl she was before she matured too abruptly;
that small part of her, who she was, that lived in the background was
encouraged and embraced by this man, and she gave it to him without hesitation.
"It only takes one, Sansa," Brynden continued, squinting toward where the water
met the sky. "One babe with a chance to live - to grow up with a grudge - and
your own children could be at the wrong end of a blade."
Looking out once more at the vast and turbulent waters, Sansa had felt a little
better. There at the edge of the sea she was not Eddard Stark's only living
heir, nor was she Tywin Lannister's wife; there in the presence of an infinite
power, Sansa was but a tiny existence.
She had nodded to her advisor then, she understood. Ser Brynden's words had
made the impact they were meant to, and Sansa refused repentance of anything
that pertained to her children. Sansa missed her sons as though a part of her
soul had been left at Casterly Rock, but she would never allow her own
selfishness to endanger them...
It was with a shudder Sansa could blame on the cold that rightful
acknowledgement came knocking. She was that one babe allowed to live. With that
epiphany came further clarification - that grudge was just another word for
debt, and she had been given means to pay regardless of what it was called.
And that recognition was not as bitter as it should have been.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin found her standing in the charred solar that once belonged to her father.
The room still held the faint smell of smoke, but had been cleaned considerably
and housed an adequate desk for their purpose.
His wife stood at an angle, arms tucked around her middle, looking out the
large pane of heat-warped glass; her eyes were distant, but her focus went no
further than the grounds just without. She did not hear him enter through the
newly installed doors, but when she scoffed and chuckled in an airy tone he
addressed her.
"Something amusing?"
Hers was the only laughter he would tolerate, enjoy even, she knew, and
so Sansa kept her gaze toward the outside as she spoke honestly. "I've had the
North won for me, my lord."
She was about to include the humour she found in the shallow reveries she'd had
as a small girl, of knights and princes winning kingdoms and castles for her
when Tywin interjected on her thoughts.
"My queen."
His tone was severe and Sansa, expecting him to have a scowl that was mocking
her, wore a defensive look as she turned at the waist to look back at
him. There was nothing of the sort on him. No scowl, no look in his eyes
telling her she was stupid.
Sansa softened her own features, curved her lips, blinked slowly at him, and
replied, "My king."
Tywin cocked an eyebrow at his wife and huffed lightly, "Now we're both bloody
fools."
Sansa grinned broadly at her husband and held her hand out to him. Ever
cautious, Tywin hesitated momentarily before accepting her affection, sliding
his fingers over hers, curling them around her hand in a practiced embrace. He
allowed her to pull him to a position behind her. She settled back only
slightly, his armour preventing her from being completely comfortable.
Although, once stilled, she felt him pivot his hand in hers until their fingers
twined.
The view through the window was terrible. From the misted smoke-stained glass,
to the evidence of carnage and brutality in the yard beyond, but Tywin knew
well the look his wife wore was one of contemplation. And if he were to guess,
she was viewing the scene as something she remembered from her childhood,
something soothing and pleasant. He rested his lips on the top her head and
soaked in her contentment. Hers was an air of peace Tywin was certain he could
feel through the hardened steel of his breast plate.
The lion found himself soothed as well.
There was a soft knock on the servants' passage before it opened, and at the
same time Tywin's squire entered, his wife stepped away from their intimacy.
The boy was there to remove his armour for prep and polish and in waving the
nervous boy to him with a twirl of his fingers, Tywin watched Sansa seemingly
glide to the small table holding wine and begin to pour for them both.
Without looking toward her husband, Sansa spoke clear and kind. "Thank you for
delivering my letter, Darin."
Focused on the steel he was gently disassembling from his liege, the squire's
eyes went impossibly wide, and he made a small squeaky sound before actual
words formed from of his mouth. "You're welcome, my lady," he said in a gush of
air.
When the boy's gaze drifted to that of his lord, he physically startled at the
man. Lord Tywin was glaring at him in a way made Darin suddenly need to make
water: jaw clenched and grinding, head tilted slightly. 
With another squeak and a fit of inspired speed and dexterity, Darin had the
armour set away, his lord washed, freshly laundered clothes set out, and waited
to determine if his assistance was needed to dress. All while Lord Tywin looked
fit to murder... him. By the time he was dismissed, Darin had sweated through
his tunic and all but ran away in terror.
"You shouldn't tease him."
Tywin's halfhearted growl rumbled out as he sat in his chair, watching her set
two goblets of wine on the dense wood of the desktop.
"Beg pardon?" Sansa questioned dryly, one brow raised.
"The boy," he grinned, no longer able to keep his serious ruse. "You exploit
him with your charm."
"I do no such thing, my lord," she scoffed lightheartedly, grinning sly in her
own right. "Not to Darin, at least."
With another growl, he pulled his wife to him. Her knees could not conform to
both the direction he was tugging her and the chair that was trying to bend
them queerly, and she collapsed onto his torso with a rather undignified
grunt. Reaching his arm around her arse, he pulled once more to cradle Sansa on
his lap.
It was daylight, in the midst of rule and repair, hardly appropriate for these
types of actions, but Tywin could not care less. Theirs was an unhurried
stillness then, something built of longing and contemplation.
Something that defied time altogether.
He swept his fingers over her smiling lips, blinked a languid gaze directly at
her, and murmured his aching confession. 
"Beautiful."
His wife's lips widened behind his fingers, speaking around them. "Beautiful,"
she answered.
Lord Tywin narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing for any trace of foolishness.
Of course there was nothing.
She kissed his fingertips instead, tethering him back from distraction, and was
rewarded with a gentle smile from the old lion. Sansa reached her own delicate
hand to the side of his face and set her fingers to wriggle into the shaggy
hair on his cheeks, at the same time offering soft words. 
"I thought men didn't like being called beautiful."
Lord Tywin brushed his fingers from her lips, over her cheek, dusting past her
eyelashes, to caress the thick waves of auburn that tumbled over the arm he was
using to support her before gently leaning his mouth onto hers. He purred
directly onto that silky, pink pout. "My masculinity is quite secure."
She curled her hand around the back of his head and made the connection.
Their kiss was not heated, but quenching and leisurely.
A shuffling noise of movement outside the doors had Sansa smiling at him,
silently imploring him to set her upright. Before she took her seat beside him
behind the desk though, Sansa again stroked his side whiskers and pressed a
peck of a kiss onto the top of his head. Tywin smirked at her behaviour,
knowing it was the kind of affection she would employ with their sons.
Sitting together with wine and the task of rule was a blanket of familiarity.
They not only had the West and the North, but Kevan had sent forward the more
pressing matters of the Crown - the ones he knew his older brother would want
to peruse. When Tywin sighed loudly at a particularly tedious exchange between
the bartering of livestock and parcels of land, his wife chuckled softly -
goading him, knowingly.
"Lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep," he grouched, for
her benefit.
"They should," she murmured in reply, for his, keeping her eyes on the
parchment in her hand.
Tywin looked at his wife with a dour edge that immediately lightened; she had a
purpose for her words and he wanted to know it. Her eyes flicked a glittering
hold on him and he waited for his lady to show him what conclusions she had
surmised.
"Dismissal breeds fear," she told him in her thoughtful way. "If sheep live in
fear they will either die or move on to safer lands. And what does that leave
but a starving lion?"
At her conclusion, there was a look in his eyes that was so warm, yet still so
foreign that she could see it visibly waver. Sansa felt confident what she was
seeing was a cut of happiness.
"And how long have you been waiting to say that, my lady?"
She was the one to smirk, as she answered, "Oh, many moons, my lord." She
smiled fully at him then, the one that was his alone. He did not reciprocate,
but his pleasant look remained and that was enough.
They fell into a comfortable silence, the one they both did not know they
craved until it was missing. Reading and prioritizing, they were readying for
their eventual reversal. Tywin returning south, and Sansa remaining... He hated
to think of it. He refused to, in fact. It would only serve to jostle his ire
and the old lion wanted only the companionable quiet.
Reading the contents of the next missive, Tywin thought of his wife -
precisely, he thought of how she adapted in the West. How she claimed the seat
of Casterly Rock like it had been meant for her in its conception.
She had shadowed him in his daily routine, sat with him on counsel, and
observed him in the great hall addressing petitioners. And the moment he stood
back, Tywin could see very well his own influence in the way she held herself,
her father in the manner she ruled the crofters and lords who stood before her,
but he could also see her mother in the way in which she defined herself as
scrupulous. She had the Maester train more men specifically for
dictation, specifically to record the details of each and every protestation
brought before her. And though she would not disclose her inspiration for such
steps, he knew they were the lingering sway of Tyrion - as his were the best
kept notations for drainage in the Rock's lengthy history.
But Tywin would not begrudge her those nuances. He allowed her the freedom to
rule as she found favourable, as long as it was befitting him and the Lannister
name, and by all accounts her methods were. She was fair and firm in her
negotiations of land disputes and incoming mercantile trades, unafraid to heed
advice from those he trusted to sit with her; and she was equally fair and firm
in her adherence to laws and morality.
While Tywin would never place his wife in the bracket of cut-throat, she was
not ignorant to the process of punishment - in all its forms. The first time
she sentenced a man to die, for the crime of theft against his liege, he
watched her internally deliberate the value of the Lannister horse the man
stole against the life he was willing to spend for it.
He had stood in the shadows at the far edge of the dais, cloaked, unrecognized,
and just beyond Sansa's peripheral. He did not want to be looked upon for
direction from her, or confirmation from any of those standing in the
hall. Regardless of her judgment, Tywin would never hold word against her in
public. A division between them was nothing if not weakness and he would not
provide that particular satisfaction to anyone.
Though her hesitation had become worrisome; but as his wife also had a penchant
for dramatics, he found he could not fault her in this scenario. When she
delivered her sentence there was no falter or caution, no blink or look to her
counsel for support, there were simply considerations of established law and
the consequence for the man's disregard of them.
Lady Sansa had handed the man his death as though she were inviting him into
her confidence; with an elegant sadness without a fraction of regret. There
would be no flogging prior, or parade to the gallows, the thief would be
removed from the hall, given a meal if that was his preference, then put to the
sword.
Tywin had heard tittering around him of northern deaths and scrounging for
weirwood, then those same men joked if she would be the one to swing the
steel. They were all rendered silent when the condemned man spoke loud and
clear, wanting the attention of the court.
He thanked his lady. The man thanked the woman who had ended his life, uttering
such gratitude one would think she had offered him gold instead. Sansa had
simply nodded modestly in acknowledgement - a reaffirmation of her graceful
power.
On that account alone, Tywin found no grounds to doubt his wife's ability to
judge; therefore, when he read the missive from Lord Crydene, he was agitated
that her more delicate sensibilities had crept up in his absence.
And he would not be made a fool of.
Handing the missive over, Tywin watched as Sansa leaned back in her chair and
rested the fingers not holding parchment on the base of her wine goblet. They
made subconscious rudimentary shapes as she read; it was when the tips of her
fingers traced the complicated embellishments and her eyes remained focused on
the page that he recognized she was formulating her debate.
Sansa knew her husband assumed the worst of her, that she had bowed to the
sensitive nature of the weaker sex. But she also knew that Tywin had taught her
to see through those very people who sought a tender target in her, hoping to
exploit the gentleness of a woman. She had been educated by a man who would
accept nothing less than unbiased concern in her regard for anyone outside
their tight-knit circle.
More than that, he had taught her why it was important. Why unchecked
compassion amongst strangers is a death sentence; why her sons were surrounded
by thousands bound to protect them, but only a handful that were truly earning
of her trust. So when she read the parchment handed to her, she knew her
actions were sound. That her instinct and decrees were just.
Tywin did not speak, but Sansa understood what he was asking and promptly
relayed the incident of the servant girl who presented both herself and her
babe in the halls of Casterly Rock. Who told a story of her lord forcing
himself on her repeatedly. Of how that same lord beat her because she was too
pregnant to work, and two days after his child was born, beat her again for
crying while he took her.
"These people should have never laid footfall at the Rock," Tywin chastised.
"No, but her wish was to leave his service, and her lord violently refused-"
"As is his right."
"-and some of those instances were witnessed by others. It was their lobby that
landed the incident at our feet. Not the plot of a kitchen maid."
"And?"
"And the son looks nothing like the mother, yet the boy is Lord Crydene in
everything but name."
"What was your decision?"
"I gave the boy a name."
"You petitioned the King to legitimize his bastard?"
"I did, and it was granted," she said, matter of fact. "Lord Crydene is an
upstart, no more than two generations deep. He has no intentions of marrying,
and has no heirs, my lord." Sansa took a sip of wine and continued with every
confidence, "Instead of the cost of a keep and its lands left empty and not
producing, I simply ensured future revenue as their liege. As is my duty."
Tywin looked at his wife and dissected her every movement and word, subtle and
otherwise.
"I will have him wed the girl," he clipped. "At least the child will have their
marriage to prove succession, not just a name."
The old lion waited.
Sansa assumed a posture and a look that dropped what warmth there was in the
room to frigid.
"He raped her, my lord," she intoned carefully, her gaze not once faltering.
It was the weakness he suspected, was hoping against. Even so, the woman in
front of him was nowhere near feeble, her words were anything but flippant.
Tywin flicked his hand absently, purposefully, shrugging as he spoke, "And now
he will bear the burden of consequence."
"And now she will be the prize her Lord bestowed upon the man who tortured
her." There was nothing timid in her as she backhandedly scolded his being
obtuse.
Her husband would have none of it.
"Her feelings are not my concern." His words were as cool as hers. "As you say,
my lady, it is but my duty to maintain the integrity of the West, for all its
lords."
His wife would have none of it.
"There is no integrity in allowing a man to rape under the guise of rights and
law. It's a mockery."
There was a sudden stillness to the room, and Sansa did not dare move.
Though there was hope.
She could see he was listening. There lived a glimmer in his eyes, but she knew
any pleading toward the sensibilities of women would meet deaf ears. Sansa
opted for what had always appeased her husband's personal sense of
righteousness: gains. Cold profit and emotionless advantages.
"I have sent the girl and her son to Crakehall." The fact her statement was
truth added to the finality of her claim. "The girl has been hired to the
kitchens and the boy will be warded. He will receive the education he needs
with men who will teach him to serve you loyally."
Tywin's serious countenance did not waver; bodily, he was unmoved. The only
physical indication of consideration that Sansa could see was the subtle waves
in his side whiskers as his jaw flexed.
"The girl will stay at Crakehall." His voice was rigid. "When the boy is of
age, he will ward at the Rock." Tywin tilted his head and looked amidst
bothered and angry. "What better way to breed loyalty, no?"
It had been many moons but Sansa knew compromise in her husband when she saw
it. It was something begrudged, something hated to the man, yet it was
something he forced of himself on occasion - for her.
If only for its reward.
When his wife smiled her approval, acknowledgement that he had pleased her in
some way, it always seemed to shift the world around him. It brushed back
whatever nuisance lay outside the two of them, if only for a little while, and
lightened him significantly.
It made him happy.
The puzzle of happiness had always been well within reach and highly
attainable, it only required him to momentarily see with better eyes in order
to find it waiting - beseeching him to solve it and claim his bounty.
Thoughts of contentment and Casterly Rock brought with them contemplation of
his sons. "How fare our children?" he asked through a whisper, the words
uncomfortable in his mouth.
The pooling in her eyes caught him off guard. Though nothing fell, it was a
wave of emotion he had to deliberate. The question had been a simple one, he
would have thought, and her overreaction was enough to prod his ire.
"What is it Sansa?" he kept his tone in check, just.
She looked at her husband squarely. Her baleful eyes obviously shoving him
outside his comfort. She could see him fighting between empathy and anger. "My
younger brothers..." she cleared her throat; once, then twice. "Rickon wasn't
much older than Tysan and Rykar when my mother left him and Bran..." She looked
to her hands in her lap, swallowing hard, blinking back everything that was
threatening to spill forth.
Tywin felt his face pinch in a subconscious wince. He knew the story well, he
was part of it. Forced into action and pulled into war by the knee-jerk
vindication of a woman claiming justice for her child by abducting the Imp.
Consequence begetting consequence, begetting consequence...
"...They never saw each other again," she finished, pushing the words out as
fast as she could.
Tywin watched his lady with keen intent. He did not know if this was the
beginning of the end, if this was how she was telling him of her decision. When
Sansa lifted her eyes to him, it was all he could do not to flinch, but her
words were not the ones he expected.
"I want you to spend time with them," she implored. Her husband merely stared,
so she clarified, "Your sons, Tywin, I want you to spend time with them when
you get back."
"You are not my mother, you'll not dictate to me." The words were such a
practiced defense Tywin hardly knew he had said them.
"No, my lord, I am their mother and I am asking their father to spend time with
them."
"If I can, I will," he sighed, scrubbing his face with his hand.
"Thank you, my lord."
Sansa considered her surroundings thoughtfully, then added gently, "Sons should
always know the love of their father."
"That's a fool's concept," he snapped thoughtlessly.
They sat looking at each other, the tense atmosphere lasting only a heartbeat
as something considerable stole behind Tywin's eyes. If it was an apology it
would remain unaired, she knew. But Sansa also knew that this
was her compromise: to acknowledge her husband was capable of remorse in small
doses, without demanding verbal confirmation.
"Love is a fool's word, my lord," she said, her tone engaging if not a playful.
"However, the concept is rather sound."
Tywin broke eye contact then, again something flashing over his countenance.
This time it was something darker, sadder. He nodded absently before directing
his attention to the missives in front of him, their conversation at an end.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The evening was formal. A celebration feast for the return of the Stark lineage
within the halls of Winterfell. However the extravagance of it was foreign yet
quite welcome, if Tywin were to judge, to those in attendance.
She looked at ease, his wife. She held herself as though she had never left,
and those men who eyed her warily that morning now regarded her approachable
demeanour as something familiar, something they had once lost and now found.
And though none save a few made the effort to talk to her, Tywin could easily
see the men before her wanted to - as was the goal - he simply had to step away
and let it happen.
The seat of the North was a tactical necessity if he was to hold any kind of
geographical domination; therefore he would play their game willingly, and he
did so without so much as a pause. Tywin knew very well who held singular
influence over the woman these men so coveted.
Glancing to his side, that same woman was staring at him with a fiery intensity
that surged straight to his cock. He had felt a wave of desire the moment he
saw her in the bailey, but was able to suppress that need. This
however... This was a force that swept him up and shook him with lewd abandon.
Her eyes were hazy as she looked right at him, a pink flush was clawing its way
up her neck.
Sansa turned her head sharply and it was like their connection was made of
glass, cracked and shattered as she twisted away. She was speaking in hushed
tone to the Blackfish, and just as quickly looked back to him. Her eyes no
longer pulled at him, they reflected her natural kindness, and she jutted her
chin slightly - a silent request for him to lower his ear to her.
He obliged.
"I will expect you in my chambers tonight, not amongst your host, my lord."
The corner of Tywin's mouth twitched downward, like he'd been hurt. Very
nearly, to be sure. His blood felt of molten lead, a sinking heat pooling in
the place his wife was begging for with her hitched breathing and fingernails
curling into his forearm. He could only nod, the fucking beast that he was,
every word he thought to speak turned to smoke before he had a chance to utter
them.
Sansa's mouth was still by his ear, he could feel it curve at the corners, and
it required every thread of discipline he possessed - tattered as it was
because of her - to stop him from hoisting her over his shoulder, like a savage
himself, retiring to the first darkened nook and making quick work of burying
himself inside her.
In one fluid motion, she stood - Tywin followed her lead, ears buzzing, body
numb from trying to fight his cock from becoming an embarrassment. 
Winning the battle to stay upright, the lion gathered control of his senses in
time to hear his wife speak.
"Please, my lords, I ask you to stay and enjoy the hospitality that has been
absent in Winterfell for far too long." She slipped her hand into his. The
delicate thing was fidgety, and he could only imagine what other parts of her
 were twitching. "I am wary from my journey," Sansa continued, "but rest
assured, this will be the first of many celebrations."
Tywin stood tall, his face a serious mask, and listened as in nearly one voice
the northern men and women thanked their lady first - and her lord husband
second.
It was a slight, to be sure, but the old lion was too distracted to be baited,
too distracted by the salacious images his mind was conjuring of his wife to
remotely care.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
When he walked into the suite of rooms he had selected for his lady, he found
her standing close to the hearth. The proximity to the bright blaze of the fire
rendered her bedgown translucent - and his throat immediately dry. He could see
every curve that haunted him, and it sent a sudden tremor of nervousness down
his spine. It was a ridiculous notion, to be shy in her presence, but it was
something he could not shake.
Even so, Tywin felt himself drawn to her as though compelled - the moth to her
particular flame.
Sansa did not move nor turn to him as he approached, but when he closed the
distance between them fully, she felt his heat take precedence over the hearth-
fire and her body sought its own comfort as she leaned back into a welcoming
embrace.
There was no mail or plate between them now, nothing cold or inhibiting.
Tywin had been dressed in a light tunic and breeches and boots; his standard
attire, save the boots, for sleeping amidst the unrest of battle. And though
the North had been relatively secured, his habitual nature would not be
quelled.
She made to move, taking hold of his hand and offering a coy whisper, "Follow
me."
Tywin scoffed at her. Even though he stood half hard for his wife, Tywin would
always resist an attempt to subjugate him.
Stopping at his huffed ridicule, Sansa turned back toward Tywin, stood on her
toes and kissed the man hard on the mouth. In an instant, the old lion had one
hand in full possession of her arse and the other meandering through her hair
and cupping the back of her skull. She was bent back allowing him to curl over
her body and stake his claim on her lips.
When Tywin pulled his wife to stand upright once more, Sansa's fingers were
dancing magic through his whiskers and over his scalp.
She created a gap between their bodies to entice him. "Follow me." This time
her voice was built in a low-pitch grit of lust; the same tone that could burn
him from the inside out, that seared his skin without leaving a wound.
His northern bride scorched him like the bite of frost.
He followed.
Once in the privacy of her small bedchamber, Tywin made a possessive grab for
his wife, pulling her back to his chest. Encouraging her head to recline back
against his shoulder, he buried his mouth and nose in her hair, foraging until
his tongue and teeth could work against the soft skin of her neck. His hands
roamed along her front, needy for her; long fingers found the cleft of her cunt
through the fabric of her bedgown and he growled at the spread of moisture
wicking under their tips. His other hand found laces, then the soft mounds of
flesh those laces here hiding.
It has been far too long, his mind reasoned. His body would simply have to map
hers again - the chore that it was.
Hooking his fingers into the fabric of her loosened collar, Tywin peeled the
garment down and away, exposing her to the waist. Every breath he took behind
Sansa, pushed her breasts out into his waiting palms, bowing her, neck and all,
like a sacrifice to the gods.
Sansa turned in his arms, eyes lidded heavily, her breath ragged on the intake,
and wriggled against the arousal straining in her direction. She stood on her
toes and kissed him again, her hands working in tandem to untuck his tunic and
tug loose the leather straps holding him back from her.
Removing his tunic fully, his loosened breeches sagging low in turn, the lion
gauged his wife's reaction.
Along his torso, Tywin was painted with new marks and scars. Linear scrapes and
bruises from his shoulder to the pits of his arms where his breastplate sits
and presses. He was sporting a large black bruise just above his hip, from
sparring. But it was the angry red seam that bisected the skin over ribs,
vertically along his flank, that would be her test. The old lion did not quite
know what he was expecting, all he knew was that he would not tolerate fawning,
even from Sansa.
She did not so much as coo or tsk his injuries, as some wives were prone to do.
Instead, Sansa stepped toward him, so close to him that she stole his heat and
gave him her own. It was a distraction most cunning, she pressed the ghost of
her lips first to the marks by his shoulders, then to the edge of the deep
bruise at his hip.
When her attentions turned to the angry red ridge - proof that mail will stop a
slashing blade but barely slow down a sharpened tip of steel - it was her
fingers that found it first. Her subtle touch coaxed a yearning sigh from him.
When her mouth laid soft open kisses there too, his mind screamed out for want
of her flesh while his breath punched out bodily from his lungs.
This, this was what he dreamt of. This was what lingered inside him when he
woke up sweating and frustrated.
Her eyelashes tickled his skin; her palm teased the insistent ache of his cock.
Tywin walked with her held close, danced their languid steps to the edge of the
bed, and divested them of their clothes completely. But it was Sansa who
splayed her hand on his chest and pushed him down in the most delightful form
of coercion.
She climbed over and knelt between his legs, taking in the sight of her husband
laid out and at her command as her body thrummed its own opinion. Her fingers
pushed lazily around his thighs, through the coarser hair, the pad of her thumb
roaming over a red bump. For all the dents and brands of battle that his body
had earned, fresh and old, it was a small blemish that reiterated his existence
as mortal.
She basked tenderly at her lord.
Leaning low to him, Sansa rested the flat of her tongue at the base of Tywin's
cock and grinned at the sound of a long exhaled groan from the direction of the
pillows. She flicked the tip of her tongue over the ridges and loose skin of
his sac, anticipating his reaction. 
Her husband did not disappoint. He scrambled to lean on his elbows, to elevate
his view and take in what his wife was doing to him.
In an irrational revolt, his mind started diverting from pleasure; instead
focusing on the faded image of a whore on her knees in his tent. Tywin could
not find the voice to say the words that would tell Sansa to stop. All he could
do in the physical world was breathe heavily and moan every time her tongue
laved his prick or balls.
However, his mind utterly fucking left him the moment she rested her arms
across his pelvis and lifted his leaking cock to her mouth. The height on his
elbows made him dizzy all of a sudden, causing him to drop back to the bed. It
was her name that formed itself in the sound of his voice, but he was not sure
if it was he that actually spoke. The only thing he could focus on was the pull
of Sansa's hot mouth swallowing him.
His hands made to venture toward her hair, but rather stopped their trek to
rest safely on the linens at his side. He knew he would not be disappointed
this time, but he could not bring himself to seek that kind of
comfort. Breathing in deep lungfuls, Tywin concentrated on her. On her mouth
working lower, on her tongue petting and working its own magic on the underside
of his cock, on the gentle squeeze she applied to his balls, on the familiar
stop as she took him in as far as her mouth would allow.
Sansa made little movements, bobbing in tiny increments, and with a look of
hunger her husband could not see, she adjusted her jaw as though to yawn, held
her breath, closed her eyes and slowly took his length into her throat
completely. Stopping only when her nose nuzzled into the sparse thatch of
golden curls at the base of his cock.
She could hear Tywin's fingers grip the bed linen to the point of tearing as
she felt his body arch at her efforts; above everything Sansa heard the gasping
cry of a man enjoying a new pleasure. Feeling the need to swallow, her throat
made the motion, constricting in ripples around Tywin's girth. She was pleased
when his legs spread wider and his hips flexed upward, exploring this new found
ecstasy.
It was short lived; the need to breathe made itself known. As Sansa pulled
away, she sucked and lapped and teased with the barest of teeth, watching while
his eyes came into view.
Her docile gaze met his look - one that was caught between amazement and
disbelief.
"I found your book," she muttered shyly. Speaking into the silky skin at the
tip of his cock, pausing only a heartbeat before wrapping her lips around him
again.
"I don't remember th-" Everything turned into a groan as she swallowed him to
the root once more. Nothing mattered but the pull of her throat.
Releasing him again to find air, Sansa gazed transfixed at the horizon of
Tywin's torso - every muscle twitching, his chest labouring for air.
"There were no illustrations for... this," she hummed at the delirious man,
"only written instructions."
"There were words?" he mumbled airily to a point on the ceiling, his smile
clear and on display.
When she sat up fully, it was the overall sight of Tywin that caused her to
tingle in desire. His head had fallen back and he was sporting a deep flush
from the base of his neck to the top of his scalp. She certainly earned the
edge of smug satisfaction she wore - more so when he looked at her with
thoroughly bleary eyes. 
Moving one knee outside his legs, Tywin took the hint to close them, giving her
room. She was so wrapped up in concentration, Sansa did not notice the one
hand, then two, that sought and found her breasts.
His thumbs had just begun to tease her nipples, pebbling them under his touch,
when he felt her sit.
Sansa had straddled his hips and lowered her heat over his sensitive cock laid
flat against his belly, and with the first sway of her hips she slid, hot and
wet, up the length of him then down again. 
At the sweet pressure of her cunt stroking him, all the air in his lungs was
forced out once more; and with it, words. "I need to fuck you, Sansa," he
rasped. His plea matched his hands that were now enclosed on her hips.
"I need to be inside you."
Her mute affirmation came by way of rising on her knees, guiding his cock to
her entrance, anchoring her hands on his forearms, and filling herself in one
long, slow downward settle.
Sansa's mouth opened a little, her soft cry a heady song.
Tywin hissed a quiet moan that was broken by muttered profanity as he watched
her descent.
The casual grasp he held on her hips strengthened as he absorbed the give of
her tight flesh. The sight of her slacked lips forming delicately mewled vowels
and hazy eyes that never moved from his hit him with a raw sense of excitement.
The hairs on his arms stood up.
She was lightning in the room, dangerous and exquisite at the same time.
He had to savour it all.
After the first lift and fall Sansa was already constricting deep in her belly.
After the tenth and eleventh time his cock teased then filled her, she dug her
nails in Tywin's skin and ground out her release on his pubic bone.
He encouraged her to fall forward on his body, as her hips made greedy little
movements to ride out her pleasure. Clasping both hands in her hair, angling
them to see her beautiful face, Tywin raised his knees and anchored his feet,
then proceeded to lift his hips and thrust into her deeply.
The look she wore every time his cock pushed into her was both a wish and a
curse; her eyes were barely open, her bottom lip was trapped in her teeth, and
everything about her sent a hot wave of lust from the middle of his chest to
the point where they connected. Wrapping his arms around her, Tywin rolled them
until she was comfortable underneath his weight. Her legs draped over his hips
and he felt her hands mark their own territory along his body.
He watched her as his cock pushed its way into her again and stilled once he
became fully seated.
In those moments he saw his own vulnerability. Not in its entirety, simply a
phantom suggestion of what he was bound to lose. And in a sickening wash, his
mind registered that current needs and wants were insufficient, with it he felt
his desire manifest into possession in its purest form.
Tywin's eyes looked through his wife as his entire demeanor changed above her.
Everything in his vicious jolts of movement, in his whining huffs, spoke of a
desperate need and of a furious compulsion. It was as though she were going to
disappear once their encounter ended.
Tywin felt so full of helplessness he shuddered, causing the pleasure in his
body to twist into an anguish that beset his mind. Every moment with her, in
her, was a moment already gone. And this newest fracture compelled him to
consume every morsel of her, have contact with every living piece of her,
before there was no time left.
Before he left.
He was losing control.
Sansa placed a firm palm to each side of his face, forcing him to look, willing
him to read her eyes, but when his own eyes switched and pulled at a pace she
could not read, Sansa resorted to words.
"Slow..." she breathed, her body rocking in higher arcs to show him what she
wanted. "Gently."
Her husband blinked out of his abysmal daze, whimpering a desolate moan and
sliding to a skittish understanding; short punishing thrusts became long
teasing strokes, a digging grip into her flesh became the tender exploration
she was used to from his fingertips. She still had his face in her restrain,
his features softening from the sharp chaos they once were.
Tywin rolled his hips and it was all she could do to keep his eye as she moaned
out her pleasure directly at him. She spoke a primal language, one that had
nothing to do with vernacular and everything to do with instinct. He dipped his
mouth to his lady and kissed. Softly at first, tasting her lips and her tongue,
then he sucked a little harder and nipped with a little more pressure as her
heels gathered just over his arse, commanding his rhythm to that of her whim.
The familiar tightening of release was building - burning in his belly,
wringing its way to his groin.
A preemptive wave of pleasure fluttered through her lion. Sansa felt his cock
harden further, nudging the place within her that he sometimes sought
exclusively. She gasped and pulled inward with her heels.
He was at the very edge of his peak when, using one hand, he loosed one of her
legs from his waist, splaying her open. At the same moment his lungs forgot to
work, his heart sped, and he felt himself contract at his core, Tywin pulled
away from the clutched heat of his wife. His free hand gripped and stroked the
slick length of his cock as he spilled his seed on the skin of her belly,
groaning her name with every pull.
Sansa felt empty the instant Tywin removed himself from her. She felt
incomplete and could not decide if it was emotional irrationality, or if it was
something physically genuine. Whatever it was, the bereft feeling swayed first
to annoyance than to concern.
"You've... You've never done that before," she panted.
Tywin had his eyes closed. His ducked head rested between her breasts as he
took deep tugs of air through his nose getting his breathing in order, but
mostly just wanting to enjoy her scent, their scent. He'd heard her. He did
not want to ignore her, but the alternative was to address what he was feeling,
and that was nothing he was prepared to do.
"It's a night of firsts then," he whispered into her sternum, hoping the levity
would sate her.
It did not.
"Tywin, why-"
Fury and impatience are a comfortable set of clothing for a man of his nature,
such an easy robe to slip into when one wishes to avoid truths and hurts. The
Great Lion snapped his head up, eyes glittering his ire. His teeth were bared
as he swung forward bodily, his softened cock dragged up her belly, through his
spend with the motion.
His face was so close, Sansa could feel the heat of his anger as it flushed his
cheeks.
"I have done a great many ill deeds, Lady Stark," he spat the name and title in
her face, "but I will not leave you in this land of savages compromised!"
He was furious and she had no idea why. 
Sansa tightened her fingers at his nape, the compassion on her face a clear and
silent question of his well being, and it only angered him further. Tywin
wrenched himself away from her forcibly, out of her grip, out of the warmth of
her thighs, out of bed altogether. He yanked on his breeches and hastily shoved
his boots into place on his feet. When he bent again, he picked up his tunic
and it was only then he chanced a look at his wife.
Her leg was bent, knee raised slightly, taking her quim just out of view. One
of her hands rested lazy between her breasts, where his mouth had just done the
same. Her other hand was stretched out across the bed to him - a summons, a
seduction of skin.
He clenched his back teeth.
She was watching him placidly, not a trace of tears or anger, or anything at
all. Sansa was beautiful even in her disappointment, and it was the fucking
bane of him.
Weakness.
His gut ached in recognition of his devastating insecurity, but his ego refused
to ignore the momentum of it. With a flick of his wrist, Tywin flung his tunic
at her - specifically where his seed had gathered and cooled - and stormed out
of the room without a word.
Sansa was left to wipe away every trace of him.
The place at the back of her jaw burned and watered. She wanted nothing more
than to succumb to the sobs she knew were living just below the surface, but
she could not. Not that she chose avoidance, there was simply no path. Her mind
refused the emotion that would allow her to hide. Forcing her to think. To
think and deduct and speculate.
Lady Stark, her thoughts echoed.
When Sansa rose early the next morning, it was Deena who told her of Lord
Tywin's departure well before dawn.
And when asked if there was any correspondence or message from her husband, the
Lady of Winterfell already knew the answer was no.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Spring IV *****
Chapter Notes
     **This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to
     execution. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed
     accordingly.**
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
The morning was grey and miserable. Two moons into her stay and Sansa had yet
to see a solid day of sunlight. There were beams here and there - to the
delight of all working out of doors - warmth sometimes on given afternoons, but
for the most part the North stayed true to form. Not necessarily as she
remembered it - it was always warm in her dreams - but how she'd heard it
described by those who'd never stepped foot on her land.
Yet that day, in the first hours after dawn, her land seemed to emphasize only
its most intolerable traits. Rain that could hardly be called a mist settled on
man and land alike, sharp and bitter. So near ice was the dreary wet that it
stung on contact with bare skin. Those wearing plate armor could be heard
periodically scraping away an accumulated frozen membrane, and the puffs of
steam created by conversation sunk when spoken, weighed down by the frosty
drizzle.
Misery loves company, they say, and company was exactly what Lady Sansa was
waiting for.
In that vein, the weather was deemed rather appropriate.
Waiting with their lady in Winterfell's bailey near the King's Gate entrance
were advisers, personal guards, and scores of Lannister men ranging from
soldiers to stable hands. All of whom exuded such a level of anticipatory
uneasiness, the overall effect was palpable, even in the great expanse of the
yard.
The moment Lord Tywin departed from both her and the North, Sansa reined in her
counsel and made sure Lord Manderly was aware of her agenda. While the large
man was confused, he also understood her reasoning; while he was concerned, he
also pledged his total support.
The muted sound of hooves and boots tramping the sodden ground coupled with the
clanking rise of the heavy portcullis at the outer wall stilled any idle
chatter in those chosen and who chose to stand in greeting with Lady Sansa. The
sure-footed cadence of man and beast could be heard slowing. Then from the
muffled calls and gradual commencement, Sansa could only assume her guests had
officially arrived.
At first sight of nondescript figures emerging from the entrance arch and out
of the heavy shadow of the curtain wall, Sansa felt her lungs ache in an effort
to work. Lady Sansa had been holding her breath, unbeknownst, and she wasn't
the only one. As more bodies filed through, most of the crowd entering on foot,
it was her great uncle Brynden who stiffened noticeably then made a throaty
noise. A wholly foreign and pitiful sound escaped from the man she knew, and
that was something she found equally disconcerting.
The Blackfish turned away from the oncoming procession, toward his lady,
piercing his great niece with intense watery eyes that made every threat to
spill.
"I can't," he choked hoarsely. "I'm sorry, my lady, I can't see her."
Sansa laid a gentle hand on the forearm of her great uncle, her own features
allowing nothing, but her eyes speaking in their natural understanding and
caring for the man. "And I'll not force you, ser," she conceded, squeezing his
mail a tiny amount. "Go find comfort inside, uncle. And, if you'd prefer, I
will apprise you of details later this evening."
At her words the Blackfish blinked back his grief, straightened to his full
height and bowed in his easy way. Sansa smiled softly at him, a silent
indication that everything was well, and tightened her fingers for a beat
before letting him go.
Ser Brynden spared no time, walking briskly past the welcome line toward the
Great Keep, not once looking back. In his wake, Lord Manderly took his spot,
trudging and wheezing himself to Lady Sansa's side and offering his arm.
So caught up in the figures looming larger through the gates, Sansa had rested
her hand on his abundant forearm without a thought. At the first sight of her
mother, emerging from the solemn group of threadbare fabrics and disheveled
furs - like the dead animals themselves were fighting against their display -
Sansa bit hard on her back teeth and squeezed tight the ample flesh beneath her
fingers.
There was no trace of auburn left, her mother's hair now a shocking white. It
looked brittle to the touch, but seemed to match her complexion. The scars on
her face and neck were healed, though no less gruesome – they striped her
cheeks like war paint the mountain clans wore into battle. Her harsh features
cut even harsher angles, and her ashen skin only added to the deep
shadows. However, her eyes hadn't changed at all from the last time Sansa had
looked into them: unnaturally bloodshot and radiating unmitigated fury.
Lady Sansa's concentration and assessment was severed by the movement of a
child.
A small willowy thing with blue eyes and wild tangles of brown hair, no older
than three or four she would guess, perhaps older but left under-grown by her
environment, ran unbidden to the woman that used to be her mother. The girl, as
her clean but tattered dress and straw doll clutched tight would attest, didn't
acknowledge anyone. Instead grasped at the dangling hand of the white-haired
woman.
Lady Sansa couldn't help but smile gently at the little girl eying her shyly
from behind a heavy curtain of worn brocade. And it was when the girl smiled
back that Sansa shuddered, looking immediately and squarely to the face of Lady
Catelyn. For a long moment they were locked in awful understanding: her mother
had bore a child, a daughter, and Sansa would never know her. She had a sister,
her sons had an aunt, who was within reach and all but dead to her at the same
time.
As Sansa tracked the numbers and facts in her mind, attempting to disproved the
accuracy of her initial assumption, she was equally forced to accept what she
was seeing. Fate once again turned cruel, handing her one more bitter truth to
swallow down, one more torment to set aside in order to carry on from. 
Sansa felt her chest tighten under her cloak, the bodice of her dress suddenly
far too tight, and a flush stained on her face to prove it. She could do
nothing to stop her reaction, and her mother's mouth angled up at the corners
in response - satisfied with the hurt Tywin Lannister's wife was enduring.
Behind the cruel woman, the tight-packed group of grubby warriors and outcasts
swayed a little in order to make a gap for a grey-haired man who stood a more
than a head above the rest and moved forward with a graceless gait. The man was
tall, like Sandor, but the physical comparison ended there. This man was both
familiar and a stranger all at once, and looked to be far too thin for his
frame.
When he approached the little girl and Lady Catelyn, the woman didn't so much
as glance in his direction. The child, however, turned and squealed - not in
fright, but in apparent glee. It was when the veritable giant smiled down at
the girl that Sansa's memories provided answers - of which, Lord Manderly's
voice provided confirmation.
"Greatjon," Wyman mumbled sadly.
His fellow lord had been held prisoner at the Twins, the last anyone had heard.
When he didn't return to the North when the Frey's castle fell, it was assumed
the Lord Umber had perished. Yet here he was, a parody of his former self, his
infectious grin aimed toward the little girl at his shins, while his eyes spoke
of every manner of haunting.
"Papa!" the child laugh-screamed, with the enthusiasm owned strictly by babes.
The Lord of White Harbor and the Lady of Lannister stood rapt, paralyzed by the
staggering truth of it all as the Greatjon swooped down without a word to
procure his daughter in a tight embrace. Hugging her close, he turned and
melted once again into the throng of Brotherhood behind him without so much as
the faintest observance of his further surroundings or people he knew from his
life before.
The voice of her mother broke any trance left by the quick succession of such
surreal events. "Well, Lady Lannister, you have lured me here. What is it that
you want?"
Lady Catelyn's fury toward her daughter seemed to have scattered over time,
lessened as it spread, but the dispassionate tone she took was bordering on
intimidation, and Sansa caught the warning flex of leather and mail from the
dangerous quartet on guard one pace behind her. Over the years Sansa acquired a
composed deportment while in the presence of the cunning and the ruthless, and
it took no more than the shell of her mother to swat at it and unnerve her.
"Justice, mother-"
"Unless you are handing me the head of your husband, I don't see much of an
offer by way of justice."
Lady Catelyn took a quick step forward, and in an instant Lord Manderly's free
arm was stretched protectively between them; Sansa's own had reached back, hand
splayed in silent entreaty, to stay the four warriors who were a swing away
from dispensing the woman who had thought to menace their lady.
Her mother smirked at the call to action and calmly leaned over the large
barrier.
Sansa immediately took in the smell she remembered as a child, as a young girl,
sitting and smiling while her mother brushed her hair in long, loving strokes.
It was the same smell that washed over her when she had been tucked in, when
she needed reassurance, when she sought the comfort and protection that could
only be found in the arms of her mother...
"I hear you've bred for your master."
Sansa's world burned once again at the malignant tone thrown at her by the
woman in her mother's skin. As two sets of Tully blue eyes locked, that same
burn calcified her heart, and whatever apprehension she initially felt
fortified to outright resolution.
"Threaten me, mother," Sansa asserted coolly. "Threaten Lord Tywin if you feel
you must, but carry one more word into whatever threat or observation you have
about my children and you will find your life at a very limited extension."
Lady Catelyn leaned in further, her voice a frightening darkness, "It's easy to
be brave when you're one scream away from your lion, little girl."
Lady Sansa stretched forward to close the gap between her and her mother,
speaking in a deadly calm, "I am the only lion in Winterfell, mother - and the
only one you ever need fear."
The white-haired woman faltered, her eyes lost focus momentarily. A slip that
played almost imperceptibly, but was there for true. One Sansa could see
plainly at her proximity, and it seemed to twist the woman into something
doubly vulgar and cruel.
"I think you're a liar," Catelyn sneered viciously. "I can smell his funk on
you from here-"
"Gods," Lord Wyman hissed, cutting short her insult. He took a step toward the
woman who had once held so much of his respect, using his impressive size to
his advantage. "Move away, Lady Catelyn. I'm afraid I must insist."
The woman straightened and stepped back, turning her unending hate on him
instead. "You've finally picked a side Manderly? How convenient for you."
Sansa could feel Lord Manderly stiffen in offense, and spoke to stymie the
pending quarrel. "As I said, mother, I have invited you here as a matter of
justice." She waited for the fiery, hurtful eyes to return their attention to
her and continued, "Lord Tywin may have claimed the North from Lord Bolton, but
punishment of the traitor has been left in my-"
"Give him to me!" Her mother frothed, abandoning whatever shreds of propriety
she had clung to. Suddenly rabid and unpredictable, she thrashed in every
direction looking for a glimpse of the man who had killed her first child, her
son, her king.
Lady Sansa watched in her periphery, Harwin was walking in the direction of his
lady. The look on his face was placid, nonexistent, and it was as though this
were a course he had much experience with. And while the notion of her mother's
reduced stability presented more questions than it did answers regarding her
leadership ability, Sansa also knew command within the Brotherhood Without
Banners was a position given, not won.
Harwin walked to a point precisely in front of her mother and spoke in a
strong, calm timbre. "My Lady," he clipped; once, twice, until Lady Catelyn
stopped searching and fixated on the voice of the man in front of her. The
effect was instant, she ceased fidgeting and the wildness in her eyes banked
until she was once more made of stone.
With a nod to a sentry at the far end of the bailey, Lady Sansa set into motion
the parade of her doleful offering. A sacrifice to the woman so changed by the
suffering she endured, and a prize of justice expected by those north men and
women who survived their own agonies.
The misery of weather only added to the impending doom for bodies tethered
together and shuffling as a group to a place in front of the white-haired
woman. They each were still wearing overly soiled clothing to either feast or
fight, and the sight would have been comedic if it hadn't been so tragic. Most
had been kept in stables and kennels, treated worse than the animals they'd
displaced, but they were at the conclusion of their stay in Winterfell.
This was their day of judgment.
Once the crowd had stilled, Sansa heard the distinct sound of whimpering and
attempts to console those who were distraught, and clawing through that noise
the Lady of Winterfell was addressed in voice that pitched to the point of
being a shriek. It belonged to a frightened young woman who had pushed her way
to the edge of the pond of bodies. She was older than Sansa, but nowhere near
the height, and the dress she wore was once beautiful - that could easily be
seen - yet so were the dark splashes and lines that had seeped into the fabric,
defining the blood of those who fell around her at her capture.
The terrified woman focused her red-rimmed eyes at Sansa, horribly begging,
"Please, my lady." Her words coughed-out as a wet sob. "This is not how justice
is performed in the North!"
Every set of eyes were stabbing her: loyalists, the condemned, outlaws, and
those of her mother. Lady Sansa was roiling in a storm of discomfort. It took a
moment, though she expertly tucked all of it away inside, stepped around her
insecurity and focused on the memories she needed.
"My lady, you are correct." Sansa's tone was affable, something that set men
and woman at ease in her company. This circumstance was no exception. "There is
an honour deeply embedded in northern justice." Her intonation then sunk to
match the climate, "But your king, and his men, were not afforded that honour,
either."
The young lady was visibly shaking. "That was war!" she screeched, before
crumpling at the feet of those agitated and grumbling around her.
Guilt by association.
Sansa knew this woman, most within the group of captives, had no hand in the
brutal disloyalty at the Twins. No knowledge of their king's betrayal. But to
bend now would be weakness, and to become weak at this pinnacle point would
only serve to threaten her son in the future.
It only takes one... One babe with a chance to live... and your own children
could be at the wrong end of a blade.
Her courage steadied. Lady Sansa would not be timid on the grounds of her
ancestors, in the name of all those she had lost. She raised her chin to
address the crowd, address every single soul assembled, but it was her mother
that shook them all.
"My war is not yet finished." Her voice like curdled milk, Lady Catelyn stepped
toward the crowd, "And you will die anyway."
The drone of muttered complaint stopped. Save a few horses neighing, there was
no sound around them, not even that of nature - the drizzling rain choosing
that moment to end abruptly and the wind becoming scarce. It was eerily quiet,
the kind that raises hair to stand on the back of one's neck.
The white-haired woman walked a small arc in order to best face the weeping
young lady in the group, but it was every captive that she was addressing. "I
care no more for you than your fathers, sons, brothers, and uncles cared
for me," she drawled casually.
Looking at Lord Wyman for only a moment, Lady Catelyn's entire face shifted to
remembrance and sorrow, her voice marked that same sadness. "I saw the way they
happily butchered Wendel Manderly." She paced slowly, back and forth, like a
caged animal. "I watched Smalljon Umber fend off a score of men from his king!"
she bellowed, then sunk her inflection to a crawling sneer, "before being held
down and beheaded like a dog. Dacey Mormont had no hesitation in tearing into a
throng of her own allies! Only to be cut down."
Lady Catelyn stopped then, stood reed-straight, her voice equally hollow. The
sound made Sansa's skin prickle. 
"Lady Sansa is paying a debt not as a Lannister, but as a Stark, and she is the
embodiment of northern honour in doing so."
Sansa's insides churned as she flicked her eyes at Lady Catelyn, but she could
no more discern sincerity than she could before. Her heart would like to think
that her mother forgave her, but she was not so naive to assume it. The woman's
speech was cutting and poignant, and if her name was required to make it that
way, then so be it.
"The Red Wedding will never happen again," the Merciless Mother stated icily,
"and your bodies will swing and rot from here to the Twins as a testament to
the price of such treachery."
The white-haired woman turned her head to face Sansa. There was nothing of the
passionate Lady Catelyn who was speaking only moments ago. This entity was of
nightmares, and when it spoke, voices were heard from all directions.
It was something sinister.
"Bring me Bolton, his Frey whore, and his bastard."
Sansa turned and nodded to one of the men to her side. The soldier took another
with him, waded into the sea of trussed bodies and emerged with the two of the
three people that had been requested. With a small wave of her fingers, Sansa
ordered her men to deliver their charges to the outlaw in their midst.
They did not hesitate in their compliance.
From the far end of the bailey, from the kennels, came both the marched
symmetry of step and the defined groans of agony. Two of her men flanked Ramsay
Snow. He had been trussed with his arms behind his back and a rod had been
threaded through the gaps at his elbows - each side of the rod manned by a
soldier. The bastard wasn't being restrained, he was being supported.
A fortnight with the Mountain's men reduced Snow both in faculty and flesh.
Below each knee was nothing more than a pulpy mess. The bones were shattered
and the holes at his heels were proof of being hooked by tendons and hung like
game. His face was an equal horror: his lips were gone, his teeth had been
chipped out, his tongue had been split and shortened, and the eye that remained
was distant as if seeing only shadows. His skin was a tapestry of running sores
and open wounds, and without the means to seal his lips the bastard simply let
his head sag forward and leak any fluids that happened to collect in his mouth
- all of it stringing down the front of what Sansa was sure were the remnants
of a dress.
Whatever he was before - a breathing abhorrence who delighted in killing those
Sansa cared about - that man was nowhere to be found, having been excised
through rituals of malice and pain.
She fought it. Sansa fought against the delicious want to approve of the
bastard's suffering, and in the end she had indeed allowed that spark of
revenge to live in her heart. Allowed its sour taste to coat the bitterness of
loss. 
Ramsay Snow would die today. That knowledge crept into her mind and made her
chillingly happy.
Six men of the Brotherhood stepped forward to relinquish the captives from
their handlers. With a man on each side them, Bolton and Walda were pushed to
their knees. Ramsay struggled, as was his way, but his uselessness was more
than apparent, causing the two men at his charge to first laugh at his attempts
then simply lower the drooling, babbling wretch with the rod they were holding.
Facing a condemned crowd of peers and poor fools knelt the sum total of Sansa's
nightmares: a broken bastard, a fallen lord, and an unwitting wife with an
unfortunate surname - on either side of her marriage. In a wave it all felt so
ridiculously petty, yet so significant in the same breath.
She lived an awful moment in which her guts wrung, and Sansa wanted nothing
more than to run inside like she used to as a child when her siblings were
being terrors. She wanted to cower in the warmth of her bed and have someone
else relay the horror she knew she was about to witness...
Lady Stoneheart, as the small folk liked to call her, quietly paced a circle
around the three people she had asked for.
The Frey woman looked preoccupied, her eyes were without focus. It was the look
of loss and disparaging sorrow. A look that made Sansa's empathetic pain etch
itself on her face. The act was something of a relief - it was a solid reminder
that she would, indeed, suffer the emotional toll of her retribution. 
She was not yet a monster, still prominently Stark, and she would gladly own
the hurt of guilt.
Roose Bolton seemed wooden, yet tired, his vision as far away as that of his
wife. This man's look held nothing of fear or remorse though, more so
calculation and impatience. It was as though he knelt waiting for something as
mundane as his morning meal and not his own death.
But Sansa could easily pick apart the truth behind Lord Bolton's mask: shame
and embarrassment. However, neither were in reference or consideration of those
he had summarily cursed, but motivated purely by selfishness. She was honest
with herself in that her personal knowledge of remorseless men allowed her the
opportunity to observe without any kind of hitch in her sensibilities. That
same honesty prevented her from discerning whether or not her wisdom to that
end was a strength or a weakness.
She looked on as Lady Catelyn continued her silent prowl around the unperturbed
kneeling trio. As the larger crowd of doomed souls started to become restless,
the woman's strategy became abundantly clear: disquiet the herd. The remaining
captives would take each and every step of their journey steeped in anxious
fear of their diminutive captor.
Without flourish or preamble, the white-haired woman ceased her pace and stood
without movement behind Lady Bolton.
Her mother raised her hand and Sansa had an instant pang of awful anticipation.
But was almost let down when the older woman rested her fingers lightly over
the center of her breast, over the oddest jewelry Sansa had ever seen. It was
an adornment Sansa failed to notice, even in passing as the procession of
Brotherhood arrived, even as the woman stood directly in front of her.
Around the neck of her mother was finely braided leather cord, and attached to
that cord was what looked like a petrified weirwood branch. It seemed to be
over the length of her hand - from the tip of her middle finger, to the bottom
of the heel of her palm - and curved slightly, more severely at the end that
dangled lowest.
It was an odd accessory. Her mother once dressed with every consideration of
surroundings and company...
Lady Stoneheart, standing behind Walda Bolton, clutched purposefully at her
neck-piece and Sansa understood that this woman dressed no differently. Pulling
at the bottom end of the white branch, the white-haired woman seemed to
separate it into halves. What became agonizingly clear was that the branch
didn't break, it was actually a dagger being unsheathed.
The glint of steel was bright and distracting on such a dull morning, and the
more her mother continued to slowly pull down, the more the delicate blade was
revealed. It was slightly curved, no wider than her smallest finger, and no
longer than the width of her hand...
Oh, gods! Her mind screamed as her memories pushed forward.
"...He used a dagger... with a blade no longer than the width of my
hand..." Her mother's terrifying words echoed in her wakefulness the same way
that spectral voice sometimes inhabited her dreams. Sansa steadied herself on
the arm of Lord Manderly, retracted behind the armour she loathed and loved
simultaneously, and waited for the inevitable.
The two men at Walda's shoulders held a tighter grip at the same moment the
white-haired woman drifted forward with the grace of flowing water. In a quick,
flawless movement one hand fisted a hold of Walda's hair and the other hand
slid forward along the side of her neck.
Swallowing hard, Sansa watched the beautiful little blade slip under doomed
woman's flesh. It raised the skin on her neck like snake under sand, only to
disappear inward with a practiced hook of her mother's wrist. It was mere
moments that the knife was employed before being elegantly removed.
Sansa stood in mild confusion; she knew what death looked like, she even knew
what the brutality of torture looked like, but this was none of those things.
The wound from the dirk barely bled. Lady Walda was silent, kneeling, blinking
out tears, and looking equal parts bewildered and pitifully hopeful that she
had been offered some type of clemency.
It was several heartbeats until the Lady Bolton's eyes went frighteningly wide,
in the same heartbeat she heard Lord Manderly curse under his breath - he knew
what was happening. Sansa wanted to address the man at her side but was taken
by the scene unfolding before her.
"Hum, my lady." Manderly whispered out the side of his mouth as quietly as he
could. "Please, my lady, hum to yourself."
She was dumbfounded by Lord Wyman's bizarre instruction, and her comprehension
came far too late. 
It started as a wet rasp. Lady Walda tilted her head back minutely and opened
her mouth a little - as one would to catch a deeper breath - and the sucking
wet noise became louder. Sansa watched in horror as the kneeling woman started
to writhe in panic, her sodden breathing ever increasing. When her struggle
intensified, the men at her shoulders held her still to endure the creeping
death.
Lady Walda screamed then. 
She opened her mouth and let loose gurgling wails drenched in blood from a slit
throat that was nowhere on the outside of her body. Her lungs coughed out the
gore that was filling them - rivers of deep crimson blood, and foam of the most
fetching pink trickled from her open mouth. The dying woman heaved violently,
trying to take in the air it needed to live, her lungs refusing to fill with
anything but the blood that had been diverted with malicious precision.
But it was the noise.
The sounds a slowly dying body makes as it tries to cling to vestiges of life
are nothing if not a nightmare symphony. They are the cries and creaks that
trigger the most primal part of the mind to want to run to and help, in the
same manner a mother arcs at the distress of any child. And yet it was the
thought of her children that ensured Sansa made no move; the reason her natural
compassion retreated and her learned impassiveness prevailed. Her heart
hardened, swift to granite, at even the passing potential of her sons suffering
in any capacity.
She looked on with a demeanour employed by, and adopted from, her lord husband.
Satisfied in her horrible accomplishment with the Frey woman, Lady Catelyn
turned her attention to Ramsay; her countenance becoming unbelievably
ominous. There was no gentleness employed in the movement of the blade afforded
to the bastard. Her mother struck forward and jabbed the beautiful little
dagger into the man's neck, flicked her hand viciously and yanked it back
again. If anything, Sansa thought it would lead to a quicker end, but until
that time the entire assembly was audience to a horrible duet of justice...
gagging on their own blood.
Lord Bolton sat unflinching between the grotesque throes of the closest people
he had to family ricocheting on either side, and simply waited his turn. Though
it would not be granted until there was no trace of life surrounding him, and
he knew it.
The moment Lady Bolton stopped choking out her sickly wails, the Merciless
Mother laid forth her instructions. "Hang her in clear view at the East Gate."
With that simple order the sagging body was dragged without ceremony to be
hung.
When Ramsay quieted into death, he was strung up at the Hunter's Gate.
Sansa watched as her mother once again paced a circle around her prey, this
time dragging the hem of her gown through viscous puddles of crimson until the
weight of absorption pulled at her skirt like it was a grisly train. Again the
group of captives watched until they were shifting and nervous; again Lady
Catelyn waited until they were near madness before she stopped.
Once behind Lord Bolton, it was he who spoke first. "Get on with it, you cunt."
There was nothing in the words, like his eyes they were tired and unfocused.
Catelyn stepped closer to him than she did the first two, and smiled. It wasn't
something from her terrifying persona, it was the smile Sansa knew from her
childhood. She had to look away so as not to taint the memories she held so
dear. However, when her mother spoke, Sansa couldn't help but look back again.
As the men holding Roose Bolton pushed his shoulders to bend him further
forward, Lady Catelyn addressed him in a kind, strange manner, and said, "Know
that you die by the bones of the king you betrayed."
With her words, she clenched a vicious hold on the man's hair and, unlike the
first two she dispatched with delicate ease, Lady Stoneheart took her tiny
knife and began sawing into the neck of the lord she so hated. The lord who not
only crossed their king, but killed her son, and took so much pleasure in her
own brutalizing and humiliation.
This man would not die neatly.
Stoneheart was practically kneeling on his back, twisting and pulling her blade
in no true pattern. Her fist would plunge into the meaty gore up to her
knuckles. Even as the blood sprayed hot and wide, her hand did not stop its
tireless jagged rhythm.
Lord Bolton had his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth bared. It was evident he
held his breath to aim for death, but little daggers and large necks would
always require the body to force itself to breathe.
When he did, it was brutal. At the same moment he gasped for air, he groaned or
keened, or made to speak - whatever it was, it was made appallingly muddled by
the fact the noise came from the gape in his throat not the mouth on his face.
Lady Sansa shivered.
Lady Catelyn did not hesitate, punching with her knife over and over, as Lord
Bolton's life drained into a pool at his knees. He was motionless save for the
savage blows her mother was inflicting.
As the horror consumed her, Sansa did not notice she was leaning on Lord
Manderly with a progressively heavier weight. The large man said nothing, he
did not offer even a look in her direction, he merely adjusted his stance
discretely to accommodate her.
The bailey held no noise but soft weeping from the bound crowd, and the
spitting ragged breathing of the Merciless Mother. When her hand finally came
to a stop her arm was drenched past her elbow and the dead lord's head remained
attached by the bone her little blade could not severe - though not for lack of
trying.
They had to get an axe to finish it.
The statement bobbed to the surface, and Sansa was not at all surprised when
that was exactly how Lord Bolton ended. His body was strung up on the King's
Road just at the outer ridge of the wintertown, his head rested on a pike
outside the King's Gate.
Lady Sansa was snapped out of her deliberate sedation and addled thought when
she watched her mother meticulously clean and restore her blade.
Her words echoed nefarious and empty:
...you die by the bones of the king you betrayed.
...you die by the bones of the king…
...you die by the bones…
And as her mother slipped the pretty little blade back into place at her
breast, Sansa recognized with a sickly pang that it was not the branch of a
weirwood she cradled there.
It was her first child. Her son.
Her king.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
In the later part of the evening Sansa ventured to find and spend time with her
great uncle. Her morning's company departed just as quickly as they arrived and
refused any offer of provisions, citing that gold is so rarely poisoned. She
found him well into his cups and sitting idle by the large round fire pit in
the Great Hall.
Accepting his offer of wine, Sansa joined him as the dark descended the room
leaving nothing but the glow of the flames to limn their faces - though neither
looked anywhere but straight ahead.
Ser Brynden spoke a constant babble, telling her of her mother when she was but
a girl running wild on the rivers. Of how she was fearless even as a babe, and
disclosed nothing less than abrasive truths. He had continued, somberly
recounting the death of Lady Minisa and how Lady Catelyn had changed abruptly,
seemingly overnight, to fulfill her duty as the Lady of Riverrun.
As he talked and she listened, Sansa marveled how Arya was never truly compared
with Catelyn Stark, always Lady Lyanna. But the truth of it was that Arya was
just as much their mother as she was, perhaps even more. Most were easy to
dissuade the notion simply because Sansa looked so much like a Tully, like her
mother, but the matter of parental influence has nothing to do with markings
and more to do with, as her husband often noted, the way one carries
themselves. It is buried in actions and decisions.
When she left him, the Blackfish had talked himself sober and was falling back
into silent reflection.
Walking to her chambers was a blur, being preened and dressed for sleep was
nothing more than an exercise in detachment; for when her hearth was stoked,
her bed turned down, and her body snugly tucked in, Sansa wept.
The Lady of Winterfell let the agony of rekindled grief and despair take her,
quietly - not a sound escaping the covers and pillows she keened into.
Her mother.
It is so easy to give in to the prospect of vengeance when the blood to do so
slicks hands other than your own.
What she had witnessed that morning was the brutal honesty of retribution.
The brutal honesty of who she was.
If the vengeance she had encouraged over the years was fit for sound, it would
be the wheezing, gurgling screams of those drowning in their own blood at her
nod.
Gods!
She was a passive murderer...
She would not augment her support of the Brotherhood...
She cried all the harder.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Lady Sansa glanced at the large double doors of her father's solar as they
opened. She was waiting for Lord Manderly, but when Ser Brynden entered
instead, she sat up taller and waited for him to speak.
"A party from the Night's Watch are here to claim the those who remain in the
dungeons, my lady."
"I did not send for them," she said, at the same time she racked her mind for
the information needed to make sense of the matter.
Her husband had been the one to sift through the scores of men and women held
captive by Bolton for crimes ranging from treason and murder to serving a meal
in a manner their previous lord found offensive. He had been able to wade
amongst the offenders and divine fair judgment in the most efficient manner
possible, but it still left the cells packed beyond their rightful capacity.
"No, my lady," the Blackfish explained, confirming her estimation. "It seems
Lord Tywin was who sent word."
Sansa nodded, instructing, "Work with them. Find them food and accommodation
for the length of their stay, but I want it ensured that every condemned man
was given the choice of death or the wall before they are handed over."
"Yes, my lady, of course." Ser Brynden nodded back, yet remained in the doorway
and looked set to fidget.
Sansa observed the man with mild concern. "What is it uncle?"
He smiled in his easy carefree way at her words. Almost the same way, Sansa
noticed, he made to charm and enticed lords and ladies into his confidence. It
was his trick to get her to smile in return - it never failed.
She grinned at his mischief and chuckled lightly, "What are you up to-" Her
words died then and there; pebbles of conversation plinking and falling back
down her throat, and she was left to force herself to breathe.
It only seems fair that the physical world would crash to a halt if one's past
were to transcend to one's now.
...or simply walk through a door.
"Jon..." It was halfway to a question and well past a statement - it was
whatever her lungs could produce under the circumstance.
Sansa thought she was smiling, but didn't know. Her face had forgotten how to
tell the rest of her what it was doing. But the boy she knew so long ago stood
in front of her a man, a rougher image of her father, and he was smiling wide,
her father's smile - she made her mind tell her mouth to reciprocate the
pleasantry just in case she suffered internal mutiny.
Ser Brynden left without dismissal, quietly closing the door behind him and
instructing her guards to allow no interruptions.
Inside the solar were two people seeing ghosts; who were the ghosts of
Winterfell, themselves. But visual markings were the extent of any comparisons,
these two people were both a mixture of the equivalent and the antithesis of
those haunted in their faces.
It didn't make the reunion any less intense, any less difficult. There was much
to say, but with so many ends it was impossible to determine where to
start. Thankfully, Lady Sansa knew to rely on what came naturally, what came
without thought or effort: courtesy.
He politely refused her offer of wine and opted instead for water with lemon.
For such a banal occurrence, Jon's choice of beverage seemed to encourage
hesitation toward him, on her part.
Moments passed and smudged together to become uncomfortable silence, the two of
them still standing in awe of one another, neither having talked casually to
each other before.
"You…" Jon started nervously. He couldn't keep her eye, and Sansa found the
idea of a shy Lord Commander somewhat endearing. Jon cleared his throat and
tried again. "You have children now. I hear- I heard, I mean..."
Again it was awkward, but Sansa could see quite clearly that the boy she
shrugged off as a child was trying so hard now as a man grown to engage her the
same gentle way.
"Yes, two boys," she said, smiling in an effort to set him at ease. "Twins,"
she beamed, and was excited to see Jon smile back in the same fashion.
"You would be an amazing mother-"
"Jon, I am so sorry-"
They trampled over each other in words, but stood back a pace to digest exactly
what each other had admitted.
"There's no need… To apologize, that is."
"I think there is, Jon." Her tone was steady, serious.
Jon lost whatever timidity was left in him. "We were children."
"I was there, I know how horribly you were treated by myself... and my mother."
The last words were hardly a whisper.
"We've grown up, Sansa." Jon stepped closer, his kind smile widened. "If I
can't forgive you, my sister, than my experience has been for naught."
Sansa took a deep breath, smiling just as kind and just as wide. "Thank you,"
she breathed, as she bit back and swallowed the tears that were building.
Jon seemed to understand, seemed to know exactly what she was doing. If Sansa
were to guess, Jon was making the same effort.
"Tell me about them," he finally gulped out in a squeak, laughing at his own
pitch.
Sansa stepped closer still, laughing right along with him. She was still
giggling like the little girl he remembered as she began, "Rykar, the youngest,
has the excitable curiosity of Rickon and Arya, and the want to climb and find
adventure like Bran." She grinned at her own telling. These were good memories.
"My oldest, Tysan, can toddle into a room and command every bit attention just
by smiling - so much like Robb," she laughed light and pure. "Remember his
charm?"
Sansa looked at Jon, made an effort and held him in her gaze. She hadn't
realized she'd even looked away as she was reminiscing. He was grinning bright
and wide, so much like their father, with the same shine in his eyes that Lord
Eddard would get when talking about something or someone that made him happy.
"Oh, yes," he chuckled, "nary a maid was safe..." Jon stopped, sobering
slightly, knowing the woman Sansa looked so much like would have scolded him
for such presumption.
Sansa reciprocated the Lord Commander's sudden seriousness for a moment, then
employed a softened look, speaking further to ease him again, "Even at such a
young age, Tysan has a pensive side, so concerned with those around him. Very
much like you, Jon."
The grown man in front of her transformed once again into the shy boy she knew
as a child. The boy she treated so coldly, yet who would always greet her with
warmth. The boy she saw as no more than a blight on her family, yet who would
always invite her to join whatever fun was being schemed.
He was shifting his weight from foot to foot and darting his look to everything
but the young woman that should have been his focus. Sansa took the last two
steps needed to close their distance and draped her arms around his neck.
Pulling him tight into her embrace, she spoke through the cusp of her
emotion. "My children carry pieces of everyone I love, Jon." Her voice was
rough with guilt and shame and remorse, and it was made more so by speaking
into the heavy fur collar of his cloak. Sansa squeezed her arms around his neck
harder and all but sobbed, "Everyone."
She felt Jon's hands grip into her back, like she was going to float away if he
didn't hold on, and his head drop a little heavier on her shoulder. He shivered
then, her brother, in her arms, and Sansa cradled his sobs before she'd ever
heard them.
They stood there in each other's embrace for an endless time, weeping apologies
and acceptances, laughing in one another's hair before crying anew.
It was then Sansa realized what children they were. Still. Whatever life
separated her and Jon, they were no more than babes set loose in a world that
fell upon them with sharp teeth and honed blades. They had both bled and
suffered in a way that should never be known to the innocent. But she knew that
was the way for most every child, and her heart clenched at the thought of her
own.
What a grievous proposition.
Yet here they were, her and Jon, scarred and jaded, clinging and crying and
laughing and smiling, together. They had survived. And sadly that, that vile
and vicious truth, was the way for every child: you can only celebrate
childhood if you're lucky enough to have escaped it with your life.
They separated again and stood at few paces away, mopping their tears and
wiping their noses - laughing at each other for the trouble. When each were
calm, Jon once again took a deep breath, and Sansa was able to discern, even in
such a short time, that this is what he did before there was a question or
difficult subject.
"Sansa." He coughed slightly to clear his words. "You should know that the girl
wed to Bolton's bastard wasn't Arya."
His sister frowned slightly, not so much a look of sadness, and just nodded;
neither did she seem surprised.
"You knew this?" Jon questioned, almost incredulously.
"Yes," she answered simply. Sansa would not expose details regarding her
relationship with Tywin Lannister, no matter the ear.
"He holds a great amount of trust in you then." His eyes shifted over Sansa's
face, a mark of his own intuition. Intuition that proved true when she did not
question who he was referring to.
"I don't know..." She looked away, her brow slightly pinched.
"He must."
Opening her arms, Sansa swayed to indicate the land around her. "I'm... useful
here."
Jon gave her painful smile, it was understanding and remorse in one tiny
feature.
They fell again into silence, but this time it wasn't so uncomfortable. She
watched as Jon's brow crumpled and his lips pulled thin, she knew he was edging
toward something heavy. Something that weighed him down.
"They say the summer may last ten years."
Sansa huffed a light laugh, not as heavy as she assumed it seemed "The longer
the better," she agreed.
Jon smiled at her in a way that stuttered her heartbeat, it looked so much like
her father. But when he dropped the casual gaiety just as quickly, he became no
more than a stranger.
"Sansa, it doesn't matter how long it lasts." The Lord Commander stretched his
back and neck, tilting his head as he spoke, "As soon as the frost deepens and
the first real snow flies, I want you and... and my nephew," he tried to
lighten at the word, but simply couldn't, "to already be in the South. Promise
me."
She laughed again, light and airy to lessen the tension, but it was thick
around them and her instincts turned her icy. "Why do you want us out of
Winterfell, Jon? Why are you insisting the Lord of Winterfell go back to
Casterly Ro-"
Jon lunged at her in such a frenzy, Sansa's mouth yelped before she knew she
had opened it.
He held her tight by her upper arms and wore a look of both profound sadness
and fear. "Not west, Sansa!" he barked. "South!" His eyes traced back and forth
over her face. "Get your children, go to Lannisport, secure gold and ships and
you sail as far south as you can. Somewhere without snow and ice - understand?"
She didn't, and it must have read plainly on her face because Jon calmed, his
eyes stopped their rapid tracking, his grip eased and his hands slid down to
take hold of her own. He raised them, turning as he lifted, and kissed each
palm before gently letting go.
Stepping back from her a pace, Jon spoke in a tone of undeniable affection. "I
love you, Sansa." His words resonated as awkward, he'd never said them to her
before. "If you have any love for me, you will promise to heed my wishes." His
face once more relaxed his mouth remained serious, but the lines that made him
look severe were gone - the ghost of her father was staring at her, sedate and
full of warmth.
"You're scaring me," was all her body could breathe out. She sounded like the
same frightened little girl he would find under the furs of her parents bed
after a story from Old Nan.
"You should be scared," was Jon's own shaky reply. "Promise me," he pushed.
In the man's eyes Sansa read warning. It was a message she was experienced in,
one of many that Lord Tywin exhibited over the years. One of many she knew to
look for in anyone, and knew to recognize even without the advantage of a
verbal cue. It was a clue, she acknowledged, that if left ignored would either
work against her or take with it opportunity, or both, and judging by the
terrifying passion in which Jon was imparting it, only a fool would ignore such
insight.
"I promise, Jon." It was a whisper, but it was fierce.
Her brother sagged like he'd aged five decades in that one moment, but he
smiled again, that coveted prize. Sansa knew that to whatever it was she had
just complied that caused her to earn that from him was surely something
significant.
"How long are you here?" Sansa spoke for no other reason than to push back the
dread and silence that was becoming constrictive around them, but as the words
tumbled, she proudly felt it was a rather profound question.
Jon smiled once again. "As long as it takes to secure new brothers from your
dungeons."
It was Sansa's turn to smile. "I'm afraid you will be detained until those men
have had their plights sufficiently reviewed."
A slight wave of confusion washed through Jon's mind - the letter from Lord
Tywin assured him the necessary litigation had been performed. It wasn't until
he looked squarely at Sansa that he saw the glimmer in her eyes - it was the
same mischief Robb was capable of, reflected in the very same shade of blue.
He laughed then, loud and unbidden. A sound that soothed and mended, helping to
tack closed some of the most painful of fractures.
They would have their time, his sister would see to it. It wasn't a cure, but
it was an opportunity to encourage healing. To encourage the familiarity that
should have been the most natural of bonds between them.
It was a beginning.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                      . 
***** Spring V *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
It took four full days until Lady Sansa could afford Lord Manderly the time he
had requested prior to Jon's arrival. He assured her apologies were misplaced,
offering his lady understanding instead of consternation. Though as they sat
together in a solar Sansa could hardly think of as hers, speaking to and
resolving current inventories and land matters, Lord Manderly bluntly
interjected the truer reason for his requesting her time in the first place.
"Your brother, my lady," Wyman started, shifting rather easily in his chair.
"Rickon - I believe he lives."
The large man said the words like he was relaying a store counts, or the
details of a petty quarrel between tradesmen tasked to the rebuild of the
castle. Lady Sansa immediately withdrew. Her countenance became stony, any
outward demeanour toward the lord sitting across from her matched her physical
rigidity.
"My brothers are dead, my lord," she said with all the warmth of winter. "And
your jape is in poor taste."
"No jape, my lady. I sent King Stannis' Hand to search for him," was his
unflinching reply.
Lord Manderly sat, convinced in his truth, searching Lady Sansa's eyes for a
sign of trust - a sign that she in any way believed him. Long tense moments
slunk by while she scrutinized him, assessed his every feature, disassembled
every statement and confidence he had ever given her. Lord Manderly knew this
time was as best as any to lay his tale at her feet, he had no other recourse
but to sit in silence, open and unguarded, and let her pick his sincerity
apart.
There was nothing in the man that told her he was lying. No muscles that
twitched, his eyes didn't look away, nothing in him garnered attention to
insist Lord Manderly spoke anything but out of honesty. Lady Sansa had a moment
of dizziness; first Jon, now Rickon. If she allowed a flood of hope to envelope
her she knew it would be her downfall.
Gods, but how she wanted to be washed away.
Her approach to this information, this tiny grain of triumph and jubilation,
had to be treated no differently than anything of impact presented to her. 
Sansa began slowly, "When Stannis' man finds him-" 
Lord Wyman did not fail to notice Lady Sansa said when, not if. 
"-you must not bring him here, you must not establish him as Lord."
Wyman felt the sting of the girl's presumption, and immediately let his gall
speak on his behalf. "You've certainly been moulded into a Lannister, haven't
you?" he judged. "Need I remind you that here in the North, the right of
succession falls to sons, to Starks, not who has the most gold."
The fat lord knew his error even as the words fell out of his maw; the woman
sitting across from had grace of blood, not wealth. Her muted agitation only
confirmed his recognition.
"Do you think Lord Tywin secured Winterfell out of romance, Ser?" she
questioned, her tone so flat it cut an edge, and finished, "As a prize for
his wife?"
The words she chose were thoroughly caustic, but her overall demeanour never
really changed from being accommodatingly kind. It was a curious puzzle to be
sure, one that the older man could only envy, and not think to ignore.
"My husband fought, bled, and removed the lineage of a house and its vassals
for his son to sit this seat," Lady Sansa continued. "Do you think one boy
rescued from exile, Stark or not, my brother or not, means anything to him?"
She had given him a gift with that statement and Wyman knew it. The information
and opinion from her lips could end her life if used against her, and she
handed it to him with the trust Lord Manderly had once earned and admired in
Ned Stark.
"You must keep him safe, my lord," she said. "If not for me then for my father.
Do not put my brother into the mouth of a lion for the sake of honour."
"If your brother lives, this is his seat my lady." His tone was no longer
accusatory, more beseeching.
"I do not dispute that, my lord, but he will die for it
if you assert your ambition."
There was no room for voice in the quiet that enveloped the room. It was needed
by each to measure, appraise, and tally the worth of information and the trust
between them. It wasn't threatening, it was necessary.
After the passing of what could have been an hour, it was Lady Sansa who
breached the silence with her soft, confident promise. "If my brother lives,
and you keep him safe, there will be a Stark in Winterfell. The North will be
whole again, my lord - that is what I work toward and sacrifice for, but it
takes time and patience."
Wyman Manderly knew that what she was saying, with words and allusion, was
truth. It would be folly to accept Tywin Lannister as a man of conscience. He
swept the North from the lord who killed its king, and the Great Lion expected
the North to pay its debt.
With a thoughtful nod to Lady Sansa, the large man pondered aloud. "Your seat
is now the West, my lady. Even if Tywin Lannister dies, his bannermen would
never agree to give up his son's seat in the North."
"His son is equally mine." Sansa smiled in the way the older man remembered of
her when she was but a babe, and could not stop his own grin from growing in
genuine accordance. "And I have changed your mind, my lord."
Lord Wyman Manderly felt an overwhelming cascade of calm knowing he sat in
audience of such a remarkable young woman.
"You make your father proud, my lady," he offered with a surprising amount of
emotion.
The large man had thought his tears were dried and forgotten after the death of
his wife; the death of his son reintroduced the wretched display when he found
time to mourn privately. But this young woman, this progeny of a man he more
than respected, managed to evoke a happiness he thought was equally dried and
forgotten. And with its resurrection came the hint of tears, a direct
reflection of that elation.
Lady Sansa smiled at Lord Manderly, her own eyes reciprocating a watery
happiness. And for the first time in more years than she cared to count, she
knew in her bones that her world, her north and her west, would one day be hale
and contented.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
She said she would sleep on the journey, but there she was awake and alert.
Every breath and heartbeat accented by the swift thump and push of each swell
the Sunset Sea had to offer.
With every passing hour turning to days and days that disappeared into moons in
Winterfell, Sansa felt more and more of herself fading along with them. She
ached for her children. She ached for the companionship of her husband; and
before she could make the effort to investigate the exact impact that
particular truth meant she had settled her expectations with Ser Brynden and
Lord Manderly, and made her unexpected departure.
Instead of leaving the way she came, Lady Sansa arranged a truer, albeit
riskier route. She had initially intended to make the journey on land, but her
great uncle struck down any mention of the King's Road. Her mother would surely
kill her at the chance, or bargain her for Tywin, or her sons, and Sansa
steeled in her acceptance of the older man's counsel.
Lord Manderly worked magic of some kind, levered favour without her knowledge
and chartered one of the lowest, longest, fastest looking boats she had ever
seen - not that her knowledge of marine transportation was extensive. It was a
long-ship, like the Ironborn raiders, but it was stripped of everything
pertaining to war, everything heavy, and it made the vessel all the faster.
When she made to leave, it was evident her party of one handmaiden, four
sentries, and over thirty grey and gold clad Lannister soldiers
were not traveling to White Harbor.
More magic.
They made their way to Torrhen's Square and, after securing one of the
swiftest, cordial feasts and local introductions she had ever been party to,
continued down the waterway to Saltspear. Waiting for her there was a burly
northern captain wearing seal skins and a beard she was sure repelled water as
easily as his garments, who ushered her and her entourage onto the northern
built, and manned, boat.
"Seems most forget we have just as much wood and water as the rest of 'em,
m'lady," Captain Tavver had smiled at her, knowing her question by merely
looking at her. "She's fast," he declared proudly. "Not even squid can catch
the Baikal. No worries, Lady Stark, she'll see you safe at your Rock."
"Thank you, captain. I am in your debt," Sansa whispered in an air of awe. That
she was to make it to Casterly Rock in lesser time than she had planned was a
warm and generous revelation. She felt safe with this man, and for the first
time in long time she let her adapted tendency to control her surroundings
drift away as quick and easy as the ship itself sailed.
They had given the mainland a large berth to better ride the air currents and
to avoid any trouble born of the Iron Isles. And true to his word, Captain
Tavver delivered his precious, unannounced cargo to Lannisport in just shy of a
sennight.
They arrived in the deadest hour of night with nothing of a moon to speak of or
guide them. The weather had changed abruptly as the long ship coasted inland
toward the harbour, and by the time the boat had been tied to the quay, the sky
had opened up with rain that was unseen until it hit you.
Sansa's greatest effort lay in controlling her excitement once they'd made
landfall. Regardless of the weather, regardless of the hours still needed to
travel inland then up the lengthy incline to the castle proper, she had to hold
back the small flickering burn of elation so it would not become incendiary -
transposing itself to impatience. By the time her small forward-party met the
first gates of Casterly Rock, the rain had ended and the messenger sent ahead
of them had successfully relayed notice of Lady Lannister's presence.
Her arrival was nothing grand, nothing planned even, and she knew she would
have to explain the reasons for it to Lord Tywin sooner rather than later, but
in her ascent to the nursery none of that mattered.
Sleep addled and groggy handmaids rushed to their lady as she walked the well
lit corridor with a single minded agenda. Her wet outer cloak was peeled away
as she moved; it was a testament to the efficiency and ingenuity of the women
she entrusted with her care that they knew not to ask Lady Sansa to stop or
change course. They knew her mission and were not going to impede it.
The entourage fell away by increments the dryer and closer to Sansa's
destination they became. By the time she pushed open the heavy door to the
sanctuary she had been craving for more than half a year, Sansa was alone.
Leaving the door open behind her, Sansa stopped to gather herself. She stood at
a physical and emotional threshold, and it took every thread she was composed
of not to come apart now that she was finally there. Taking long paces toward
the two high-sided beds, set so close together they were touching, she could
feel the fabric of herself start to unravel. She felt starved. Emaciated from
missing her sons and gaunt from missing her husband. Three entities that gnawed
at her with a hunger greater than any lack of food. And when she peered over
the edge of Tysan's bed, she let out a silent sob of relief.
She was once again sustained.
There below were her children. Her boys who entered the world together still
managed to sleep by the pair. Rykar had been scaling the confines of his
nighttime gaol well before she had left, and it seemed that instead of fighting
it, the decision had been made to prevent injury and assist with his escape.
Rykar was curled into his brother like a vine. His head was at Tysan's feet and
their arms and legs were twined in a manner that defied logic.
Sansa gently raked her fingertips through her eldest son's soft auburn locks,
then with that same touch removed the bare foot of her youngest from where it
was mashed into Tysan's face - not that he was perturbed in any way by the
offense from his younger brother. Her fingers danced from one boy to the next,
just touching them. Moving through gold curls and waves of fire, down cheeks
coloured a shade of pink that can only be found in the great depths of sleep.
The loving touch of their mother traced toes and ankles, and tenderly unfurled
tiny fingers so she could count them.
One such fist was found clutching tightly a sword sewn together from only the
finest swathes of material and stuffed with something soft, and Rykar would no
more relinquish his cushy blade than he would wake up to greet his mother.
Sansa laughed and sniffled at the same time, and hurt all the more. It was as
though she had been gone a lifetime.
The ache of missing them had been buried so well and for so many moons while
she was in the North, that at the passing of their nameday Sansa woke from a
dead sleep, gasping ans choking as the confines in which she kept that burden
had decidedly cracked. The pain it once held firm seeped out like clawing
tendrils, suffocating fingers that forced her to physically move away from it,
to flee and seek reprieve.
To seek them. Her sons. The balm to tend her fissure of misery.
As she looked at her children now, she knew it would take more than a political
advancement for her to ever leave them again. Even if her lord husband demanded
it of her, she would rail against his command with her refusal. Her twins, her
boys, her life, were a year older then when she had struck north, and the
amount of innovation and progress they had achieved in their lives since her
absence already bound her with an unrelenting guilt.
Never again.
Sansa halted as she made to sit in the rocking chair Tywin had waiting for her
when they first arrived at the Rock. It was a grand thing, large and
comfortable, easy to sit and sway with two babes in time to the sea that could
be heard through the open windows. Across the seat of the rocking chair was
what looked like a heavy, cumbersome blanket. However, draped there so
haphazardly was actually a long, black and crimson cloak.
Tywin's cloak.
Sansa smiled.
A light shuffle of feet from behind caught her attention. At the same moment
she turned to address the noise, she noticed the turn and departure of a tall
figure at the doorway of the nursery.
The more delicate sound of approach was one of her sons' nurses, who in turn
bowed in greeting to her, then whispered, "My lady, we weren't expecting your
return."
Sansa turned back to the two sleeping treasures as she spoke lightly,
absently. "No. I assume you were not." Turning her head to the young woman no
older than her, Sansa smiled as she proceeded, "I couldn't stand to be away any
longer."
The nurse offered a pensive smile. It was something knowing, perhaps between
mothers, or perhaps simply common sense. But as the girl made to leave, Sansa
drew her eyes back to the cloak on the chair and made to quell her curiosity.
"Was Lord Tywin present tonight?"
The nurse stilled and grinned once more. This time it was an expression of
pride, if Sansa were to guess. "My lord has been present every night since his
return, my lady."
Sansa listened, and ran her fingertips over the cloak's seams and embroidery
closest to her, and as the nurse continued speaking, she wallowed in the
nuances of the familiar tactility. At the same time, she held at bay a shameful
impulse to run into their bedchamber and wrap herself up in her husband's robe.
"Lord Tywin seeks them," the nurse continued, her eyes flicking to Tysan and
Rykar, "in the time after their bath, as they are being put to bed."
"Of course," Sansa chuckled, then inclined her head to encourage the girl to
keep going.
"He talks to them, my lady," the girl giggled, returning her attention to Lady
Sansa. "Lord Tywin sits in that chair and addresses them as though they were
proper lords." The nurse immediately looked away, abashed and afraid. "I know
they are, my lady," she nervously whispered. "I apologize..."
It was a blunder her husband would never tolerate; it was a twist of words
Sansa hardly noticed.
"It's quite all right," Sansa soothed, trying to lighten the mood. "Please tell
me he hasn't decreed taxes from them yet."
The nurse smiled and looked up once more. "Not yet, my lady, but they wait
until their father finishes his speech then babble right back. It's the
funniest thing - they have an entire conversation like that, of nonsense, until
the children talk themselves to sleep."
The young nurse once again giggled softly, and Sansa felt an overwhelming sense
of anticipation in what she was about to be told.
"Sometimes," the nurse mused quietly. "Sometimes my lord is the one talked to
sleep, my lady. More than once we've found Lord Tywin asleep with a little lion
tucked in each arm."
The anticipation Sansa felt thawing in her belly wicked through her. It spread
a feeling of such contentment she felt fit to weep for no given reason other
than that brimming warmth embracing her.
Regardless of whether her husband had initially sought the company of their
children out of obligation toward her, it was obvious he found something in the
practice that compelled him to continue - every night. She didn't care what it
was, or that she was not involved in its inception, what mattered was that her
babes - and yes, Lord Tywin - were prospering from it. And she would help to
ensure that singular measure remained habit.
Sansa smiled, focused once more on her children, and spoke in a kind of hushed
dreamy state. "Thank you."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin Lannister stood as his wife entered the large lord's solar of Casterly
Rock. She approached with steps that could be described as hurried, excited
even, but his rise was not for the tact of decorum. Rounding his desk until he
was leaning back, his knuckles white at the grip he held on the edge of the
burnished wood top, Tywin looked at the happy young woman with eyes like razors
and the bodily presence of a man wont to harm.
Sansa smiled at him all the while treading closer, and Tywin felt cornered. He
felt more than that, of course, but it hit him with such a force, the impact
made everything except sharp waves of ire undecipherable.
She stopped more than a pace away. Sansa may have been absent for moons, but it
made her comprehension of Tywin's behavioral nuances no less ingrained. His
abrupt departure from her bed in Winterfell sprang forward, and Sansa realized
his behaviour then was more than his usual fickleness, that his anger now was
not the kind he usually forgot and never mentioned again. In light of that,
instead of carrying ahead with her greeting as she had planned, Sansa waited. 
Her steadfast patience had always rewarded her, even in the most unlikely of
circumstances, this was no exception; it was her husband who ended the impasse.
"I was expecting a raven summoning the children, not your person."
Sansa quirk her brow in confusion. "Summon the children?"
It was like he didn't hear her question, he just kept prattling on, angry and
distracted, "You didn't have to make the journey. I would have sent them."
"Tywin..." She stepped closer, her concern becoming apparent.
He snapped his eyes at her then and snarled low, "Don't think to patronize me,
girl-"
"Tywin..." She was concerned. This version of him revoked his own natural poise
and made him seem ungainly.
Lady Lannister made a gentle reach for her husband and it was as if she were
about to slit his throat. He grabbed her wrist in a manner he hadn't in ages,
with a grip meant to control and demean. But she was no longer the girl with
fear and tears in her eyes.
No, the woman in his clutch was intrepid.
She grimaced at the pain and growled through her teeth,
"You're hurting me." Her own confusion twisted itself into a base-burning
anger, but mostly she wanted to know what was wrong with the man in front of
her.
Lord Tywin stared at her, his eyes burning in impotent rage.
Sansa had the inclination to feel amused.
He sneered at her, his whole face shifting to accommodate his hate. "Why did
you come back?!"
He flicked his eyes, so tormented and loathing, directly at hers. It was like
she was reading a book - words dancing clear and unbidden - and Sansa knew her
lion was broken.
Hurt and shattering.
This man.
This great man with so much, yet so little. In front of her stood a man so rich
with gold and power that he crumbled knowing the only thing he ever truly
desired was dignity.
And he had none. Not one fraction.
But she did.
Sansa possessed the wealth the Great Lion envied, more so she radiated it. It
oozed out of her with every word and action, but her husband had only ever
appreciated it. He could have claimed it for his own - taken her treasure and
squandered it.
But he didn't.
He let her keep it, and instead, with enough distance and time between them,
convinced himself to resent her for possessing such an exceptional quality to
begin with. The emptiness of the trait he so coveted was made even more
apparent and intolerable by the act of her arrival. He never expected her to
remove herself from the North. He painfully came to terms with letting her go,
only to have her breeze back into his life in order to flaunt that which he
would never have - her included.
She was taunting him.
The cruel malicious thing.
Tywin's gaze flicked away, well past her, his vicious clench still held on her
wrist. Sansa took her free hand and squeezed her own grasp around the chin of
the man who seemed to despise her. Her nails dug little white curves on either
side of his mouth, and Sansa used the distraction to force his attention toward
her.
"I didn't come back!" she seethed, all wrath and resentfulness. Sansa could
feel his jaw clench as his eyes narrowed, and she watched as something
curiously resembling defeat came to rest in them. The grip on her wrist
loosened, something like defeat, and it only compelled her to tighten the one
she had on his face. She shook that same grip with every word spit at the man
before her. "You... old fool!"
Three words snuffed out Tywin's animosity with no effort, like it had never
been there to begin with.
She hurt him, she knew.
She meant it. It was necessary in order to dig him out of the petty furor he
was buried in.
His eyes were no longer livid, no longer burning; his features softened like
that of a child. Tywin was waiting for her to strike the final blow, to end
them, end him, but what was worse was that her husband looked as though he had
been expecting it. And it was that knowledge that prevented her from faltering,
prevented her from succumbing to her disposition of wanting to bow and submit
and augment herself for the benefit of others.
For the benefit of Tywin.
Sansa no longer dug her nails into his flesh, but cradled it with her
fingertips. The grasp was light, yet he followed her tug to lean closer,
regardless.
Everything about his wife was fire. She scorched to the quick of him and kept
going. His face was close enough to hers that Tywin could smell the elements on
her; like she bathed in the sky of the North and slept in the cradle of the
Sunset Sea. His wife was an ethereal plane that existed overtop his own narrow
world, and she was about to remove that part from him altogether. The
anticipation of such an amputation was dreadful, it stirred in him the kind of
fear he knew he would be lucky to survive.
"I came home, Tywin."
Her words didn't make sense though. His wife surely said she was going home,
and he'd misheard. He opened his mouth to cast her out with whatever ferocity
he could scrape together, but was shut down with the sound of her voice once
again addressing him.
This time louder. This time without the possibility of misunderstanding.
"I came home."
Lord Tywin could do no more than blink stupidly at the creature he towered
over, that held him rapt at her every word and inclination.
...and he was truly hers.
He watched her head tilt minutely to the side, as though in question, and felt
her soft fingers slowly brush their way under his chin and down his neck.
Tywin closed his eyes and inhaled slow and long through his nose as Sansa's
fingers stopped their journey at the top of his collar. Her fore and middle
fingers curled themselves between the lush fabric of his doublet and course
unshaved skin behind it.
Elegant knuckles gently pressed into his throat and the old lion swallowed
involuntarily.
"This ends. Now."
Her voice seeped through him, crawled into his ears, to his mind and flickered
there. It was when he truly registered her words that he was able to look at
his wife once more.
She gave him his own command. A command hissed at her so long ago. One she
embraced despite its venom.
"You trust me or you don't, my lord. There is only one choice, and no middle
ground." Her face was wiped of everything save seriousness. "If your trust is
something I have not yet earned, I ask you tell me and I will gladly take our
sons and leave."
Tywin Lannister had never been a man to take kindly to ultimatums or
intimidation, but this was something entirely different. This was a negotiation
of emotional veracity in which there was no place for conniving arbitration.
It should have been the simplest task to tell his wife the truths she was
seeking.
It should have been even easier to hide behind his ire and let his irritation
speak for him.
Anything gained easily has the highest of prices, and Tywin knew his soul could
no longer pay the toll of living without her.
Her husband was in caught in a whorl of turmoil, like a wounded animal. Such as
a lion that has been hunted for too many years, Lord Tywin snarled and paced
and swiped at those close to him with deadly claws; all the while limping and
bleeding.
His struggle was plain on his face.
Sansa's fingers shifted to lay against the side of his neck, twisting her palm
upward, she allowed her thumb to sweep idly along his jawline. The rasp of his
unshaven stubble loud between them.
"Did you truly expect me not to return?"
Tywin's brows pinched low and deep on his forehead, it wasn't a look of
suspicion more than it was a look of boyish insecurity. "Why would you?" he
asked with an edge of petulance.
Three words. These held so many questions, so many uncertainties. So many
hopes. Sansa couldn't think or do much more than stare in something akin to
wonder.
When she failed to answer him, Tywin fell back on close-minded
supposition. "You can't tell me Winterfell is not where you would prefer-"
She cut him short, her words each their own accusation, her hand tightened
minutely on his jaw, blue eyes burning just as hot as green. "What's there for
me, but ruins of a place I once knew and memories of people I will never see
again?
"I will dedicate myself to the betterment, rebuilding and ruling of the North.
I will always love the North, it will always be a part of me. But my home is
with my family, Tywin. And my family is not in the North."
Of course they weren't. His wife had endured each parent and sibling, in one
form or another, die around her. He sobered at her words. His eyes
focused, finally, sincerely.
Sansa presented a soft smile at her husband's wash of stubborn, brittle
understanding. Blinking slowly at him, she leaned forward purposefully, gently
bumping the length of her body against his.
"May I come home, my lord?" The whisper was loud in the somber atmosphere.
His countenance was severe, but his touch was amazingly delicate. Tywin slowly
wrapped one arm around her waist, keeping a tender hold on the wrist he'd
punished with the other - his thumb drawing careful little circles - and gently
pulled his wife against him.
Other than his deepened breathing and the occasional throaty growl, the old
lion said nothing. Curling his shoulders, Tywin nudged his face into her thick
hair and rested his mouth on her neck, on the silky expanse peeking out above
her high collar. It was an act of bliss he dreamt of when she wasn't near.
He nodded over and over again, speaking hoarsely into that sanctuary of
skin, "It's yours, my queen."
Sansa laughed, and for him it was a sound that set him free.
"Ours, my king."
She could feel him smiling into the column of her throat; then, at once, heard
a rumbling that started deep in his chest only to bubble over his lips.
Lord Tywin held his lady flush, held her tight.
Her lion was laughing with her.
He felt weightless in his joy, in their joy, and it began to frighten him.
Joy bred complacency, and complacency was naught but death...
Joanna.
The insidious pull of bleak gravity tore away in him again, trying to hollow
him, trying to leave nothing more than a husk.
Sansa.
Tywin notched a tighter hold on his wife - his wife, his wife, his wife - and
nuzzled into her neck, then up to her ear. There was no trace of mirth in him
by the time he dragged his jaw along hers, his side whiskers snagging loose
strands of auburn as he journeyed. He pulled his head back but kept her body
intimately resting against him. Oh, what relief that brought. Lifting his hands
to cup either side her face and neck, Tywin marveled once more at the woman in
his possession.
Lord Tywin was vaguely familiar with beautifully frightening realizations, the
ones he knew would inherently change his life.
This was one of them.
Sansa had always been.
Since the moment she had been pulled into his world, into him, when she
fearlessly spiraled through her pleasure at his touch and unknowingly dragged
him along into a new existence, he knew.
Tywin had always known.
The old lion could do no more than stare and breathe.
Sansa observed and concluded.
Using her toes, she pushed up and elevated her upturned mouth to his that was
inclined. Her lips simply grazed his, a feather's touch, over and over again
sweeping back and forth until her lion retained nothing of resolve.
At first, he did no more than lean his mouth onto hers. His wife didn't cajole
or pressure her want, she allowed him the choice. It was more minutes than were
rightly appropriate for him to hold her static, on her toes, his thumbs
caressing lines over her cheeks, but his mind was only permitting flecks of
solace and Tywin was at its mercy.
It seemed hours, but the two entities in the room prickled heat between them
that refused to diminish under the scrutiny of time. And yet it seemed in only
an instant the clunking shallow hurt that had burrowed deep into the lion's
chest caved in upon itself taking with it the tiny space his conscience had
allotted for repose.
Tywin angled his mouth against that of his lady and could feel her open a
fraction for him, inviting him in. His throat purred, his lips twitched a
curve, and he gladly took her offering.
The caress of her tongue welcomed him.
The twist and pull of her fingers in his doublet anchored him.
The radiating hum of her need embraced him.
The shift and grind of her body seduced him.
Absolutely.
Yes, sang bold the thoughts of Lord Tywin Lannister, We are home.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Truth I *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Tysan found his father standing in the lord's solar, next to the open doors of
the balcony. He was reading a letter and, the boy was sure, listening to the
Sunset Sea, to the song of her waves. Perhaps committing that soothing pulse to
memory, he thought. For his lord father was preparing to leave for the capital
and would undoubtedly need that kind of calm.
Upon his approach, Lord Tywin looked to acknowledge his son, yet remained
impassive and went back to reading.
There was nothing hostile in his father's gesture, nothing ill said. Tysan well
knew the message he was given and, unlike his brother, usually had the patience
to see it through. He simply and quietly walked to his place next to the desk,
a spot that had been his for as long as he could remember, just before the
chairs, where his shoulder could lean on the wood and he would not be in the
way.
The desktop was as full as the little lion had ever seen it. There were piles
of large parchments stamped with the Hand of the King's red seal and stacks of
tiny missives - there must have been a hundred of them - with golden wax
meaning they were from his lord father or his lady mother.
Tysan let his mind wander to fill the time and it was in his distraction that
he found unease. The very reason he sought his father to begin with.
After a time, Lord Tywin folded and set aside the missive he was reading and
swooped down, picking his son up in a quick and gentle motion. It prompted
Tysan to squeal - wearing the same smile that made his mother beautiful. The
more serious son was troubled and the equally serious lord knew precisely why.
Tysan's father did not smile a lot, though he knew when his eyes were happy. At
that moment, those eyes that looked identical his own held a gleam much like
his mother's when she would tell a story - a quiet excitement of sorts.
The old lion set his cub to stand on the great wooden chair; not quite eye
level, but it would serve. "Tell me, young lord," Tywin began, pulling back a
small distance and making an effort to be severe, "Where is a man's
strength?" He held his arms out slightly from his sides and stepped closer to
his son, his mouth twitching as he watched the boy narrow his eyes to think.
Tysan was satisfied he had the answer and reached up, placing a small hand on
his fathers' bicep. "It's here and..." His bright green eyes flitted around to
find his next answer, finally resting their gaze, and the point of his finger,
on the side of the room at the nook where his father's sword and armour had
been polished, oiled, and set out for use. "...and there!"
When he turned back to his father for the approval Tysan was sure would be
evident, he was disappointed to find the look that meant he was wrong; it was
close to the look that meant he was behaving badly, but not all the way angry.
The little lion pulled his hands back and scrunched his nose in frustration.
"Where then?"
Tywin leaned down to his son, taking his hand in a gentle grip he placed the
hot little palm above his forehead, on his bald head. His son giggled. Even
when he flicked him a stern look, Tysan giggled even more. 
The old lion felt a wave of happiness ripple through him.
"What's in here?" Tywin applied a tiny amount of pressure to accentuate what he
was referring to.
Tysan became very solemn, trying to mimic his father. "A... your mind," he
concluded, smiling when the elder nodded and kept his hand where it lay on his
father's head - it felt cooler than he thought it would be.
Tywin took his son's other hand and moved closer, crouching and bending, in
order to place it in the center of his chest. "What's in here?"
His face was beside his son's and he could not help but inhale deeply the
distinct catch of childhood. Jaime and Cersei's was so long ago, his own longer
still... Again he pressed the small hand onto the place where he wanted his
son's attention.
"Blood!" Tysan's excitement lasted only a breath. He knew immediately the guess
was wrong by the growl beside his face and thought fast to correct
himself. "No..." This time when he spoke it was little more than air, because
it was not nice to yell in his father's ear the first time. "Your heart." Tysan
whispered those two words like they were the greatest of secrets and listened
to the hum of approval. He smiled wide; he liked knowing the right answers.
The old lion stood to full height once again, his son's hands falling away from
where they were resting, and raked his fingers through the thick auburn hair
atop the boy's head. It was a habitual action, something he simply did without
thinking; a subtle affectionate gesture toward both Tysan and Rykar and, of
course, towards their mother. 
He focused on the child in front of him, standing tall on that chair, his
shoulders back and rigid. What a proud boy he was. Quiet and calculating, yet
clearly imposing in his nobility - a rarity in anyone, unheard of in a boy of
six.
"While I am away, young lord," Tywin said, tone and posture built of command,
"I will be entrusting you with an important task."
Tysan stood up taller and wore his serious-lion face. This was the first duty
he had been assigned - and that it was assigned from his father made it that
much more important, which meant it should be addressed as such.
"Yes, my lord," he nodded as well, for good measure.
His father narrowed his eyes, like he did when he was talking to his bannermen,
like when he was ordering his soldiers.
Tysan held his breath.
"You are the oldest, Tysan, my heir and future lord of this castle. While I am
away, it is your duty to protect your mother," the old lion's voice changed.
Nothing hesitant, the nuance barely noticeable, save for someone close to him -
like his son, "even from sadness."
The order seemed easy at first, then, as Tysan thought about it, it became
somewhat daunting. It was what his father did, after all. It was what Ser
Royene, Ser Sutter, Ser Lanning, and Ser Wellson had done since before he was
even born - and they were the fiercest knights he had ever seen.
"Father," Tysan's face pinched in thought and worry, "I- I'm not... big
enough... to protect her."
Lord Tywin's face softened as he regarded the little lion and it took away the
enormity and weight that was pushing his son into the ground; such an important
task on such small shoulders.
"Where's your strength, young lord?"
It took only a moment before Tysan was pointing at the center of his own chest
and the top of his head - and smiled a little bit when his father nodded in
agreement.
"You don't need muscle to protect her, boy."
His father was right. He had heard mutters about how his lady mother was made
of ice and snow and steel. And even quieter whispers, the kind of whispers made
by those who truly think they are alone, about how his mother carried a certain
strength greater than his father.
"Is mother the strongest girl you know?" It was asked before the words were
given permission to leave his mouth, and Tysan steadied himself for his lord
father to change his face and talk to him in a way that made his belly feel
sick.
Lord Tywin contemplated for a moment before looking at his son squarely; a
subtle smile slid across his mouth and he could see the happiness start to
resurface in the boy. 
"She is the strongest person I have ever met."
Tysan thought about that. Thought about how the words fit with each other,
because his father sometimes did not say things plainly, and when he understood
what he meant - that his mother was stronger than all the bannermen of the
West, stronger than all his father's soldiers, even her own shields - the
little lord smiled back.
The next moment Tysan was being lifted down from his perch. He thought his
father was asking him to leave, but before he could turn, the old lion looked
down at him, extending his hand.
It took a heartbeat or two before Tysan understood what his father wanted. He
did not much hold his hand inside the castle, only when he took Rykar and him
outside - to Lannisport, or a closer castle, to a tourney, or the like - and
even then they were mostly in the care of their mother, or knights, or nurses.
However, when they were alone, when his father would walk them along the sea,
or show them the stables, or walk the piers, he would take a hand of each of
them. Sometimes he held too tight though, like he and his brother would
accidentally fly away. 
Whatever the reason this time, Tysan decided it did not matter. He grabbed his
father's hand, looked up at him, and smiled once more. They did not walk far,
only across the room to the heavy and locked door that was sunken behind a long
tapestry depicting lions jumping at birds in the sky and chasing stags and
wolves and… and… well… everything.
Tysan liked that dark little space, it was a good place to think. Consequently,
it also meant that sometimes he heard things. And it was hard in those
instances to keep it to himself - though he did, as he knew his father and
mother would not be happy he had hidden where he should not have and listened
to things not intended for his ears.
Tysan's thoughts were interrupted by his father letting go of his hand and the
eventual sound of the locks, the ones that made the door heavy, rattling and
being worked open. He had never been through the door - he had never seen it
open - and he found himself excited by the adventure.
Lord Tywin growled as he pushed the door open with his shoulder, and addressed
his son in the same manner. "Stay here."
His father's boots made soft clicking sounds as he walked away.
All sound was forgotten when his lord father heaved apart great curtains
opposite the entrance. They were larger than the tapestry that blocked the
recessed doorway and dark red. The windows they covered were equally large and
let in so much sunlight, Tysan had to raise his hand to shade his eyes from the
stabbing rays of warmth.
"Come."
It was an automatic response to his father's command that his legs moved, and
all of a sudden Tysan was in a smaller room with a large table on one side and
another heavy-looking door on the other.
"This room will be yours one day," Tywin said as he approached the inner door.
Tysan noticed the hefty steel key in his father's hand, and also noticed the
five keyholes on the heavy door - four at each point of a diamond, and one in
the very middle.
Looking over his shoulder at his wide-eyed child, Tywin beckoned him with an
arch of his brow and a curl of his finger.
"On which side is this lock, Tysan?"
His father was pointing, and the little lion held out both of his hands, palms
down, and made L's with each thumb and forefinger. It was the way his mother
taught him to tell right from left - one was backwards, the other was his left
hand.
"Left, my lord."
"And this one?"
"The bottom."
His father did not ask after that, merely pointed to each inset lock he wanted
named.
"Top... Center... Right."
Once the points were identified, Lord Tywin stepped back and away from the
door. Tysan looked to him, first started by his father's abrupt pause, then
shuffled around a little bit to help hide his sudden confusion. It didn't help
matters when his father held out the steel key as though give it to him, but he
accepted it anyway. Wrapping his small hand around the gift, Tysan was not
surprised that it had the weight he'd predicted.
"I want you to open this door," his father said.
Already facing the door again, the boy's tone was edged in wonder, "Where...
Which one do I start with?"
"Lions bound to Casterly Rock."
It was all that was said, and Tysan scrunched his face up again, more so, into
a child's version of incredulousness. However, when he looked to his father, he
saw a stern look and a raised brow.
A puzzle!
Tysan thought hard, turning back to his challenge.
Lions bound to Casterly Rock.
Where is Casterly Rock? West.
But west isn't one of the directions he asked for… left, then bottom, then top…
The little lion jumped in his excitement, his father scoffed at him – but it
was not an ugly sound.
Lions… Left.
Tysan slid the key into the left lock and had to use both hands to turn it. It
took an anchoring adjustment of his feet and the best growl he could make
before the key budged and made a satisfying thunk as it turned.
Removing the key, he positioned it at the lowest one.
Bound… Bottom.
Again he turned the key, grunting at it in the process, then moved on to the
next.
To… Top.
He was on his toes, stretching to turn the key, his knuckles clenched white on
each hand on either side of the key's end-curve until he felt a large, warm
palm wrap around them, giving the leverage needed to make the turn then it was
gone.
Casterly… Center.
Rock… Right.
At the sound of the final lock giving, Tywin waited for his son to remove the
key, took his empty hand, placed it on the handle with his own just above, and
pulled.
The inside of the room made Tysan gush out his breath. It was large and dark,
and when his father took a lamp inside, he was stunned by the stacks of gold
and jewels and parchment and boxes… He wondered if that was where all the
riches of the Rock were stored... It was amazing.
"Tysan, go stand at the table."
It took a moment or nine before his father's voice made sense, and another
twelve before his feet unstuck from the floor and allowed him to move. He could
hear his father moving things in the treasure room, and it felt like forever
before he came out again. And, strangely, what he held wasn't so much
impressive as it was interesting.
It was a wooden box; sturdy and tall. Its height more than that of both he and
his brother together, Tysan thought, and about as wide as himself at the
shoulders. His father laid the interesting box flat on the table, the ends of
it jutting past the edges.
Lord Tywin once again scooped up his son at the pits of his arms, this time
sitting him on the edge of the table top.
Tysan was glad of it, because he was now high enough to view whatever lived
inside the long heavy box.
The little lord could clearly see wavy lines of gold sunk into the dark wood,
and gold fittings keeping it closed. Though there were no lions on it,
and that notable discovery caused Tysan's mouth to twitch at the corner in
equal parts anticipation and suspicion. He watched as his father pressed his
thumbs into two of those fittings and beamed in excitement when he heard the
sound of the mystery unlocking.
Tywin swung open the hinged top of the long box, making sure to watch his son
as he did so.
He could not speak. Tysan sat blinking at the contents, trying to remember to
breathe... It was the biggest sword he had ever seen.... And it was beautiful.
The hilt and pommel had lions - no, that wasn't right - they had wolves on
them. Like the sigil of his mother's house. Wolves carved into the thick cross-
metal and wolves' heads coming to life from the each end of the hilt.
Tysan leaned down to look at the massive blade itself. It was the width of both
his hands - together! - and dark grey, like thunder. Up close, there were marks
and swishes inside the metal. The little lion squinted one way and saw faces,
then tilted his head another way and saw animals. It reminded him of the liquid
rainbow he had seen in the run-off water at the laundry, but this was in steel.
And, as with most any child, Tysan made a reach for the object that held his
curiosity. A reach that was as mesmerized as it was unthinking.
A reach that was ended before it began, when his father's hand stopped him. 
"This is the deadliest weapon you will most likely ever see," Tywin warned. "It
holds its edge without the need to be sharpened, and it can cut through most
plate..."
The deep voice droned on for a while, and when he looked toward the source,
Tysan knew he was being told something important.
"This. This is what is what you will give your mother if she's sad, and I'm not
here. It will help her."
Tysan considered for a moment, then asked the most obvious question. "What if
she's not sad?"
"Then it will be given to Rykar the day he becomes Lord in the North. This is
the great sword of the Stark family, your mother's family, and it will go to
Winterfell with him."
Another consideration, another obvious question. "Will I have one?"
"No. The Lannisters once had a great sword called Brightroar. Nevertheless, it
has been lost for generations."
"So... Rykar will have one and... and I won't?"
Tywin looked at his son, watched him consider what was fair and what he wanted.
The eldest was never the one to act rash or unplanned; he sought the problem
openly and worked toward solutions.
"Tysan, look at me." Tywin hunched at the shoulders to look at his son
squarely. "No, not at the wall behind me, at me. Good. Tysan, there is enough
steel here to make two swords. A twin set. One for both you and your brother.
The choice is yours."
Tysan's mouth gaped like the fish that splashed around in the tidal pools Jaime
showed them in the lowest caverns beneath the castle. However, his mind was
moving at the ferocious pace of any six year old:
The sword is incredible, and it's unfair that Rykar gets to keep it and I get
nothing.
But it's also the thing that I'm supposed to give mother if she's sad and
father isn't here.
But she'd be happy if there were two of them, wouldn't she?
But father said the sword belonged to the Starks, the North. So Rykar would
only get to use it, not keep it, not really.
And mother says the North remembers - surely it remembers such a wonderful
sword.
Tysan blinked at his father and smiled lamely; crushed as only a boy could be
at such a sacrifice. "No, my lord," he sighed long and loud, "it should stay
put together."
Tywin found himself biting down with excruciating effort so as not to fully
roar in laughter. His son was so much his mother in that moment - unnecessary
dramatics. He also knew what it was like to have decisions mocked at that age,
especially by one's father, and he would not do that to the boy. Instead he
nodded at Tysan in the same way he did to inform him of his appreciation in
general. It seemed enough. His own eyes peered up at him and the little lion
nodded back.
Lord Tywin returned his mother's - not his brother's, not yet - sword and
reversed the locking pattern to secure the inner door.
With a gentle, firm hand on his head, Tywin moved his son through the heavy
door leading back out to the solar, and after locking the door behind them once
more rested his fingertips on Tysan's crown, leading him toward the large desk.
When they stopped at its side the warmth in his hair left too, but the old lion
did not move. Looking up, Tysan saw a tightly woven gold chain dangling from
his father's hand. He didn't have it before and must have picked it out the
treasure room. The Great Lion threaded the intricately woven finery through the
curled end of the heavy steel key and, without a word or any indication of
intent, slipped the chain over the head of his heir.
"You know your duty," Lord Tywin said and abruptly turned to take his seat
behind the desk.
The boy, the Red Lion, as the bannermen of the West liked to call him, could
only think to squeeze his fingers around the cold metal and nod dumbly at the
retreating back of his father. Tysan observed from where he stood his father
sitting in his great chair, watched him get comfortable and waited as he always
waited for his turn to sit.
Tywin's mouth curled minutely at the edges when he finally settled and leaned
back. It was a silent cue his sons knew to mean they were welcome to join him.
And without hesitation, Tysan gripped the arm of the chair and a handful of his
father's doublet to help pull him up. It had been a long time since his lord
father assisted either he or Rykar in their climb, telling them that if they
wanted to sit with him, they had to figure out how to achieve it on their
own. Tysan had learned to climb carefully after the first time he stepped
somewhere that made his father angry enough to lift him with one hand and order
him to leave. But this climb was easier, his arms were stronger now, his legs
were longer too.
The little lion fit into the pocket of space at his father's side like it was
built for him.
Sitting high on Tywin's thigh, his son would always press himself just under
his arm, just enough out of the way that he still had use of it and was
unimpeded in doing his work.
He liked spending time with his father this way, and Tysan knew how to be close
without bothering; to work with his lord father, not against him - the latter
of which always meant being sent away. This time, though, as he curled himself
into the large warm torso he so much loved, the boy could not hold his tongue.
Or his fear.
"You'll come home after..." Young Tysan Lannister could feel himself start to
shake and fought the scrapes in his throat and the water in his eyes with every
bit of lion and wolf that made him. "...After you kill the dragons, right?"
He could not look up. He did not want to see his father's disappointment at the
emotion that ate him up, or the anger at him knowing about the dragons when he
shouldn't, so he just clung tighter if only to fight the inevitable: that Lord
Tywin would instruct him to leave.
The boy felt his father shift, the arm he was situated under moved, and he was
anticipating this was when it would pluck him off and tell him, If you're going
to be a nuisance, you'll do it elsewhere. But his lord father was leaving soon
for the capital, to fight, and Tysan didn't want let go just yet. He would
fight as well. He would beg Lord Tywin to let him stay; he would promise to
stop bothering and talking... He'd promise! He fisted more of the black
doublet's fabric to anchor him against the strong arms and strong hands about
to pry him away.
However, in this instance, those strong arms and strong hands pulled him in
closer, centering him. Tysan was at such a loss at the gesture, that the first
sob to wrench out of him was as much a surprise as it was a relief. "Right?" he
wept into his father's chest.
When there was no answer, he gathered all the voice a boy needed to better
reiterate a question. "You'll come home, right?!" it came out as a screeching,
pitiful wail.
Once again the son's query went unanswered - vocally; rather, those strong arms
and hands held onto him tighter, fiercer. Tysan could feel his father breathing
heavier and quicker, just like he was, and it scared him.
"Right?!" he bawled, beseeching an answer of the man he clawed himself into.
The man who had lifted and tucked the scared little boy high on his chest and
under his chin. The lion who wrapped himself around his cub in order to protect
him from the monsters that at one time only lived as pictures in books.
He could not stop crying. His father was not angry, so he abandoned the will to
even try and end his tears. Folded in on himself, his knees near his forehead,
Tysan was getting hot and sweaty, although he did not want to move. He didn't
want anything in fact - a duty, a key, a room full of gold, or even a castle -
he only wanted his father.
Wave after wave of terrible sadness and the agony of fear tore through his
little frame. Yet he was held together... with strong arms and strong hands.
"...right?" the cub whimpered, his tide of emotions at last ebbing enough for
the word to escape.
Still, no answer was granted. Tysan wanted to feel frustrated by the silence,
but he was moving now and it was too distracting to concentrate on both.
Curled up into the nest of his father's chest and arms, the little lion barely
distinguished the subtle swaying movement the body around him was providing.
His lungs no longer hurt for air, they took deeper and deeper breathes, his
eyes no longer leaked out tears, but they were heavy though - waterlogged, most
like.
He felt his father press his mouth to the top of his head and thought it
strange, because he only did that at bedtime, and even then it occurred less
than sometimes. And as much as that act was distracting, it was what was
happening along with it that both lulled and bewildered him.
Lord Tywin was purring nonsense while rocking his son.
His mother hummed, never his father. It didn't matter, however, because it took
away the fear. He could see it, the panic and dread, pulling back from where it
had been dwelling in his mind, behind his eyes. It was getting smaller because
the humming was chasing it away. The Great Lion was chasing it away.
Tysan's muscles, and the ability to keep himself awake, were well spent. The
room began to dim and Tysan was adrift in the comfort of his father's
affection. When the black of sleep consumed him, so did the contentment that a
man who could scare off nightmares could scare off anything.
Anything.
Even dragons.
...And come home.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The moment Tywin Lannister knew he had been betrayed was the moment he watched
Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard blindside his Lord Commander. Ser Jaime was
knocked so viciously to the ground, at such an unexpected angle, he lost
consciousness almost immediately.
There was no pause in Lord Tywin. He did not hesitate to bellow his unflinching
command to decimate anyone wearing sigils and colors of the Reach. His own
blade took only a heartbeat to lodge itself in the neck of the man who, for
years, swore himself an ally.
Lord Mace Tyrell wore his armour as decoration, and his son's hasty move to
expose their treachery served only to expose his own folly - being thrown into
combat at the shoulder of a proven warrior, not a mantelpiece.
The other lord was on his knees, choking on blood as Tywin moved on to the
next.
Let him die slowly, his malicious thoughts rang. Let him die shitting himself.
Tywin's focus then turned to the mere babe who thought to harm his son. He
waded through leather-clad savages and plate-clad soldiers to meet his target,
his blade acting as an extension of himself every step of the way. He was built
for blood and the taking of lives; his frame long and lean, his arms like the
cracking of a whip.
He had the boy in height, and while Tyrell's youth garnered him speed it was no
match for the experience of anticipation. Tywin gave him not one fraction of
ease or rhythm. Ser Loras leaned back to gather his bearings and determine a
better strategy, and the old lion followed him there and kept going. Lord Tywin
practically fell inside the reach of his opponent, it was an error associated
purely with youth and ignorance. And once there, the Lion of Lannister
unbridled his fury. He struck the pretty young man, not with his blade, but
with his fist - his steel-wrapped fist.
The first two strikes of his gauntlet dislodged Tyrell's helm. The next half
dozen found them on the ground. What transpired after was a haze of rage, a
mist of blood, and the soul-thrumming crack and give of the other man's skull.
The old lion's blood was thick like honey, crawling its way through his veins,
pounding in his ears. It was the only thing he could hear when he made his way
to Jaime. His first-born son was not dead. The wound on his head, where it had
met the smooth cobbled stone of the entranceway, was bleeding as those wounds
were apt to. Nothing worse as far as he could discern. But it was when he made
the initial heave to pull his son to safety that he felt the cold press of
steel worming under the edge of his helm, at his own neck.
"I'll ask only once for you to yield, my lord. The battle is over. You have
lost."
Tywin knew the voice. A deep steady cadence. Barristan the Bold. Barristan the
Brave. Call him what you will, the knight was an efficient killer regardless of
fanciful monikers.
Tywin stood slowly, his eyes fixed on the man with his life dangling at the tip
of a sword. "I won't leave my son to the whims of the primitive." His voice was
calm, yet firm, his blade at a down angle as a sign of entreaty, but not given
over - he had certainly not surrendered.
Ser Barristan looked at him with a kind of understanding the old lion could
only respect. "The Lord Commander will be attended to as his station deserves.
You have my word, Lord Tywin."
Moments stretched as the two men simply regarded one another. It was not a
battle so much as it was a test - of loyalty for the most part. Tywin had known
this man longer than most and their impasse played as a silent question to the
knight whether or not he would afford him an escape, or at least the
opportunity to try for one. Or if he would suckle the vows pledged to yet
another regent. This time a queen he followed home.
Slight pressure on the blade at his neck, digging a little deeper, and the hot
trickle he now felt rolling under his armour was Ser Barristan's equally
wordless answer.
"Will he die all the same?" Tywin's voice was as hard and cold as the steel
that marked him.
The courteous knight did not so much as blink at such a bald question. "That's
not for me to predict, nor decide, my lord."
Live to see another day or die where he stood. That was the choice presented to
the lion, but his arrogance only allowed for the immediate considerations of a
man set to scheme and adjust his place in a world that was coming apart around
him. Without looking away, Tywin ever so slowly lifted his own sword and
pivoted the hilt in his hand to offer the pommel to the knight who held him at
bay.
Seemingly simultaneously, his proffered weapon and the one poised to kill him
were removed. The Great Lion also felt something shift inside him, something
ominous, something that devoured his earlier conceit. A black, oily thing that
settled in the pit of his stomach.
He knew the fight would be at the castle; that all of King's Landing would burn
before flame would dare lick that ancestral home. They had the advantage, they
let the Targaryen whore fight her way from the shores, uphill, through the
city, and further to the entry of the keep.
The gamble paid dividends, the fiery beasts came nowhere near the castle,
sparing the men waiting. Though, what he had not known was that an even more
dangerous animal lived within his ranks. A pang of uneasy revelation sent his
thoughts toward the fields of Northmen and men from the Riverlands that rallied
for their king, who were under the command of Lord Randyll Tarly.
It was an acknowledgement that carried vaguely to the welfare of his daughter,
more of the child she had borne the man.
He then thought of home.
Home.
Sansa.
The mass of greasy unease roiled where it lay at the center of him.
Patience.
Patience like hers would allot him answers.
Looking to survey the scene around him, Tywin could see the unsurely mix of
barbarians, sell swords, and those wearing the sigil of Highgarden, quickly
dispatching any and all in Lannister garb.
"Come with me, my lord." It was a command from one man to another - respectful,
tactful, kind even, though a command nonetheless.
And with it, in that very space of time, Lord Tywin Lannister conceded his own
command - of men, of land, of life - was at an imminent end.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                      . 
 
***** Truth II *****
Chapter Notes
     **This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to
     torture and sexual assault. Please be aware of your own sensibilities
     and proceed accordingly.**
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
"They've not yet found Genna."
Ser Kevan huddled close to talk to his brother. Not that he had any space to
leave between them, he did so merely for the privacy he was used to ensuring.
They had been locked in what Kevan could lightheartedly guess was a storage
room of some sort. Not in a cell, black or otherwise, nothing underground. The
room was long enough, from door to wall, for each of them to lie down - one
man's head at the door, the other's at the wall, their shins and feet clashing
in the middle. However, to sit width-wise would see difficulty in properly
stretching one's legs.
The only concession to the cramped quarters was a series of small slit windows.
There was no glass, just open air, and although they were well above a height
to reach or see from, they at least afforded the brothers a concept of time -
in days and hours... and now the entire turn of a moon. The angle of that
precious sunlight also provide positioning, of which Tywin knew them to be just
adjacent the Throne Room, the noise of constant footfalls merely confirmed it. 
"Sansa won't allow her to be found." The old lion sounded weary, though not yet
broken. Both he and Kevan had been dragged daily from their hovel to either the
Throne Room or the Map Room, and given audience with the new queen and her
rats. The Imp once again wore the chain of the Hand and, ironically, took his
place as the biggest rat of them all.
Tywin had only seen Tyrion once, right after the fall of the capital, but it
was enough to know his wife and their children would live. For as much as he
hated his father, the Imp was undeniably in debt to Sansa. It was a life debt,
the value of which was on par, and then some.
The Great Lion peered at his companion. At least he was being held with his
brother, which was some comfort.
"I can only pity the North if that's where she's sent her. Ty, can you imagine
our Genna amongst the savages?"
Tywin scoffed, then sobered. "I can imagine her protecting her children by any
means possible - from both a mad dragon-queen bent on Lannister blood, and a
mad feral-woman bent on Frey blood."
Kevan nodded his solemn agreement, then looked away from his brother, studying
his hands, his face etched with whatever it was that was troubling him.
The older Lannister could only wait, he knew if pressed the younger would snap
shut and leave him to wonder. 
It was some minutes before the view of his hands became monotonous to Kevan.
"Tywin, Sansa fought to have my family spared."
It was not what he was expecting, Tywin's gut instantly clenched. "At what
cost?"
"I.. I don't know."
"Who told you?"
"It was the Imp-"
"You've seen him recently, then?" Tywin cut in.
"No. It was… a raven, my lord."
His gut now curdled. "From where did the raven come?"
There was nothing but the sound of steps muffled by the door and a slight
whistle of the wind cutting through their slivers of windows.
"Kevan…" Tywin very rarely took a tone of warning with his brother, his right
hand. The last time he could remember doing so was just after the death of his
first wife. "Where's the fucking Imp, Kevan?"
Clearing this throat, the younger spoke quietly, "At the Rock, my lord."
"Have they... It's fallen?" Tywin was unaware his voice had pitched and
cracked.
Kevan shook his head slightly, speaking to save his lord anxiousness, "Not from
what I gather - the missives give the impression of treating. You shouldn't
worry, Ty-"
"Do not presume to tell me how I should think, brother," the old lion's eyes
flashed with what Kevan knew was fury, "You know just as well as I do how this
ends."
"I'm not presuming, Tywin, I hold no illusions. Till my dying breath,
remember?" Kevan looked at his brother, and for the first time in his life he
felt cold in his shadow. Too much was at stake to risk sabotage, unbeknownst or
not, fueled by the best of intentions or not. "She is negotiating, they are
listening. Do not interfere." The younger was on the verge of anger, his voice
deadly - arching a little louder as he progressed, "I will be damned if I walk
to whatever misery is to end my life suspect of the welfare of my family."
Tywin looked at his brother, long and intense, not moving, not talking, his
face a mask of nothing.
Until he laughed.
The sound was not disparaging, nor was it grand. It was uncharacteristically
pleasant, with a hint of approval.
Kevan eyed him cautiously. He had never seen this raving man before. No... not
raving per se... not the man per se... it was their entire reality that was
rather absurd.
"Arsehole," Kevan breathed, then joined the nonsensical mirth that must only
come to those living their last days.
Tywin murmured softly, tellingly at the end of his joy, "She will see them
safe, Kevan."
"I'm not the one doubting her." It could have been accusatory, but it wasn't.
"She's too valuable, Ty. Why did you want her?"
"She was the key."
"She still is, my lord," Kevan said gently. There was a lull amidst them then,
something pensive, before Kevan asked, "And why, my brother, did you keep her?"
With the question came a look that was carefully cunning. A look that was rare
in the younger Lannister; one used only when effectively pulling truths - even
from his siblings.
It took a moment for Tywin to collect his thoughts. His brother knew him better
than all but Sansa. He also knew the answer to his own bloody question, and
Tywin had to consider exactly how to convey that type of annoyance in words.
"Arsehole."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Yet another day was lapsing into yet another night when Tywin was dragged from
his closet-cum-cell. The very act, that he was not walked, but overpowered and
yanked down a corridor, told him this would be no conventional interrogation.
He was pulled through the empty Throne Room, to one of the smaller meeting
rooms behind the dais. And when he saw it occupied by only the Queen and her
savages, his suspicion was confirmed. But the old lion was only allotted a
moment to spare any estimation of what was to come, when a commotion tore the
collective tension to ribbons.
Randyll Tarly marched his way to the Queen, and to look at her Tywin knew this
appointment was both demanded and unexpected.
"Lord Tarl-" Queen Daenerys broke off her own words when the lord in question
smoothly bowed to a knee and all but flung a crumpled cloak at her feet.
She looked confused as two of her horse-guards leaned in poke whatever the gift
was with the tip of their curved blade. With a muttering of primitive language,
one of the guards kneeled, pulling at the cloak to find an end, and from there
tugged at the expanse of material in order to find the hidden prize.
Tywin knew exactly what had been presented. The chilling quench that seized his
spine dissipated only when he saw that the size of the clump was nowhere near
his heed. Although with that deduction he also knew the contents.
A final flip of fabric allowed a tiny curled fist to drop into view. It was
bloodied. As was the arm it was attached to.
There was no noise from the queen, no gasp of horror or even jubilation. She
merely crouched to the small body and pushed aside enough of the cloak to see
the face of the child.
"Your own?" The inquiry was made in the direction of the dead babe. Taking
another heartbeat of contemplation prior to standing and addressing her glower
directly at Lord Tarly, the Queen motioned for him to stand as well.
"I didn't want it. What good was a whore's daughter to me?" Tarly grouched,
finally at full height.
"That daughter was yours also, my lord." The queen spoke carefully, yet it was
easy to see the rage simmering beneath her veneer.
"And still of no use to me... other than a sign of my fealty, Your Grace."
"You chose the same tact the Lannisters did to prove themselves loyal to the
usurper. Did you think this would appease me?"
For a moment the gruff lord's eyes went wild, darting here and there, unfocused
and looking for a way out, looking for something completely unnatural to the
man: how to exist in the same room with a woman who had far greater footing
than he.
"I didn't kill the mother, like I ought should have," he reasoned. "I left her
for you."
"Yes, Lord Tarly, and she will be tried for the wrongs she has perpetrated.
Tell me, of what guilt was a babe of three found?"
"A daughter is of no use-"
"Much the same as those under my rule who think to act recklessly, carelessly.
Only to tell me it is in my name that they blunder - that it is for my benefit.
My lord, it is you who is of no use to me."
The silver-haired queen spoke in High Valyrian to one of her Unsullied, and
though Tywin was unaccustomed to the language conversationally, he could pick
out the general mood of her command. His face did not move, but his eyes
squinted slightly at the edges as they would if he smirked.
Good riddance, he thought.
As a clutch of spear-carrying men descended toward Lord Randyll, Tywin watched
the man pale. Tarly was shaded an ugly grey-to-green, and it was with great
satisfaction the old lion witnessed the turnabout of such a traitor.
The great commander from the Reach put up little fight and was sent to the
ground with two strikes from the murderous end of such a long weapon. Two
strikes that were hardly seen - like lunges from a viper - but could only have
severed tendons at the backs of the Tarly's knees based on the angle of the
strike and the overall result.
The useless lord was then dragged away cursing, leaving only the bloody bundle
wrapped in a green and gold cloak between Lord Tywin and Queen Daenerys.
The old lion thought nothing of the babe. Truly, it was not his concern. He
could see his wife's disapproving face in his mind; that's your blood, she
would say; that's your family, she would say. And though it was truth, Sansa's
conscience held absolutely no sway in his conviction that this child simply did
not matter.
The Targaryen queen turned then to speak to one of her Dothraki savages. The
comment was brief, and Tywin again found himself watching the action directly
in front of him. The half-bared brute bent to the bundle and, with such careful
grace that it genuinely took the old lion aback, gathered his precious charge
gently and left the room.
"Your granddaughter," Daenerys said flatly.
And much like every other time Lord Tywin had been brought before her, he spoke
not a single word to reply or defend or simply converse.
His silence was infuriating her. It was a comfortable advantage.
She wanted nothing of governmental secrets from him, or measures of security
that may or may not hinder her reign. She wanted emotional reasoning as to the
man he was and had always been - in relation to her father, and her family. In
relation to his betrayal of them, as well.
However, his reasons were his alone, and the dirt-queen would obtain neither
his rationale nor his justification. The simplest truth was that the events
requiring such decisions were made because they were the correct action at the
time, and if this so-called regent could see nothing but a personal slight then
she was as ineffectual a waste as the rest of her family.
"Violence should be saved for those deserving," the queen added absently,
sadly, before her demeanour became stiff once again.
In her eyes Tywin spotted it: her father. Not Aerys as a young man. No, this
was the look of the Scab King, warped and delusional.
Without further word or warning, the old lion was shoved toward a pillar carved
from what looked to be a solid slab of stone. It had two ornate sconces, one
several hands above his head, the other mirrored on the opposite side of the
column.
His hands were held firm as he felt his tunic being rucked out his breeches and
up over his head. He refused to let it go, refused to let them separate the
garment from contact with his skin - not wholly. It stayed bunched on his arms,
and it seemed the barbarians did not care. They simply pushed it up out of the
way onto his biceps, off his forearms and set to binding great lengths of
leather strapping there instead.
Each of his arms were tied then pulled by their leads, made to embrace the
girth of the column then wrenched upward as the ends were tied off to the
sconce on the other side.
In the position he had been drawn and stretched into, Tywin knew he was to be
fucked or flogged - or both. Neither was a tempting prospect. Though when the
laces at his groin were yanked apart, and his breeches pulled down his legs, he
figured the question was answered. More so when a coil of leather, this one not
merely a strap, looped around his neck and tightened.
The old lion could feel the blood pooling in his face, reddening it in his
effort to breath around the asphyxiation, and though his body heated as his
muscles tensed, Tywin could easily sense the warmth of someone standing behind
him. He could smell him there, all sweat and horse, and shit and leather. The
fucking savage.
With a sharp tug on the leather noose, the old lion's head snapped back and
collided with the shoulder of a large beast. At the same time, he was pressed
bodily into the unforgiving pillar and experienced a blunt, hurtful nudge at
the tight ring of his arse.
Whether it was a cock or fingers that worked to enter him, it made no matter,
the event was vile.
Over the heavy grunts at his ear and the dry, arduous prods at his backside
causing himself to squawk out his pain, Tywin could hear the formidable roar of
the Queen. Her fury was palpable and Tywin thought it was because it was taking
so long to rape him. But when his lungs were allowed air once again, the crush
on his body lifted and the cur at his back stepped away laughing, he
knew that type of wretchedness would not be endured… at least not in her
presence.
Although, once that particular offense had been reprimanded the Queen changed
again, speaking in the barbarians tongue. It wasn't long before she laughed in
the same manner the brutish voice did only moments before. And that, the lion
could freely admit, was terrifying.
The young queen now sounded appallingly eager. So bent in her hate, Tywin could
hardly anticipate her angle.
But there was one.
Vengeance, perhaps.
Intuition wasn't required to provide that particular summation only common
sense. In a rebellion that found her kin in the minority, the easiest path in
the aftermath would be to focus on the loudest songs and the grandest of
stories. Yet to thoroughly hinge vengeance on that very principle would see
this Targaryen queen eradicate almost every name in Westeros.
And to truly seek justice for the wrongs she has interpreted, the full bloom of
vengeance would require her to follow every branch to its eventual root - where
her own dragon blood would have to be counted amongst that which should be
spilled.
Convenience, most likely-
He heard tightly braided leather snap the air apart brutally before he even
felt it land. 
The impact was a thick line of burning pain starting at his shoulder and ending
halfway down his back. This was not corporal flagellation, he realized. This
was an outright whipping. This was not performed with knout or a scourge, but
with a stock whip, and he had no time to prepare himself for the agony.
The blazing hurt caught his breath; snatched it away so that he had to chase it
to get it back. But just as he regained it, the next lash struck the opposite
side with a uniform fury.
He would not give her what she wanted. He would eat the hurt and let the cunt
stew in her frustration.
The next strike made him growl.
The fourth came with a trickle of wet, thicker than sweat and hotter than
tears. He was not a horse and it was only a matter of time before his hide was
made to split.
Sagging his head at the shoulders, he rooted for comfort in the tunic he held
so dear.
By the tenth lash he was frothing through his teeth. His skin was hot, his
muscles shivered, and the blood was flowing freely down his arse and the backs
of his thighs. He pulled hard on his restraints just to feel something else
other than the skin on his back rise and bubble.
Six-and-ten was when the numbness took hold. He was only aware of flesh tugging
to shreds and the sloppy sound of leather connecting with the meat underneath.
Lord Tywin lost count after two-and-twenty. He was nearing the threshold to
give in, to give this mad queen her due - that of his fear and anguish.
The lion tried to gather air so he could create a voice, a whimper, anything,
but was distracted. His vision swayed with streaks of light and dots of colour,
and through the soup he could see her - his wife, his wolf. But she was not
smiling to sooth his aches, nor whispering words to take him away from the
monstrous rhythm played out on his body. The vision of her was all but a child,
and, like him, she was stripped bare, held firm, and meeting the ruthless swing
and abuse of a weapon built to wound.
He was suffering the same torment Sansa had, and he wondered with a horrible
clarity how those blows had marked her though never broke her completely. A
cool blanket resolve enveloped him then. His lady wife rescued the Great-
fucking-Lion from the brink by way of her own suffering.
How dare he consider defeat when a mere girl endured so much for so long.
How dare he think to taint her strength with his weakness.
How. Dare. He.
Tywin would endure. Tywin would come back, ever resilient.
Even though his lips were bloodied from biting back the pain, his mouth and
chin slick with drool and vomit, the Great-fucking-Lion forced his head to the
side and his bleary eyes to focus on the cunt-queen standing and observing.
He smirked at her.
With the barest curl of his lip, he told her she was nothing more than
entertainment to him. Insignificant and a failure.
The lion won. The dragon had been bested at her own game.
The rhythm halted then and Tywin was cut loose.
Although he was no match for gravity and slumped ungracefully to the cool
marble floor. That soothing repose lasted only a beat before he was gripped
tight and held upright by malicious hands on his upper arms and yanked yet
again to his feet. But he could not find them. His legs were leagues away, and
when he tried to place them under him, his tread slipped and smeared on that
gloriously cold marble floor made soapy by his own blood and sweat and bile.
Movement was a blur. His breeches remained dropped, baring him to the ankles,
adding to his many trips and stumbles. However, his only concern was the tunic
bunched in front of him, now wore at his forearms. He hugged it to his chest
like a babe with a toy, unaware of much else, until recognition crawled through
the fog of pain.
The savages were dragging him up the steps of the dais if the Throne Room, to
the throne itself. To that ugly iron chair where blood and rust were
indistinguishable and the power it provided was perverse. And was spun around
to view the hall he had known for more years than this new queen had been
alive.
The old lion was tired. His lungs grunted in effort, his eyes were heavy, and
all he wanted was to sleep and see her - his queen.
Impact was sudden, and it wrenched a muffled curse from his throat. They threw
him into that sharp, tarnished seat, mostly naked and severely lacerated.
Tywin hardly felt those new cuts before he welcomed the dark.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It is the sound of sparring that draws his interest. It is the sound of his
children shouting in excitement that settles whatever debate is in him to
follow those noises.
The training grounds are becoming clearer ahead of him, like out of the morning
mist that gathers and rolls inland from the calmer shores of the sea. The
noises are getting louder and Tywin feels a sense of anticipation. Like the
children, but quieter.
In the tunnel leading to giggling boys and skillful knights, he sees a
silhouette leaning against the hewn wall - far enough in the shadows to remain
unnoticed, just enough forward to see what drew him there as well.  She is
unmistakable, even in the dark. Her hair is down and the plait reaches just
above her arse. For a man used to the complications of the South, it's when his
wife further simplifies the mundane that he is most taken.
He can see how Sansa has one arm wrapped around her, just under her breasts,
and the other is bent at the elbow, her hand coming to rest at the side of her
neck. She is completely enthralled with the activities in front of her and,
Tywin thinks, he could have galloped past her without even an acknowledgement.
The lion comes to pause a few paces behind her, and from this new angle he can
see his wolf tense and relax with every clang and rasp of steel connecting.
If he were the man he had been two years prior, his jealousy would have sparked
and kindled at the notion of his wife viewing two young knights battle -
regardless of the precious company they were entertaining. He would have
welcomed the burn of hate in his lungs and the continually sought edge of
relief in Sansa's reassurances.
His focus is brought back to the sparring in front of him and the two boys
completely enthralled - for two completely different reasons.
The combat is a slew of thrusts and parries, of taunts and carefully played
misdirection.
His sons, his young lords, are absorbing it all.
Although it is the one with the gold in his hair and the wolf in his eyes that
stares, his body rocking and swaying with each movement of the men before him;
determining his own strength compared to the warriors pitted against each
other. Every thread and fiber of muscle and flesh is attuned to the craft of
violence.
Although it is the one with the fire in his hair and the lion in his eyes that
flicks his gaze from one man to the next, his fingers twitching as he easily
anticipates and dissects the consequence of those same movements. When the
knights stand again and set to spar once more, it is this son who asks the
combatants to move slower; to allow him to see the nuances of their game.
There is a tumbling crush deep behind the ribs of the old lion, and for a
blinding moment he fears for his life. But when the pressure lifts and the
feeling left is contentment, Tywin knows what he suffered was pride.
The unguarded moment of adoration for his sons, these sons, leads to a wave of
awful guilt and bitter remembrance.
Why is it he allows this of himself now, with them… with her?
That awful guilt arcs and bucks itself into a morbid sense of betrayal. And
Tywin has to place the palm of his hand flat against the cold rough stone
beside him to keep himself footed. It has been years since Joanna's words
fluttered inside his mind, and he can only hope he does not lose himself
completely to what she has to say.
"Love your children, my lion."
The voice is like wind, traveling sure and all around him; unable to hold it in
his hands, or in his ears, Tywin cannot even remember if the voice is her's at
all. The ache in his heart has returned, but this time there is no contentment,
no joy, only hurt and sorrow.
He straightens his stance and sets to leave when the clatter of steel yanks his
concentration away from self pity.
The shorter of the knights as disarmed the other, whose sword is now strewn
into the wood shavings and dirt close to their live steel and oiled and
polished helms. Equipment that would never see the inside of a sparring pen.
The knights turn to their youthfully enraptured audience and offer to help them
down from the tall scaffold where they had perched.
Rykar refuses in his charmingly smug manner, mid-scramble down the most
precarious side of the wooden dowel structure. Whereas Tysan takes his time,
still refusing, but explaining to the men that he had gotten up there himself -
he could get down as well.
The tingling fulfillment is back in the Great Lion, little ripples playing
outward from the center of him as he watches his boys.
"Love your children, my lion."
Tywin calms and leans again on the wall directly behind his wife. She is still
unaware of his presence.
They both watch with an intent only a parent can possess; using their own
periphery as a further protection, looking for threats and dangers outside the
natural worry and care of their little ones.
Tysan wanders to where the practice blade lay ans stops, his vision continuing
to garish helmet shining under the torches, very much an invitation for the
perusal of the young.
The lord and lady of Casterly Rock witness one four year old using cunning
beyond his years to engage men in tales of skirmishes and adventure, and the
other using wisdom beyond his years to formulate and deduce a calculation known
only to him.  But it is as they are considering the eldest of the two they see
him make a reach for the sword. Not the one that had been wrenched from the
knight's grip during mock combat, but the deadly sharp castle-forged steel that
laid polished and invitingly unsheathed next to one of the grotesquely ornate
helms.
Sansa immediately moves off the wall and makes to step in, to vanquish the
danger presented to their son.
"Don't," he whispers.
He can see her, feel her, startle at his word. She has not noticed him at all
since his approach and he can sense his wife's immediate unease - something he
quells by slipping his arms around her and brushing his cheek down hers, to her
neck.  The effect is immediate, her body relaxes and her hands seek their
comfort on the arms about her middle.
He whispers again, and this time he is so close he can feel her usher out a
shiver of a different kind. "Just watch," he says.
Tywin's thumbs rub circles where they lay midriff. A gesture that has always
soothed... Them both.
Tysan, supporting the flat of the blade on the thick padded sleeve of his
doublet as his hand grips the pommel as best he can, crouches awkwardly toward
the helm - almost losing his balance in the effort, standing again quickly to
regain it.
The old lion squeezes the tips of his fingers into the gown of his wife,
knowing she is but ready to rescue her child. "Wait," he murmurs into her neck,
smiling at the shudder he feels everywhere he is pressed.
Their oldest makes another attempt to crouch, his endgame still a mystery, this
time compensating for the forward weight of the weapon. The boy pauses to
assess the helm and it seems like Tywin and Sansa both hold their breath for
him. It's only a moment until Tysan Lannister slips the tip of the honed steel
into a gap in the helms visor that seems visible only to him.
His son of four, Tywin considers, set aside his natural curiosity in order to
find a flaw. And what a weakness to find, one that is both an advantage and an
assurance of life.
Proud, indeed.
Love, indeed.
A smile widens on his face and it is Sansa's voice that now sails clear and
unbidden through his mind.
"How did you know?" Her question is not made in a state of wonder, but more a
demand for the vital part of a riddle.
He huffs out a laugh, all air and playful indignation, and watches the muscles
of her jaw bow and pull to what he knows is her smile.  Cinching closer to the
creature, the siren, that untucks from him things it took decades to stow away
and hide, he breathes her in.
He lives on the air she gives him.
"It's what I would have done," is his answer.
His proximity is a boon to the young woman, and, instead of words, she nudges
her backside onto the part of him that makes him heat and growl.  Sansa looks
over her shoulder at him, blushing pink even in the midst of her boldness. She
is striking, his wife, in beauty and contradiction; equal parts pure maiden and
wanton temptress.
Tywin raises one hand and gently tips her chin back, covering her lips with
his. Her body is so trusting in him to keep her upright and safe; a notion that
is without question. As he feels her arm thread up and around to take hold at
his nape, his other hand remains at her middle to cradle her swollen belly.
The Great Lion deepens their kiss as he rubs the distended expanse of their
child softly.
The life they made together.
Not for gain. Not for advantage.
Just for them...
A firm hand Tywin recognized as Kevan's pulled him out of the heavy mist of
sleep, and in stepping away from his dream he became steeped in his actuality:
he was shaking. Not a tremble in his muscles, but an agony in his chest.
The Lion of Lannister was weeping. He could feel the hot line of tears down his
face and the grit in his throat from sobbing.
"You were calling to your wife, my lord," Kevan whispered.
The dark of the room announced evening, but which evening Tywin could not
discern.
Love your children, my lion, fluttered in his ears and did nothing but confuse
him.
"Joanna."
The eldest Lannister struggled to choke back the emotion that was riled from a
dream he could no longer remember. No, that's not right, his addled mind
protested. That's not who greets him in sleep anymore.
Ser Kevan smiled in the dark, practically crawling on his brother, moving to
rest his palm on Tywin's arm, away from the lashes that were searing hot on his
back as his body fought to stay infection. "No, Ty," he replied gently, "Not
Joanna."
Tywin nodded his understanding into his arms, into his tunic - balled up and
used to pillow his head. An unseen gesture that was the only movement he could
muster without cracking scabs open.
Sansa.
The old lion sighed as his brother carefully dabbed a cool cloth along the
burning edges of the worst of his lesions. Wounded lions are dangerous, he
considered, but threaten the pride and it is the lioness that will bring upon
that threat a thundering calamity of devastation.
But what of both a wolf and a lion? A threatening of both pride and pack? That,
he smirked knowingly to himself, is a destructive weapon most unfathomable.
Whatever was to happen to him, Tywin acknowledged, was moot. He was negligible
within this new game, this twist of new players and divisions and consequences,
but it was a route he had planned for.
Sansa would outlast them all.
And with that peace, Tywin drifted to dreaming again, surrendering to the
beauty of her, his wife... his wolf, his lioness.
Absolutely.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Truth III *****
Chapter Notes
     **This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence related to
     torture and sexual assault. Please be aware of your own sensibilities
     and proceed accordingly.**
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Tywin was sat watching the queen pace and grumble, and rage and pace once
again. From his place as the only occupant behind a large wooden table at the
center of court, the monotony of her psychosis was becoming a bore.
"Targaryens ruled three hundred years in peace," she declared to the room.
And his game of silence was decidedly at an end.
"Is that what the horse-folk taught you?" the old lion scoffed. A casual act,
like they'd been conversing on a regular basis. "Your education is as tainted
as your blood. I'd say you need only look to the Lord Commander of your guard
for the truth," Tywin jutted his chin toward the old knight standing sentry to
the girl, then drawled, "But no, his purpose was to protect your father's
madness, just as he will protect yours." He leaned in slightly, as though to
share a confidence. "I knew your father longer," he said, which drew in the
queen's interest. "I was here when he raped Rhaegar into your mother."
Tywin's serious demeanor did not falter. Ignoring the agitated mutters around
him, he simply flicked his glare toward Ser Barristan, drawing her gaze with
it. The old knight wore a face that silently admitted what the old lion had
spoken was indisputable.
Again canting toward his captor, Tywin said, "I am bound by no oath." Again his
words charmed, seduced even amidst the grime of his clothing. "Do you want more
truth, Your Grace?"
She came to a dead stop, standing static save the minute tilt of her head,
looking at the man as though he were a meal, or a superior - or perhaps an
inanimate object. Tywin could never be sure of the mechanisms within the minds
of the mentally deficient.
"Don't think you came here as a saviour," he continued in light of the Queen's
apparent enthrallment. "Your dragons are not mythical, they have razed an
entire city - indiscriminately putting innocents to torch. Who do you think the
people will remember: the girl and her dragons that were set loose to kill
them, or the King who was betrayed trying to save them?" Tywin's impassiveness
was icy, a practiced detachment that was proving effective in distracting the
Queen. "And, as you have found out, your pets are not invincible."
The ridiculous woman-knight had destroyed the black beast nearly single-handed.
She had perished for her efforts, but as he'd heard through the windows of his
cell, out of the mouths of small folk milling around the castle grounds like
welcomed vagrants, she had also made herself into a bloody song.
"You are a victor of opportunity, no more," he asserted, steely and cold. "Your
strength rests solely in your numbers. Invading a land finally recovering from
years of war and winter and still at a disadvantage is the most basic of
strategy, and it makes you less than average."
He watched, satisfied when an angry red flush crept up her neck to the tips of
her ears. Tywin remained serious and matter of fact, and said excruciatingly
clear, "There is nothing great about you."
At that moment he thought about extinction - of a name, of a bloodline, of a
species - and the fact that no matter the climate of demise there would always
be rebirth, remembrance of some kind. That knowledge stole into him like a
comfort.
And like most comforts, it didn't last.
When the queen dismissed first the entirety of the court, then her Lord
Commander from the great chamber, Tywin knew to prepare once again for pain. He
rolled his shoulders covertly, testing the thick pads of healing skin and the
larger remaining scabs that wept blood and pus. He felt his ire stir.
It was in the middle of the day, in the middle of the Throne Room, and the old
lion was still a man of little patience. Lord Tywin glared with an intensity
that had the ability to destroy thoughts before they could be fully formed -
the queen's were no exception.
"Do whatever it is you mean to do, girl," he kept his gaze locked on the young
queen, "your company has become tedious."
He watched her peer over his head and nod, and before he could even look behind
himself, he was seized roughly at the upper arms and lifted off his chair and
his feet. Lord Tywin was being manhandled mid-flight when the Queen stepped
down from her throne and, in the tongue of her barbarians, ordered to hold him
still. She walked calmly to the older man and peered up to meet his gaze.
"Tell me, my lord. What kind of man condones the rape of a princess and the
death of children?"
There was nothing outwardly apparent in the Great Lion, save apathy in its
finest form; and when he failed to acknowledge her question, the queen asked
another. "What kind of man holds no conscience for unnecessary death and
encourages needless slaughter?"
Again her inquiry was met with silence, a stony gaze, and an air of triumph.
"What kind of man-"
"The same man you are trying, and failing, to make yourself into," the lion
purred coolly.
Whatever the Targaryen was expecting, it certainly was not that.
"I will never be you!" screeched the Mother of Dragons, her outrage
instantaneous.
Her anger was telling, and if Lord Tywin were the type of man who thought to
proceed with even the barest hint of compassion, he would have pitied her in
her madness. But he was not. And he did not. Instead he looked at her squarely,
his face severe, addressing her in a tone to match, "And it will be that which
haunts you, child."
With a noise of utter fury, the Queen flung a command to her savages and Lord
Tywin was off of his feet and hurled back lengthwise on top of the table he had
been seated at previously. The breath was forced from him and it took a moment
for him to regain his sense of direction. Although the first regained facet of
his person acknowledged that heavy bodies pinned him down at his legs and
shoulders.
Lying there, Tywin blinked in long lethargic movements, the pain along the skin
of his back already something of the past.
He scoffed to himself.
In all his years living in that damned room, he had never once bothered to
look up.
The ceiling was nothing short of magnificent. The tops of each column stretched
in elegant arches, reaching to connect with their brothers. It was there,
taking life from the marble itself, that he saw them. Dragons, of course, but
also, just as proud and defiant and strong, were stags and wolves and falcons
and roses and suns and spears and kraken. His mouth twitched. There, right in
the thick of the menagerie, breaking free of the cluster, was his own.
The proud rampant lion, mouth open and vicious.
Hear Me Roar.
Indeed.
He was brought out his unexpected reverie by the now calm intonation of Queen
Daenerys, as she said, "Since you can't define what kind of man you are, Lord
Tywin, I will spare you the variety."
He heard movement of the Queen's rags as she walked around, then saw a dark
stumpy man waddle his way into the chamber in his periphery. The man was
holding a leather roll whose contents distinctly clanked with a muffled
metallic chime - and it took no estimation on the lion's part as to what lay in
store for him.
Anguish.
He could not imagine what kind of torment he was about to encounter, held down
at the limbs on a wooden table, but whatever it was, he knew it would not kill
him. No, his demise would be very public. In that fact he had no doubt.
The man's accent was some gods-forsaken lilt, but not so entirely
indistinguishable that Tywin could not make out his question. 
"Take ev'yting, Mudder?"
"No," the Queen answered immediately. "Leave something his wife can mourn."
Tywin went dizzy with a surge of rage that shot directly behind his ribs,
though he did not move. Whether his anger was due to the whore mentioning his
wife or the anticipation of the cruelty to come, he did not know. But as soon
as the savages at charge of his legs tore open the laces and stripped him of
his breeches, Lord Tywin felt a wave of queasy foreboding lunge beneath his
skin, through his body, just as powerful as his ire moments before.
No, his entrails would not be hooked; his skin would not be flayed...
He thought of two small boys, then a set of golden twins…
His wife… His wives…
Gods.
The rickety old man stepped into the vee the old lion's legs made as they
dangled off the table and handled the soft cock found at the apex in a
disgustingly rehearsed manner.
Tywin spit curse after curse out of reflex… and was ignored for his efforts.
Hands that were once holding down his shoulders shifted, and one thick forearm
snaked its way under the old lion's chin. It trapped his head into looking
nowhere but upward, and it was the removal of control, of seeing and observing,
that caused Lord Tywin to breathe in ragged pushes and pulls.
There was a horrid pinch as something was tied tight to his flaccid cock, a
weight of some sort that pulled the appendage up toward his belly and exposed
his sac.
His breathing begun to hollow.
Shifting his hips violently, he threw the beasts off kilter, fighting against
what he knew was inevitable. He felt a huge body drape over his middle, ending
his struggle to move and beginning his struggle to breathe.
Oh gods!
Another terrifying pinch out of nowhere, and he knew his testicles were tied
off at the root.
Please… gods!
Praying to those entities now was just as fruitless as praying to them before.
Callous, not benevolent, an institution that whored itself to lure of coin.
Bastards!
Over the sound of his heart in his ears, and the wheezing labour of his lungs,
he heard the distinct plinking of tools being unrolled, sorted…
...Chosen.
No! Nonononono… He squeezed his eyes shut.
The first nick was a hot quick slice made with a blade surely razor-thin. There
was no pain to speak of, not initially, not until the pulse of his own blood
showed him deftly where the horrific ache was. The small man knew his craft and
knew how to prolong the suffering; making many incisions in a procedure that
could very well have been over in barely a moment.
Tywin felt a sickly-cold sweat bead over him, the pain of the tiny cuts
burrowing to where he hid away from them in his mind. He began to struggle,
frothing at the mouth. But even these movements were calculated to the old
lion, thrashing his head, enticing the mongrel there to curl and flex the arm
he had anchored around his chin and neck. He was manipulating the poor animal
and it was a sin how easy it was. Tywin wanted blackness, wanted nothingness to
feast on him, and he was almost there when the constricting arm was removed
altogether - and so ceased the man and his knives.
Gasping for air, the old lion swore and burbled through his teeth, frustrated
in his torture.
He heard the queen mutter in a tongue he could not care to name, then seemingly
clarify in a language he had no choice but to comprehend. "No," she said. "I
want to hear him."
There must have been a silent command, some wordless communication between the
gnarled bastard at his groin and the wisp of a girl who called herself his
mother. For once again there was no hesitation of the metal scoring him, of the
searing lightning agony that bit into him.
Tywin tried to concentrate. He tried to go away. But instead found himself
staring with pleading eyes at the frozen exhibition above him. There was no
help to be found there, in the symbols that marked the families he had, for so
long, strove to sway and manipulate.
What a taunt it was.
With a final gouge a part of him was removed, and with it severed the last
remnant of his restraint.
A bellow of scorching desperation echoed for a lifetime, dancing like a
horrible prayer in and around the apathetic sigils in the heavens above
him. Not a high-pitched sound of pain and distress, but a throaty roll of
defeat. It was a noise that rattled Tywin's sternum and caused his voice to
buckle painfully.
It was the frightening call of dominance finally, forcefully, laying down into
submission.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Ser Kevan Lannister fought the dark to watch his brother sleep. The barbarians
had drug his unconscious form back to their cell just before dusk, and it was
just after as the slits in the upper wall went black that Tywin began to
shiver. The elder was fevered and babbling, much worse than when he had been
lashed. The pain he endured was deep this time, and Kevan had a stabbing pang
of utter fear that the new Queen sought vengeance against Lady Sansa and his
nephews.
Despite the promises and reassurances of the Imp, the reputation alone of the
Lannister name, of his generation, was a death sentence. An opportunity to
exact revenge would not be ignored, certainly not by a Targaryen.
It was in the small hours of night, those just before the sky begged for light,
that Tywin had become lucid enough to wrench out a word before the shaking
near-madness swallowed him again.
"...gelded."
It was followed by what could have been a sob or a laugh, Kevan was unsure, he
could not yet see to confirm either way. But the statement brought with it an
initial, sympathetic wave of nausea that began in his groin.
Oh, Tywin. My brother. My lord.
Of course, he would sustain the brunt of the cruelty. Kevan himself ate kicks
and punches for the knowledge they sought to extract, the knowledge he would
die for, but cracked ribs and swollen eyes were nothing in comparison to this.
They seemed set to carve away at his brother. Even now, well after information
had become secondary, they were content with taking in flesh what they could
not gain in words or apologies.
His brother was a man who should have been a king; was king for the better part
of four reigns. He was a man who suffered no fools, the first of whom was their
own father. He was the man to remind Westeros just how many teeth the
Lannisters bore, for the sake of their family's integrity.
Tywin was a boy cursed with a rigid sense of pride that had been instilled by
their mother, only to watch her death unhinge the uselessness of their
sire. His pride sometimes blinded the old lion, Kevan could admit, but the
effectiveness of that sightlessness was undeniable.
Tywin had no interest in what was easy, he simply wanted things to work. He
would plan meticulously in order to accommodate the needs of the many - the
priority of family - but he also knew there was no plan or action that could
wholly satisfy the entirety. There would always be those who will baulk and cry
about what was fair, but the trick was to minimize those voices to as few as
possible and settle those disputes with a quick and heavy strike.
His brother's trust was granted to fewer people than could be counted with one
hand, Kevan knew, but it was this wary defense that defined Tywin as a young
man and garnered him success throughout his life. Yet, when the pool of trust
dwindles to only a few souls, you leave loyalty to chance. This fact was proven
at the beginning of the new-Targaryen invasion.
The North and the Riverlands were loyal because of Lady Sansa, there was little
doubt there. The only real variable was the Reach. And in keeping the Tyrell's
close, the Lions had sealed their fate. Giving the Roses the run of the garden
proved only to choke out everything else.
Kevan swallowed back the thick knot in his throat and returned his focus to the
brother he followed into the maw of a dragon - to the brother he would follow
again to the same destination, without hesitation.
Because he loved him.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin blinked at the bright strip of light that had angled to cover his eyes.
He was loathe to move, to adjust his seat and posture, as the horrid ache which
at first wracked through him now only radiated - but less so in certain
positions. My masculinity is quite secure. Those words rang true. A lesser man
would have caved to the pain, to the horrible knowledge that what defined them
as a man had been cut away, but Tywin Lannister was no lesser man.
A lesser man or not, a full moon's turn later and there he still sat.
Everything that surrounded he and Kevan was rank. Their clothing, their single
fur and blanket on the floor that served as bedding, them - their skin started
to become an offence, no matter the effort that was made to wash. Even the air
from outside was more a toil than usual. The whiff of charred wood and meat
that had hung for moons was finally dwindling, though now King's Landing's
ever-present smell of shit and rot was seeking revenge.
Although for whatever annoyance it was, it was at least something to occupy
them.
They had waited in their cell for weeks now, the Queen seemingly bored with
them, all but forgotten save a meal a day of whatever bread and meat were most
maggot-infested. Not that they expected to be treated well, by any means, it
was merely another ploy riddled with transparencies.
Yet one more assurance that his wife would prevail in this new world.
The Great Lion taught her all he could in the time they had. A struggle at
first, but once she opened herself to the idea of having a greater expectation
of herself, Sansa flourished. She bloomed and thrived and took it upon her
natural tendencies to become a teacher as well.
And but how the old lion was studious.
He had learned that the bitter taste of crow was palatable when served with
forgiveness. He had learned that his wife was just as much a part of his
strength and fortitude as he was, as his name was, as his gold was. He had
learned that her scent - that of the light floral perfume she favored, the
citrus in her bath, and the smell of her - could make his mouth water. He had
learned that the press of her body laying atop his offered first pain - where
her pelvis dug into his groin - then infinite pleasure when she would lift
slightly and rub against him at a new angle. He had learned that when she found
her pleasure, shuddering and gasping his name, that he became a different soul
altogether - no longer just a man, but a thing capable of pleasing the goddess
that chose to share his bed.
He had learned.
And he had suffered.
Tywin languished under the perpetual grace of his wife and spent the latter
part of his marriage atoning for the wrongs he had perpetrated upon her -
physically, emotionally, and by proxy. He was every part a penitent man,
burning in an unfamiliar state of remorse, but it was for the sake of Sansa
alone.
For no one else. Not for his siblings. Not for his children.
Only for her.
And it was Sansa he was dreaming about, eyes wide open, in the middle of the
day, when his senses thought to trick him. He believed he smelled her. He
believed he heard her voice - authoritative and divine. The old lion was
settling into his new dreams where the vision of his wolf was invigorated, made
almost tangible, when his brother spoke to spoil it.
"Ty, that's Lady Sansa. I hear her."
From where he was leaning against the ugly wooden door, Lord Tywin rolled his
head lazily to meet Ser Kevan's eye.
Tywin knew what precious time he had anticipated at the moment of his defeat
was near exhausted. And much like those finite measures, the lion himself felt
the end creep further into his tired bones.
He uttered not a word as a smile widened on his face.
The notion of an end, and thus a beginning, was something embraced.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin woke alone for the second time that day, Kevan remained absent since the
evening prior.
The stretch of light on the floor in front of him told him it was still very
early morning. The excited whispers and hurried pace of steps outside his door
told him this was the day he would die.
As if on cue, the door to his cell swung open hard, admitting a beast larger
than the entryway itself. Though, the hairless dark man's function seemed at
odds with his form. Tywin watched the animal set down a bucket of water, hard-
pack soap and some linens, as he held in his hand what looked to be a shaving
blade.
The razor seemed a children's toy in a palm that large, Tywin noticed - yet one
more thing at odds with the beast.
"Wash." 
The barely intelligible instruction came with the linens tossed at him, and the
man mimicking the act. Tywin understood by the imposing, unmoving figure, that
the beast would be inclined to witness the cleansing of his queen's sacrificial
lion.
So be it. This particular lion was well beyond concerned.
The water was cold and his groin ached dull and persistent. He did not care.
The giant hand once again made a motion, this time it was to stall Tywin in
redressing in his filthy clothes, and to shake the razor.
Looking up at the massive bald brute, the lion pointed to the man's oiled
skull, and then back to his where a growth of hair ringed the back of his head
from ear to ear, then to the course hair that filled in above and below his
lips, and down his neck.
With a toothy grin, the giant wasted no time. Tywin was very nearly dry-shaved,
but the miracle was that no bloodshed occurred.
He was offered a pair of clean breeches and a tunic. He took the breeches.
Once dressed and ready, Tywin made for the door - outside which stood a clutch
of savages waiting for their most important charge - and as he made to squeeze
past the human wall sharing his space, the strange barber yet again surprised
him. His hand wrapped completely around Tywin's bicep, prompting the lion to
glare at the beast. But the beast glared back, and it was nothing hostile.
The man, so foreign and bizarre, looked at Tywin squarely with eyes that spoke
of naught but solemn respect.
What a startling notion, this comradery amongst soldiers.
Amongst men.
Enemy or ally. Savage or Lord. Each is an animal that bleeds. Each is an animal
that dies. There are no favours when it comes to the Stranger, death is gift
bestowed to every living thing at the moment of their birth. The only
discrepancy amidst individuals is time - and even that cannot be purchased,
only borrowed.
Lord Tywin twitched the corner of his mouth, nodding knowingly at the man, his
equal. Of which, the reply was another toothy smile and a nod of his own.
His arm was released.
The old lion walked.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tywin Lannister was at peace as he paced willingly to his end. the weather held
and it was well into the afternoon with the sun just making its descent.
With every corner turned, with every corridor left behind, Tywin felt lighter.
Burdens lifted, concerns quelled, his soul centered; he was a man ready to
burn. It was not some mystical foresight that he knew of his method of
execution. Like most everything pertaining to the Targaryen queen, it was
disappointingly predictable. However, when his procession halted suddenly, Lord
Tywin found himself jarred from his final thoughts and summations. It was an
interruption made more appalling due to the reason; a reason who waddled past a
row of barbarians, straight into his line of sight.
The old lion had no intention of conversing, but as words were set before him -
carefully dealt, weighed and assessed on each side of such an obvious gamble -
Tywin savoured the opportunity, this final opportunity, to lay the game to
rest.
"Are you truly going to die hating me?" The smug air in which the question was
asked was part and parcel of he who had asked it.
"I don't hate you, Imp. I simply don't care about you." Tywin leaned in and
sneered, "The woman you took from me, the colours you wear, the name you
continue to end your own with..." He looked to the direction from whence he
came, wearing a look of sadness for a heartbeat before it was gone and both his
disdain and focus returned to Tyrion. "That is what I care about. Not you," he
scoffed cruelly, "Never you."
Tyrion looked to where his father pined and opted to hurt him equally, to force
his hand in emotion, "You do care for Sansa, then." 
When he turned back, the face and tone of Tywin Lannister was a void, "More
than a creature like you will ever comprehend."
"Oh, I comprehend, father," he choked out in a shaky whisper. "I know exactly
what that feels like."
There was nothing in the elder Lannister, save agitated disappointment.
"What happened to her?" Tyrion seethed.
"I'm sure I have no idea to whom you are referring-"
"My wife!" His body set to tremble in his fury.
"You're not married, Tyrion," the old lion scoffed. "I gave you the opportunity
once and you handed her back to me. Though, considering the waste it would have
been, I'm grateful. But come now, has your debauchery finally leeched you of
your senses?"
The Queen's Hand felt half-mad with the same outrage that swallowed him the
night of his escape; the night he opted to save a friend instead of kill an
enemy. And there, in the corridor, there was no one to tie his emotions, yet he
was equally robbed of the satisfaction of removing the life of the man who had
made his existence a misery.
"Where is she?!" Tyrion visibly shook in his effort to speak. "Gods help
your precious fucking legacy if you don't-"
"What is it you want me to tell you, Tyrion?" Lord Tywin interrupted, as though
he were offering no more than an easy platitude. "Do you want me to tell you
that I slit her throat and fed her to the dogs?" He raised a brow. "That I
fucked her myself and sold her to a passing merchant trader? That she thanked
me for annulling her mistake and is living comfortably, with more than a fist
full of silvers?"
Tywin flicked his fingers as if brushing away a fly. "She was a whore who had
no right to my name, and she's gone." He looked at the Imp with a critical
glare. "Don't tell me your substantial inadequacies should be blamed on the
memory of a woman."
The air in Tyrion's lungs burned. There was a pitted wrath in him that wanted
only to kill this man, his father, but he was never one to give in to what the
Great Lion assumed of him already, and once again he aimed to hurt. Shrugging
in a way he knew Lord Tywin utterly despised, Tyrion raised his uneven brows
and drawled casually, caustically, "Like father like son, it seems."
He watched his father turn to stone and straighten to a height and posture that
did not require him to wear armour in order to lay waste and conquer. Tywin
then turned abruptly, without further comment or care, and walked away. He
looked as though it were he who was leading the men taking him to his death.
And, strangely, Tyrion thought, that would always be the truth of it. The Great
Lion of Casterly Rock would control even his own execution.
Tyrion Lannister laughed then, the cracks in his very soul seeping both sorrow
and elation. Each proportionate. Each tragically doleful.
The sound was something truly terrible.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Truth IV *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
He was like a cat, a lion really. He could feel it in him, quiet and climbing
to places others could never reach. He was a wolf too, fierce and powerful,
unafraid of anything or anyone.
Jaime called him a gods-damned monkey, and for Rykar Lannister that animal was
just as amazing as any lion or wolf, if only because his oldest brother thought
him one. The boy smiled to himself as he shimmied along the highest rafters of
the main archway to the outer bailey of Casterly Rock. He was pitched in
shadows, moving with the ease of one too, observing and waiting. Jaime had
shown him this spot high and away, tucked into the dark recess of the archway's
ceiling. All of the Rock's daily traffic passed through there and Rykar could
hide so easily, and scare girls whenever he wanted.
Although he was there, on that day, at that time, not to tease the laundry
maids, but to talk to his father.
He could have visited Lord Tywin in his solar, but the little lion had no
interest in scratching a quill on parchment or waiting in silence forever - and
that was what you did in that room. Rykar much preferred swords and excitement,
just like Jaime, and knew once he had to sit as the Lord of Winterfell his life
would be nothing more than talking and writing.
He hated his letters. He hated his numbers. He hated having to stand with his
father and be introduced to bannermen and other lords... and
especially ladies. The ladies would always want to pet him and Tysan, touch
them like they weren't even real. They were nothing like aunt Genna, at
least she would lean in close and teach them a new curse word while pinching
their cheeks.
Most ladies smelled bad too. Not like his mother, she smelled good, like home.
Those others, their perfume would cover his tongue and taste bitter like eating
soap. Even ladies his own age were boring; what use is a girl if her dress
prevents her from running or climbing or doing anything fun?
Jaime said that he would like ladies just fine when he was older, but Rykar
thought his brother had lost some of his mind along with his hand.
The last time the Lord Commander visited, Rykar had asked him when he could get
a golden hand of his own, to which his oldest brother's eyes seemed to look far
away and his face changed at the question. They had been laughing and teasing
each other until Jaime's hand was mentioned, then he was no longer happy and
smiling. It had been like watching a storm from way out on the sea roll into
the coast - all dark and grey, sitting heavy on the world before the rain
falls.
Rykar hadn't understood Jaime's switch of mood - he thought maybe his older
brother just didn't want to share, but mother would have made him share anyway
because that's what was fair - and when the boy went to touch the man, tug on
the golden hand that played with his fascination, the elder recoiled as though
the younger were something to fear.
Jaime had offered to spend the day with him, only him, when Ty was stuck doing
writing and other boring things with Lord Tywin, and his mother was away in the
Riverlands. It was more than a fair trade if you were to ask Rykar, his oldest
brother had shared a secret passage that led straight up to the roof of the
inland watch tower, and that's where they had stayed for most of the day.
His brother had divulged the best places to spy on those below without being
seen, where to sit and be safe and warm in the sunlight, and also how to kneel
low on the roofline in order to piss off the tiled edge... without it getting
caught in the wind and coming back to hit you. That skill took more than one
try to get the hang of, but Jaime said he would never tell anyone that the
monkey had pissed in his own face - although he was trying very hard not to
laugh when he made the promise - and Rykar trusted his brother implicitly to
keep his secret.
His oldest brother was a knight - the Kingslayer!, the Golden Lion, the Lord
Commander of the Kingsgaurd - and far more than merely a hero to the youngest
lions of the family. It was that reality that caused Rykar to roar out his
frustration and grab Jaime's golden hand anyway.
The prosthetic was cold and heavy, like gold should be, but there was
absolutely no give in the way that it was fastened, cinched to his arm and far
more restricted than the boy had anticipated. He twisted it and moved it
without as much as a word from Jaime - he was still trapped somewhere in his
head, his eyes looked lost.
"I don't wish this on anyone, monkey," Jaime had said.
His words knocked around his mouth like a stone in an empty cup. But that
wasn't really Jaime, Rykar knew, his voice had gone the same distance as his
eyes.
"I wouldn't either," was Rykar's distracted reply. He was still tugging and
turning his brother's cumbersome hand as he continued excitedly, "I'd keep it
all to myself!"
The little lion then climbed onto the lap of his brother to get a closer look,
and couldn't help but notice Jaime coming back from wherever he had flown off
to. It was like when Rykar and Tysan would see their mother become distracted
at the oddest things, at the oddest times, then look almost like she was coming
up for air from being underwater. That was the way Jaime had looked, like he
was swimming back, and Rykar had been glad of it.
He loved his oldest brother and wanted to be just like him when he became a
man... but he didn't want to go away like Jaime sometimes did.
"You don't need to hold a sword now." The little lion lifted then dropped the
metal appendage, grinning at the solid thump-sound it made on the wooden
planking they were sat perched. "It's a weapon all by itself." Rykar gasped out
the words of his greatest inquiry, the most wonderful idea, "Have you hit
anybody with it? That would hurt something awful. You think, Jaime?"
The younger smiled wide and excited at his older brother. It was the same smile
and same excitement Jaime gave directly back - all the way out of the water
now.
Everyone said he looked just like the Lord Commander did when he was six, with
the exact same hunger for adventure too, just with different colored eyes.
And Rykar liked being the same as his brother, but how he so wanted green eyes
like Jaime, and like Tysan... like aunt Genna and uncle Kevan... just like his
lord father.
The Maester told him he couldn't change them, but the old man was smiling when
he said it so Rykar knew not to trust his answer. Father said never to trust a
man that smiles, especially the first time you meet him. But he also said Jaime
was the exception because he was family... and something of a fuckwit.
"The Tullys are known for their eye colour," Jaime had told the boy.
"But I don't want to be a fish!" Rykar had grouched in return.
"You have the mane like me though, and the eyes of your mother. You are the
only Lannister with those traits Ry, it makes you a special lion. Just as
Tysan's red hair makes him special, too."
Jaime pointed out to the wide expanse of the Westerlands, spread out before
them, bathed in the sun that was now behind them. "See the sky? See where is
meets the land?"
Rykar nodded.
"See how the sky is blue and the land is green?"
The boy gave a furious nod.
"That's you and Ty." Jaime chuckled at the absolute look of bewilderment on his
baby brother's face. "What colour are your eyes, monkey?" he asked.
"Blue"
"And what colour are Ty's?"
"Green."
"Now look out to where the horizon is. You are the sky, monkey, and you will
always be looking out over your brother."
The boy looked pensive, collecting his thoughts on the puzzle Jaime had given
him. Like him, Rykar was a child that saw letters and numbers on parchment as a
chore, but excelled when things happened around him. When they could see the
problem they could understand and fix it, without writing it down.
Jaime had spoken to Sansa privately, vaguely alluding to his concern. She, just
as subtly, reassured her understanding that the boys learned differently than
each other. The conversation then had turned into a paradigm of could-have-
been, and it made the Golden Lion miss his own mother horribly.
"And Tysan looks out for dirt?"
Jaime snapped out of his reverie and laughed at such a volume it echoed in
cackles off the rooftop around them.
Rykar liked it when he laughed that way or smiled big with his teeth. Truth
was, he just liked it when his brothers were happy.
"No, he looks out for you too, but like the land on the horizon he does it with
a different perspective. It's good to have as many as you can."
The little lion's mouth dropped open a tiny amount as he hummed and nodded his
comprehension, then asked, "What about when he's here and I'm freezing cold in
the North?"
The Lord Commander kept a smile, but not as toothy as before, and his eyes
squinted. "Does the North have a horizon?"
"I... I don't- maybe..."
"It does, monkey, I promise - I've seen it."
Jaime's face went serious then, and Rykar thought maybe he was going to drown
inside his head again, but it was only his voice that changed - it was thick
and scary, like when he would talk to the soldiers during sparring practice.
"No matter where you are, Rykar," he had said, "there will always be a horizon.
And when you see it, it will always remind you that Tysan is looking out for
you. Do you understand?"
The little lion pondered only for a moment. "And when he sees it, he'll know
that I'm always looking out for him."
Jaime's eyes went from squinting to closed, his mouth curved up at the corners
and he leaned his head back to enjoy the cooler breeze approaching dusk. Yet it
was a small fierce voice that hooked onto that breeze and washed over the
knight with the kind of sorcery he could only find in the company of a brother.
"You're the land at the horizon too, Jaime. I'll always look out for you too,
you know."
The older Lannister opened his eyes and looked somber at the child sitting on
his lap, leaning on his chest, and petting the hand that could not feel the
attention. The same child that had his hair and his face. Jaime felt it in his
heart then, the tight ache of loss and self pity, and pulled his baby brother
into a frantic embrace. He hugged his monkey with the kind of desperation that
adults recognize as a deep personal turmoil, that children interpret as love
and affection.
Rykar wrapped his arms around the neck of his hero and hugged the man for
everything he was worth. Life was good at that moment - on that day, perched on
that roof - and the world seemed all right then… for both the monkey and the
lion.
But Jaime had left to return to King's Landing not long after that day, and
Lord Tywin was now, so many moons later, set to leave too.
Sometimes he and Tysan would accompany their father to King's Landing, for the
times when he had to be the King's hands. Sometimes Rykar wondered if that was
what happened to Jaime's hand - the king used it up - and now Lord Tywin went
there because he had two of them.
Their mother would stay at the Rock most of those times, she only went to the
capital when there was something big happening. His father said she was
stronger anywhere but there, but Rykar didn't know if he agreed. His lady
mother always had the look of being pulled underwater when they were in King's
Landing, but it never made her look weak… just more serious, like Lord Tywin
himself.
...and his father was strong wherever he went.
And now, more than anything, Rykar wanted to show his own strength - and go
with his father to fight the dragons.
He wasn't supposed to know that was why his lord father was leaving, but Tysan
talked when his dreams got bad and Rykar couldn't help but know that secret. He
had crawled into his brother's bed, wooden sword and all, to protect him from
the nightmares that were ripping him apart, but in the end there was no true
weapon against the beasts in dreams, and Rykar could only lay there and listen;
to watch helplessly as Tysan flinched in his sleep, fighting against what
scared him.
Tysan had not been happy in the time his father started preparation to leave -
a process that never used to take more than a fortnight before - and in the
days leading up to Lord Tywin's departure, the older twin had stopped talking
altogether. Except in his sleep. Rykar just wanted his brother to be his old
self again - still quiet, but grinning too - to not be sad anymore. Amd the
only way he knew to make Tysan better was to kill what it was that was hurting
him.
Dragons flew, and Jaime said he was the sky. He would not let them near the
ground, not near his brother, his brothers… or his father. So, lying balanced
along the thick timber over the heads of unsuspecting passersby, the gods-
damned monkey waited.
And waited.
The waiting was almost as boring as standing still next to his father's desk,
but at least here he could watch people while he laid on his belly. When he
tried that on the floor of the Lord's Solar, his lord father gave him a shove
with his boot and told him that lions didn't do that. But Rykar had seen the
real live lions kept at the castle, in their grand pens, and it was all they
did! All day!
Rykar sighed into the scruffy wood he'd rested his cheek on and let his
thoughts take him again. And they did. His daydreams danced the little boy
through bouts of conquest and mayhem and fun. They sailed by fast and all at
once, some made his heart race and others made him beam.
After a while that felt like days to a child, Rykar settled more firmly on a
thought that made him smile. One when his father had taken him and Tysan to
Lannisport to inspect a new galley. They had climbed all over that boat, and
when Lord Tywin slipped through the hatch to the lower hold beneath the bottom
rowing-level ahead of them, Rykar followed his brother into the lightless belly
of the ship only for them to be left standing alone in the square shaft of
light from their entryway.
The tiny lions never saw it, but their father emerged from the inky black and
stuck only his face and head into that beam of brightness above them - and the
old lion did roar. Loudly.
Both he and Tysan screamed the noises little baby pigs make and ran blindly
into the darkness. He didn't know where his brother made it too, all Rykar knew
was that he slammed full speed into the curved side of the boat, still sticky
with whatever they used to pack the plank seams and dowel holes. And when he
rolled so his back was against the wall, to look at the scene of terror, he saw
Lord Tywin standing tall and completely enveloped in light. His father stood so
big and powerful that he looked just like the statues in the sweaty, boring
sept.
But this god, his father, was better than any statue in that moment if only
because he was happy. He even laughed, smiling wide and everything! Tysan could
be heard off in the murky shadows giggling and laughing along with the Great
Lion, and the sound of both could not be fended off. Rykar felt the fits
giggles coming upon him and they would not be denied, so he laughed too.
When he walked back toward the brightness, Tysan was already there, still
giggling. The sound made him feel weightless. That the three of them were all
laughing at the same time made him feel invincible. But when he stepped into
the beam of light too, he was the only one left chuckling.
His brother was wide-eyed, and puzzled. His father was narrow-eyed and looked
very close to annoyed - but not quite there.
He had looked back and forth, from father to brother, waiting for one of them
to let him in on the secret. "What?" Rykar had pleaded.
It was Tysan who tugged his hands to the front of his face. Along the palms,
just below where his fingers started were sticky black lines, and perfect
circles nearing the centers of each hand.
"What's on me?" he breathed, both fascinated and horrified.
It was his father's voice that sounded above him, and Rykar had to look - the
old lion still sounded like he was going to laugh. "Ran into the hull, did
you?" Tywin scoffed. "You're striped in pine-pitch, boy."
What should have been a reprimand came out with a smile. Yet, when Rykar smiled
back to his father he felt that same sticky resistance on his cheeks and near
his ear. His fingertips confirmed it - his face was striped too.
He wanted his mouth and face to be pulled in a way to show disgust, but it must
not have come out like that because Tysan fell into peals of laughter again.
Looking to his father for sympathy was a mistake as well; the mouth of the old
lion curled to a smile and his eyes looked bright like when he was laughing
before.
Rykar let them have their fun… he knew how to pay a debt.
Once they had returned to Casterly Rock, Rykar was lifted from his mount by the
knight he rode with and wandered hand-in-hand with Tysan to the
stables. Standing silently a few paces away from their father, they waited for
him to finish speaking with the horseman. As they did so Merik, a stable boy of
about their age that they'd befriended, rounded into the stall and stopped cold
when he saw Rykar's new appearance.
The other boy tried to quell the treacherous smile that was threatening to
split his face in two, but when Rykar looked at his friend and roared his own
laughter the boy couldn't stop himself. They were quickly followed by
Tysan. The three of them were gasping for breath and doubled over at the sight
of black lines that reached across not only Rykar's face, but his hair and
clothes as well.
"You look like a tiger, not a lion," the stable boy near bellowed through his
laughter. His brows were raised and his hands were wrapped over his aching
belly.
What happened next was a blur of movement, of momentary chaos. Merik was no
longer in front of him, and what he thought was a coaxing slap to the hide of a
horse somewhere in the stable was rendered appallingly clear as the menacing
slap of a man to the face of a child.
Rykar's mouth hung open at the sight of his father, his face red, his eyebrows
pinched low and mean-looking. His vision flickered over to Merik, sprawled in
the dirt and the hay, his upper body coming to rest against the slats of the
stall. His friend wasn't bawling, but his eyes were watering from the sting of
it, and his hand was rubbing the place of impact. Rykar could see the long,
finger-shaped welts already forming around the chin and over the bridge of his
nose, and a large wheal that defined where his father's palm had landed flush
on the meat of the other boy's cheek.
"You are a Lannister," Lord Tywin had seethed, unflinching in his arrogance.
"No one laughs at you."
The golden-haired twin didn't know what his face looked like this time either,
but he surely hoped it reflected his utter confusion. "But..." Rykar's eyes
were fiery and sad all at the same time. "But I laughed first... And he's my
friend."
Lord Tywin had looked down his nose at his son, his face hot with something
hateful. The old lion was breathing hard, his nostrils were flared, and his
hands were fighting his mind in their yearning to reach out and throttle his
child for even thinking to question him publicly.
Both Tysan and Rykar were no strangers to their father's ire, nor were they
unaware of the violence he was capable of in their presence. On remorseless
whims, swift and brutal, the spill of blood that made a man still forever was
not unknown to the boys. Though they had only seen it in context to prisoners -
who were all bad men to begin with... so said their lord father.
But that cruelty had never pertained to them. Or children at all. Ever. 
...That they knew of.
"He is not your friend." Lord Tywin leaned down to his youngest and sneered at
him like he had only ever done with servants doing the wrong thing. "He is
your property!"
The boy who was striped so comedically was bound in place and tilting with an
unrivaled indignation, one that sparked and stabbed his guts.
Property.
But that doesn't even make sense! Screamed the mind of the child. That wasn't
even a puzzle!
Rykar's mouth was dry, but ran with its own mind - a conscience altogether
unaware of Lord Tywin and bent on a slight hinge of madness. "He's not a horse!
He's a boy!"
He had never seen his father so undeniably furious than after those words. The
Great Lion's fingers were curling and uncurling in front of him, like they were
grabbing hold and strangling air. Rykar didn't care though, he was furious too!
From the side of his eye, Rykar could see Tysan move in quietly, like he always
did, and help pick Merik up to his feet. Without a word, the older twin gently
pushed the sniffling stable boy out of the stall and, before following, grabbed
the younger's hand and tugged him back also.
"We're going to bathe, my lord. Rykar needs it."
Pulled a little harder, Rykar turned from the abominable scowl of the old lion
and came face to face with the gentle kindness of his mother - in the features
of Tysan. He was talking calmly, like nothing was wrong, no fear or anger
either. Rykar knew then and there, at the tender age of almost-six, that just
because Tysan didn't like climbing and jumping and the things that he liked, it
did not paint him a coward. No, not even close. His brother was strong in other
ways and having the power to control their father, a god!, was an unreal gift
for anyone, let alone a child.
"Thank you for taking us with you, father," the Red Lion continued, still
leading Rykar out, still looking only at the Great Lion. "We'll tell mother
we're home."
When they had just about cleared the gate, Rykar looked back to his lord
father, a preemptive flare of animosity already in place to rival that of the
old lion, but the flare was doused as surely as if the sea were in that stall
as well. His father, his god, was no longer enraged. The resentment of the man
looked to have been washed away much like his own, and the face he wore was one
the little lion could not easily recognize. It wasn't sadness, nor was it
contentment… it was something out of place and in between. It looked like Jaime
when he had talked about their other brother, Tyrion, and made the twins take
an oath never to mention the name outside of the room they were sitting in.
Once free of the stable, the three boys linked hands and ran fast to the place
they usually disappeared to on hot days.
Lower and lower into the Rock they ran, each knowing the way even if they
closed their eyes. They only slowed when the stone underfoot perspired and made
their steps unsure. They wound their way through caverns and had to feel along
the walls for a distance before they reached the haven under the castle.
The pool in the cave was fed by a spring, not the Sunset Sea, and though the
water was cold, it was not unbearable. The ceiling of the grotto reached so far
up you couldn't see it, and although the hollow itself was formed well inside
solid rock, there were notches and holes that dotted high on the walls -
allowing for long spears of sunlight to illuminate what would have otherwise
been nothing more than a black pit.
Rykar and Tysan found the pool all by themselves. It wasn't a tale from a
servant or a hint from Jaime, this was their secret place. When Merik became
their friend, it belonged to him too, because you share with those who are your
friends.
Each boy stripped down to nothing and sat lounging in the shallow part of the
pool that was always drenched in warm sunshine.
The stripes of pine-pitch were eventually scrubbed off his skin, but Rykar
found the price of being free of thick black tar meant he had to endure the
pink lines that were scoured in instead. It was fair, more than fair really, if
only because his two companions thought he was the most hilarious vision.
They all laughed. They laughed because it was funny, and there was nothing that
should have dampened that humour.
The humour of children.
Amongst the three boys, none of them mentioned the actions of Lord Tywin, that
day or any day after; no apology was offered, no apology was asked for, it
simply being a matter of what was. And to that degree, little boys were little
boys and had far better things to worry about.
However, the incident did become a vivid lesson for both he and Tysan, a
flicker of doubt festering into consideration, a building comprehension that
the cool yet affectionate father they knew in their own lives was not the same
man beyond the circle of family. That the same man who would talk to them and
make them giggle and feel loved as they settled for bed, thought of other
boys, their friends, as nothing more than livestock - kept for a purpose,
trained for efficiency, whipped for behaviour...
...put down if they became lame?
Those thoughts made his head hurt. The possibilities made his heart hurt. So
Rykar pushed them away, those memories of an eventful day, and let his mind
regale the daydreams he loved more; the ones about him with a real sword,
standing as tall as his father, swinging as strong as Jaime - slaying enemies
and beasts alike - soldiering with Merik to protect King Tysan and, of course,
his lady mother.
Rykar smiled then, letting the happy adventure take him while he set to wait
once more, high up in the skeleton of the archway.
The little lion had been draped flat against the rough wooden beam for what
must have been forever before he finally caught sight of his father walking
through the sally port. The Great Lion always walked fast, in giant strides,
and looked sullen. Though if he were in the company of his mother, his father's
steps were smaller and his face didn't have so many jagged edges.
Luck was on the side of the monkey, in that the old lion was alone. All he had
to do was wait for his father to be two beams away, then he could shimmy down
the rigging - loudly, so as not to startle him. Rykar had discovered the hard
way that his father was not the man to try and scare.
Six beams away… Five beams away… Four beam-
An arm struck out of the shadows and clasped onto Lord Tywin's bicep.
Rykar instantly pinched-up his face and opted to watch the scene play out
through the squint of his eyes rather than witness the unleashing of his
father's fury unimpeded unto the owner of the offending hand. But there was no
loud voice, no sign of violence... nothing like that. Instead the one hand now
had a mate, and they both grabbed at his father, tugging at him, pulling him
into the dark black shadows they had emerged from.
For the briefest of moments Rykar feared for the old lion, but that fear turned
to mystery when the deep frown on the lips of the man first flattened then rose
at one corner, his brow matching the change.
Lord Tywin reached quickly into the murky nook and grabbed hold of his
assailant. It was the sharp, playful squeal at had Rykar's own mouth grinning
too - as hard as it could.
Mother.
There were no words between his parents, and the little lion found his smile
waning the longer he watched them. They stood there, still like stone, just
staring at each other. Their initial teasing melted away to the type of sober
gravity both Rykar and Tysan had seen frequently since Lord Tywin announced his
leave.
They touched all the time, his mother and father, that was not new. But, with
the bouts of recent staring, they had seemed to be touching more as well. Aunt
Genna said they were talking their own language, and at first he thought it odd
that a language would have no words. But then he considered he and Tysan, and
that they didn't need to speak in order to know what the other was saying, so
it must be true.
The Great Lion had a hand on either side of his mother's face, looking so
intense, and his mother, she... she just looked so beautiful. But when she
brought her hands up to his father's waist and fisted them forcefully into his
doublet, the strain and pull of the fabric easily recognized even at a
distance, the little lion so desperately wanted to know what she was saying
with her touch.
Lord Tywin must have known her words because he started leaning in, and his
mother was reaching up higher to hug… No… No, not to hug...
With a snap of his head, Rykar turned to the side and squeezed his eyes shut
until white dots could been seen under his lids, wearing a look of utter
disgust.
They were kissing!
His lord father and lady mother... kissing! That sort of thing wasn't allowed
outside, and they were doing it anyway! He wanted to groan and run away, like
he did in the keep, but the perilous straddle he had on the cross-beam
prevented him from moving. Prevented him from getting away from the breathing
noises, the panting - like his parents were animals.
The disturbing sounds ended and, looking back at them again, Rykar saw that his
father still held his lady mother the same way - his hands on her face - he was
slouched close and his mother was speaking real words in a tone he could not
hear.
When Lady Sansa wrapped her hands in a grip on Lord Tywin's forearms - looking
now with a seriousness her children never liked to see because it ate away at
the loving look she normally carried - she looked to be speaking some great
confidence, something important. Whatever she said transformed his father, rid
his face of everything mean and uncaring.
The Great Lion looked at his mother the same way Jaime looked at his sword -
like it was the greatest thing in the world, but something he would never hold
properly again.
There was a sadness in the monkey then, the kind that felt like trying to
swallow rocks, and he had no idea where it came from.
Just as quick as his mother's hands had sprung out from nowhere, the interlude
held by his parents ended. His lady mother stood tall on tip-toes and kissed
his father again - fast this time so as not to be revolting - and watched him
turn from her and leave. 
But, no! His father was going the wrong way! That meant he would have to endure
parchments and talking and waiting… His top lip snarled in dismay.
So caught up was he in the horrors of paperwork and patience, Rykar did not
notice his mother carry on in the same direction his father had initially. Nor
that she was stopped exactly one beam away and peering directly at him - like
he was visible amongst the shade and gloom.
"Come down, please."
Her voice confused the little lion momentarily and he immediately looked around
for the person she was talking to… Then realized she was talking to him
alone. His lady mother was not smiling, but her intonation was gentle. She
didn't like him climbing, and if she caught him at heights like rooftops and
sheer cliffs, her eyes would hold a look that made Rykar's blood feel cold.
That hollow wash of northern iciness was worse than talking to lords, and the
gods-damned monkey made every effort not to be caught.
Climbing down the knotted rigging slowly, showing his mother that he was being
careful, Rykar tried to think of something that would explain him being up
there to begin with, something perfect because his mother read thoughts like a
seer. But he simply could not concentrate on both climbing safely and building
the perfect excuse at the same time.
As he stepped to his mother, the monkey opted for an honest redirection. "Am I
in trouble?"
Rykar had scrunched one side of his face as he peered up to his mother, knowing
he was wearing the face she always grinned at. And it was working. He could see
she was struggling to keep a serious look, but he didn't want to tell her he
knew she was or else she'd try even harder.
"There will have to be some sort of punishment."
The young lion started to groan, then ate it because complaint meant more
floors to scrub or stalls to muck or - he shivered - laundry… with girls. He
closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. "Yes, mother." He sounded so
thoroughly put-out, exhaling the two words, stretching them longer than they
had any right to be.
Rykar heard a light scoff that gained to an equally light laughter and
immediately thought of the annoying laundry girls. Then realized the laughing
was right in front of him, from his lady mother. He cracked one eye open, as
though she were volatile and might suddenly explode, and felt warm in the grin
he found on her instead.
Both little lions adored their mother's smile, would do most anything to see
her wear it, and considered it something of a triumph when it lead to Lord
Tywin wearing one of his own. His mother's smile made Rykar feel like both a
fragile babe and a indestructible giant at the same time, and he could help but
wonder if his lord father ever felt the same way when she smiled at him - and
knew from how the old lion sometimes wore different eyes when he looked at her
that yes, yes he did.
"I want to go with father," he babbled impatiently, his mother's warmth and
that of his recollections shoving the truer intentions of the day into focus.
"I want to kill the dragons!"
His excitement crumpled and died right there. She wasn't supposed to know that
he knew… Rykar looked away quickly and teetered on his feet as though the words
were no more than imagined.
Fingers brushed through his hair, tucking hanks of it behind his ears, and
Rykar's eyes fluttered in contentment at his mother's touch. She was magic that
way, could always cure his sadness or hurt or impatience with a brush of her
fingers, or a few loving words, or the fiercest of hugs. Her love could fix
anything, he found, and he was glad she was his. Even if he had to share her
with Tysan.
Rykar then felt the soft skin of her fingertips gently tug his chin
upward. Instead of her wearing an angry look, she was smiling in the small
lopsided way that she always did when she told he and Ty a secret.
He was excited again.
"I have need of you elsewhere, ser... but... Oh, I don't know..." Her words
trailed off into nothing. She looked away from him now, her face so serious and
concerned.
This must be important...
"I'll go, mother! Where? Where do you need me to go?!" Rykar was nearly falling
over himself to get the answer, stopping short of scaling her gown to get
closer to that illusive order. His father told him he was too big now to do
that, he said, "You're a Lannister, not an Arryn, you will not clamber over
your mother like a milksop." Rykar didn't know what that meant, not really, but
the look of repulsion on his lord father's face was enough to convince him he
did not want to be one - whatever it was.
The little lion was fidgety until he felt his mother's magic again. Her fingers
in his hair helped guide him into her embrace. Rykar hugged her back as hard as
he could, then relaxed when her other hand started rubbing big circles on his
back.
He liked that part. Both his mother and his father hugged with the circles, but
more often it was his mother.
He felt her other hand move and gently rub the pads of her thumb and forefinger
over the ridges of his ear, soothing him. He liked that too.
Mostly Rykar liked things fast. He liked to run and hated being still. Tysan
had patience, where he did not, but when his mother showed him this particular
affection, the world slowed down and was easy to understand. He could stop
himself from feeling antsy, and actually wanted to listen to conversation.
Magic.
Sansa placed a hand on either shoulder of her son, placed him back a step with
a tender nudge, and looked once more at his face. Rykar was a boy very much
like how she remembered both Robb and Arya: quick to ignite their temper,
unequivocally loyal, and frighteningly brave. He had her eyes, but his face was
very much Lannister. His boyishly smug smile was Jaime's in miniature, his six-
year-old fury was every bit Tywin - and had been known to send knights and
lords scurrying.
"You are needed in the North, Rykar," she bargained. "Both you and your
brother. They've sent most of their men south to defend the capital, and the
West is secure-"
"I'm to be Lord, mother." He nodded with as much seriousness a little boy could
muster, vowing, "I should protect them."
But... But his mother smiled in a way that was not true, sad even, but she
spoke before he could even question it. And such are the fickle minds of babes;
hesitation forgotten, Rykar once again bounced eagerly for this unknown quest.
"Of course, young ser," Sansa whispered, tucking another golden curl behind his
ear.
"When do we leave, mother?" he asked, excitement all but flailing in the boy.
"Will I get a real sword? I'll need a real one to fight."
"Perhaps soon," was all she said, pulling her child into her embrace once more.
Rykar was looking way up to his mother, his eyes expectant in their silent plea
for an answer to his other question. She was serious again, this time all the
way, and the little lion felt his hopes plummet - his eyes shutting seemingly
in time to the descent of his wish.
"You will bring your request to your father, young ser. It will be his decision
you have to win."
It was strange that his lids were still heavy, even under the renewal of hope,
but his mouth was unaffected. The lion, the wolf, the monkey - it didn't matter
the animal, the smile on the boy was genuine and true, a telling awe for the
love of his mother.
Yet toothy and feral, a sly contradiction, for the love of adventure.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Lady Sansa stood looking over one of the lower battlements, watching the large
procession marching up the lengthy incline, through the many portcullis, and
streaming under the massive sally port that would eventually grant access to
main yards of Casterly Rock.
Amongst the motley parade, motley banners flew sporting dragons and krakens and
horses and golden fists, and were held above the hordes of men who had choked
the coastline from Faircastle to the Shield Islands. Lannisport remained
surrounded, besieged by a silent wall of impenetrable sea-fare moored as tight
to the shore as possible.
There had been no attack. When the ships arrived and assembled their defense,
Sansa ordered the evacuation of nonessentials from Lannisport - a decision
agreed upon and planned for well before Tywin left for King's Landing.
"Why not fight on the water?" she had asked her husband.
"Why give them what they want?" he had replied. "Let them fight on land,
through buildings," Tywin continued. "Lannisport's remaining levy is unmatched,
and they will prove formidable on their own ground. This is your home, Sansa."
Tywin had draped his fingers at the nape of her neck and drew her close into
his warmth, into his stony voice, and said, "Let the bloody cravens come to
you."
And come they had. They arrived in overwhelming numbers, but that was all they
had done for more than a sennight. Until they had finally sent word to the
castle.
The invaders were looking to treat.
"Who are they, do you know?" Sansa asked the man beside her without taking her
eyes away from the lengthy approach of the new Queen's delegates.
Ser Daven Lannister stood to her right. Commander of Lannisport's conscripted
men, he was the man Lord Tywin relied upon to lead their men and defend his
home and family. He was also a man Sansa trusted and felt at ease in his rough
presence. He was a large man, taller and broader than her husband, but he had a
gentleness that reminded her of her father, and a humour that was more attuned
to Lady Genna than the rest. She felt comfortable with him, a northern kind of
comfort, the type Ser Daven seemed apt to reciprocate.
"The Imp-"
"Lord Tyrion," she corrected.
"Apologies, my lady. Lord Tyrion seems to lead them, and from what the ravens
say there's a Greyjoy with him." He looked to his lady, smirked, then raised a
brow, "The big bastard, they say."
Her face did not betray a thing, though her eyes gentled at the man's attempt
to rile her. She simply nodded in acknowledgement and spoke the next question
on her mind. "What of the rumours - the Brotherhood raids?"
"Seems the Lannister name has become something of a trophy, my lady. Some have
taken to offering the usurpers our heads as appeasement." He shifted his weight
and cleared his throat. "And that's talk from as close as Golden Grove."
Sansa turned to the man and spoke in a tone more befitting her husband, "Calm
yourself, ser, lest you do the work for them."
Ser Daven smiled inwardly at her words. The power of influence and time were
freely wrought on his lady. She sounded more like Lord Tywin as the years
plodded on, but it was not until war was declared that she transitioned into
her own lion completely. It was what the people of Lannisport, the people of
the West needed, and it was what she gave. The same confidence, natural and
uncompromised, that radiated from their other Great Lion.
The burly commander kept his eyes on the approaching caravan, raised a brow
once more, and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I'm the pretty one, you know."
He greased his charm and looked squarely to Lady Lannister. "Might be this head
makes some heathen quite rich."
He tried to hold onto his seriousness, but it was no use. The look Lady Sansa
painted herself with was somewhere amidst disbelief and outright consideration
- her courtly compliments and learned indifference both fighting each other for
rule. Then, in a span of barely a heartbeat and all at once, the Lady of
Casterly Rock lost whatever instance of humour she had. Sinking back to, and
refocusing on, her actuality.
Her children were gone, hidden away. Her home was under siege, at the precipice
of battle. Her lord, her husband, had lost the capital, lost his freedom, and
he would, as they had discussed prior to his leaving - huddled naked and close
under covers, speaking to one another with lips upon skin in the dark of night
when her fingers and toes would become cold despite the warmth of the room and
the bed she shared - lose his life.
The truth of it all butchered the little bit of levity Ser Daven thought to
give her, as he had since the nightmare began.
"Bring them to the hall, ser," Sansa intoned icily, turning on the ball of her
foot to leave.
Daven Lannister recognized the change immediately and adjusted his attitude to
meet her rigidity. He bowed to his liege, "Yes, my lady."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The dais in the main reception hall of Casterly Rock towered over the
petitioners floor. It was no more than a deception created of angles, steps,
and the enormity of furnishing, but the effect was always the same, that it
allowed for instant leverage when those summoned to the hall stood in awe of
such dynamics.
Tyrion entered the grand chamber without hesitation, his large, silent Greyjoy
companion in tow. His footfalls stayed aimed at his destination and his eyes
stayed aimed at his conversational target. 
The Ironborn man, clad in dull black armour from head to toe, walked with a
minute scuff, and though his eyes were pitched in shadows under his helm, one
could clearly feel his gaze, and the directional momentum in which it was
pitched.
At whom it was pitched.
Lady Sansa sat on the ornate golden chair, no less than a throne, that Lord
Tywin had commissioned for his first wife. She wore a gown of deep grey,
trimmed in crimson with bright gold embroidered accents that seemed make her
and her surroundings shimmer as though she were perched upon the sun itself.
Tyrion had heard talk from traders and merchants over the years, those coming
from Lannisport, all speaking of the Lady of the Rock and how she ruled the
West. And as he approached his mother, in a hall known to rival that of King's
Landing, he knew the room was no longer the attraction. A dais, stairs,
multiple angles, and a chair had absolutely no claim on the astonishing power
the mere presence this woman held. And when she spoke, any doubt of even the
most level-minded nature was cast aside for its uselessness.
The environment of the large room changed as it filled with every manner of
man, in every manner of dress: from fully plated soldiers to sailors and
foreign warriors in no more than rags. The air curdled to that of sweat and
stink, the funk found only when people live in close quarters. The concern,
however, was in the sheer number of bodies that continued to pour through the
heavy double doors.
She would not house and entertain an entire army.
Lady Sansa raised her hand and the Lannister men, the banner bearers edging the
room, drummed the blunt pole-ends into the stone floor - a solid, steady thump
until the chatter and bodily shifting ceased.
Sansa addressed only one man in a room full of them. "Your men are welcome to
camp beyond the bailey, my lord, not in my hall."
"Apologies, Lady Sansa. Most are unfamiliar with the finer points of
propriety." Tyrion hinted an air of genuine embarrassment
"Be that as it may," she answered coolly. "You will rectify the offense before
I am prone to believe it deliberate."
Tyrion's mind reeled, Gods, she's turned into my father! But he also knew that
with the game at hand and the rats underfoot, Lady Sansa had no other option
than to shoulder into her thickest armour and wield her deadliest weapons with
all the skill and agility she owned.
This was what Lord Tywin had prepared her for - and what flawless precision his
father had crafted.
"As you wish, my lady," he said respectfully. Tyrion nodded once, then spun to
speak to several men of varying garments, and after a momentary rumble of
discourse, a great many of the men began their exit.
"I also have no intention of holding court." Lady Sansa addressed Tyrion
directly as she stood and pressed on, "Choose your contingency, my lord, and we
will commence in the Lord's Solar."
"Lady Sansa," Tyrion inquired with a smile, "I would request food, perhaps
drink for my men, if it please you. The journey is a long one to the castle, as
you must know."
There was no movement on her face, no hint of compassion or even disdain. "We
were rationed for war, my lord. Then our ports were laid to siege." Sansa
narrowed her eyes and spoke in a brisk tone of derision, "What makes you think
I can spare you a meal?"
Tyrion lost his smile, lost the charisma he thought to bestow. The intimidation
of both the woman and the hall combined into something restrictive, and he
found it removed his words as well.
"Broth, bread, mead."
Lady Lannister was already turning to leave as her last words dropped heavily
into the room. Her four guards flowed to trail in her wake, leaving Ser Daven
to serve as intermediary once the Imp chose his men.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Truth V *****
Chapter Notes
     **This chapter contains discussions alluding to sexual assault and
     rape. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed
     accordingly.**
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
The Lord's Solar. Tyrion thought his lord father's solar had not changed much
in the time since he was a child. Not that he was allowed audience in this
sanctuary, but he had been a clever enough boy to see the inside of it more
than once.
Lady Sansa was standing near the large hearth at the side of the room, an area
which had obviously been designated for debate and deliberation. There were
carefully arranged chairs and tables to accommodate at least half a dozen
bodies. None of whom would be members of Sansa's own council this day - a
stipulation of the Crown: to negotiate solely with the Regent in the West. The
lords of her assembly thought the Queen meant to seek weakness in their liege,
and if such was the case, they also knew the woman's error.
"Just the two of you?" Sansa's voice did not show it, but her eyes widened
minutely in a sign of disbelief.
Tyrion glanced back at the large figure behind him, then returned to his host,
and clarified, "Actually, just one, my lady. I have every faith that you and I
are more than sufficient to negotiate a resolution."
Lady Sansa nodded demurely and offered nothing else by way of pleasantry. Yet
when she set to speak, her next words were stepped over by those of one of her
shields. 
"Show some respect squid." Ser Royene stepped out menacingly, addressing the
massive man in the dull inky plate, "Remove your helm in the presence of Lady
Lannister."
When the large man said nothing and moved not one muscle to comply, the second
and third of her ferocious guards stepped around her to join the first, while
the fourth gently tugged her back from the impending mayhem. The air was thick
with potential violence, and as soon as Tyrion made to staunch the tension, all
four Lannister guards unsheathed their long swords.
In answer to their call, the kraken freed his great sword in a strangely
beautiful, strangely familiar maneuver that involved the full stretch of his
arm and a bodily tilt forward. Sansa visibly relaxed as the display sunk fully
into the recollection that it had initially snagged.
Her shoulders were no longer tensed, her features were no longer lined in
severity, and she laid a hand on the vambrace of her closest knight. "Stand
down, Ser Royene," she soothed, stepping forward through the clutch of
protection. "All of you, stand down."
The instruction seemed directed toward every man in that room, even the helmed
man lowered his huge blade.
Lady Sansa took another step forward, first looking at Tyrion, pleased to see
on his face a placid look of trust, then concentrated her focus on the stubborn
giant she was now looking up at.
"Please, remove your helm..." she said as she stepped a little closer - calmly,
easy, so as not to overly disturb the man. "Please, Sandor."
The name tumbled from her tongue as though it were something merely waiting to
be freed. She did not smile, but it didn't much matter, the young woman's
acknowledgement was more a welcome than was expected. When a snort reverberated
from behind that nondescript helm, Sansa had to bow her head in order to hide
her self-indulgent smirk. And upon his deliberate removal of the offensive
armament, Lady Lannister held in her relief.
Before her stood her history. No longer the gaunt man of her most recent
memories, but the fierce non-ser from her past; that same warrior with a
perpetual flush of agitation wrung across his face. And while his pallor had
improved, she was taken slightly at the angry red scar that started on his
forehead, vertically bisected his remaining eyebrow, and came to an end at the
ridge of his sharp cheekbone.
It was the Hound she knew, give or take the new signs of battle and survival.
It was the man she hoped would live.
Her investment. Her friend.
Looking from Sandor to Tyrion, Sansa's responsibilities reasserted themselves.
Her safety was unquestionably sound in that moment, though the safety of her
family was paramount and still uncertain.
Walking to one of the chairs by the large hearth, the Lady of the Rock
addressed her knights. "Wait outside-"
"We can't leave you alone with a kingslayer and a butcher, my lady." This time
it was Ser Lanning that spoke his gruff protestation over the wishes of his
liege.
Her tone was bloodless, "You can, and you will."
"Forgive me, my lady," the man argued, "but Lord Tywin-"
Her inflection plummeted to something deadly. "Obey me or find yourself removed
from my service. If you serve Lord Tywin solely, I implore you to seek him out
currently to air your grievance."
The threat made mention of the man she knew to be a prisoner. It had also made
her angry in her despair over that same revelation. Her breathing was becoming
shallow at that flux of emotion, she had to fist her hands in an effort to
maintain restraint. Her bones felt heavy. She was so weary, already tired at
the notion of the loss that was surely to follow, and felt the keen crush of
weight from the burdens currently upon her.
A handful of moments were all the knights took to silently confirm their
command before making their way to the large entryway and stepping out.
"They wear grey..." Tyrion broke the quiet and casually hoisted himself onto a
chair as though he were there as an invited emissary and not an enemy besieging
her waterways and pressing to treat. He looked at her with the coy grin and
raised the uneven brows she remembered so fondly, drawling, "Oh, what have you
done?"
"Not grey - gold." The words rumbled out from behind the two friends. Sandor
stepped into their view, digging for a pouch that had been secured under his
tasset. Approaching the lady of the castle, Sandor freed the prize he was
working at and handed the bag to the woman now within arm's reach.
Sansa exhibited no hesitation in collecting the proffered satchel. Much like
their encounter in the godswood years ago, it was as if no time had passed
between them. There was a trust there, something inherent, something obvious
even to the casual observer - and perfectly plain to Tyrion, of course.
The bag was weighty and jingled like coins were within. Yet when she opened and
tipped out the contents, it took a moment to realize that the few loose
rectangles were no tender of known denomination, and when the rest - a
connected cluster of those same rectangles - slid into her palm, she was
speechless. It was what was left of her necklace… Of that finery that once
defined her as Tywin Lannister's wife, then defined her again as a calculating
player much the caliber of that same man.
Even with cursory inspection, she could see that most of the piece remained
intact - the diamonds were gone, but the large ruby was still there. Everything
removed or dismantled was carefully, thoughtfully worked apart...
Sansa looked up at the man she had dowered so heavily in, financially and
otherwise - really looked at him; ever so ferocious, ever so strong, yet still
harbouring the unfamiliar calm she witnessed once before on a cold winter's
day. And though his settling serenity looked so foreign to her eyes, it looked
almost natural on Sandor, and she could easily glean that the trait now helped
to define him.
She dropped her view back to the finery in her hand, and it was to it that she
spoke with only a hint of awe. "You took only what you needed."
Sandor's response was a huffed-out grunt, but it was only meant to regain her
attention. The tactic worked, and he watched as she raised her unreadable eyes
to him once again. "And it will be repaid," was all he said.
Her voice and her emotions were well shuttered, as he would only expect from
the wife of the Great Lion. Although he still expected useless flourishes from
the little bird he had tried so vehemently to terrify them out of. It was an
effort to remember that this current entity was no longer the same girl.
Her next words that made that particular distinction blindingly clear.
"If you feel that is a requirement of your conscience, so be it. But know it is
not a demand that I make of you."
Sandor stood static, blinking at her without saying another word, absorbing
hers.
Another handful of years had proven her grown even more, her edge was sharp and
her mind equally so. No, this little bird no longer chirped, no longer parroted
the pretty words and phrases meant to please princes. This wolf in lion's
clothing was far more dangerous, far more cautious, and every bit a challenge.
After a few heartbeats, he nodded with another grunt and stepped quietly back
into a shadow along the wall of the great solar. His actions played like
a silent cue for the treaty to begin between the most unlikely of Lannisters.
Lady Sansa walked to the large desk in the room, depositing the necklace and
briefly quilling a request for the jeweler, she then walked back to take her
place almost directly in front of the Hand of the Queen.
She sat straight and waited for the half-man to begin.
Let them come to you, always.
Keep them guessing, always.
Retain an advantage by any means, always.
Family first… always.
Her lessons came to the forefront, those that were learned and those that were
earned. Every element of survival she knew to that day was working together,
drawing from each other, and cast a strategy clearly in her mind. Tyrion began
as she had been assured he would if made to wait long enough. Her patience was
second to none, and because of that his words were spoken out of impatience and
more than a little arrogant.
"As you can tell, my lady, the Queen is more than serious about her birthright.
Her manpower is unstoppable and her dragons are a powerful force."
Sansa's demeanour remained elusive as she dissected the man. His words felt of
bravado, but there were half truths and assumption thrown in at what seemed to
be a whim. He was trying to coerce by way of intimidation and Lady Lannister
could not help but wonder if Tyrion forgot to whom she was married.
"You have one and half beasts, my lord-" she began, her voice flinty. It was
not unknown that the black beast was cut down and the white one would never fly
again. In the course of days, the mysticism of dragons had been thoroughly
debunked.
"Ah, not a lord," he murmured almost to himself.
"-and your desert warriors? How will they cope in a winter or simply the
North?"
"Regardless of what happens on the mainland, my lady, it will be the scourge of
the coast that will see the Queen prevail. The bulk of the Ironborn and the
hired ships of Essos are unstoppable nautically. As you have experienced."
Sansa's features belied nothing. Not a blink or a twitch or a smile. She simply
raised her chin and rose to her feet. Without a word, Lady Lannister implored
her guests to follow as she walked with a mesmerizing grace to the balcony of
the large solar.
At the height they were perched, the three had an unimpeded view of the cluster
of longships, bulky war galleys, and waspy raiders that loomed in a crescent
around Lannisport and her fleet.
It was Sandor who first snorted in disbelief.
Tyrion looked up at the tall man to trace his gaze - and huffed his own
amusement.
"You're a cagey piece of work, aren't you?" the half-man breathed with the hint
of a smile. His statement's aim was out over the rail of the balcony, but was
more truthfully directed to the young woman behind him.
It took some squinting, and an elevated line of sight, but at the very cusp of
the horizon was a distinct black line. A black line that had no natural right
to be there... let alone to be moving.
Seems most forget we have just as much wood and water as the rest of
'em.Words that proved Captain Tavver had the right of it.
Sansa turned, leaving the two men to contemplate what they were seeing. Even at
a distance the line was impressively long. It took nothing of skill to know
that what lay on the horizon was enough to easily challenge the Targaryen show
of force - their failed bullying threat.
"Who do you think it is? Baratheon?"
Sandor looked down to the Hand who was squinting as he calculated what he was
seeing. "Doesn't matter who, Imp. Only that they're there."
Tyrion listened to the Hound's armour softly clank and shift as he walked back
inside and took a moment to himself before following.
"Surely you don't want war, Sansa," he said as he climbed to his seat across
from her once again.
"No, I have had my taste and fill of war." The bitter copper was an illusion on
her tongue, but it was there all the same. "Though I will gladly fight and die
for my children." There was an uncomfortable creak of plate at the mention of
her self-sacrifice. Ignoring it, she looked at Tyrion, her eyes flashing with
admiration. "All of them," she whispered.
His face pinched and he could not keep her stare. Tyrion cared for Lady Sansa,
and that was his failing, his deficiency as a representative of the Crown - and
she knew it.
The woman in question inhaled deeply through her nose, speaking around the gap
between them. The chasm where the notion of war and bloodshed fell. Each party
recognized without stating outright that that avenue was never more than a sad
show of pretense. "And the Northmen? What of the men from the Riverlands?" 
Sansa's inquiry was not forceful, but was said in a way that allowed no room
for misunderstanding. She wanted to know a death toll, the number of captives,
a count of men that would be used against her. "There were casualties, of
course," Tyrion provided, then continued, "But the bulk of those men have been
left to retreat - to go home." This time there was no hubris in his words,
simply the truth - albeit a heavily refined one. "The point is to avoid sinking
into more years of war, no?"
But in muddling his honesty, Tyrion only served to threaten once again - to
anger once again - and with it came a crack in Lady Sansa's facade, allowing a
glimpse of fury and weakness.
"Tell me, my lord," she seethed through her teeth, "Against a queen and her
purchased soldiers, what do you think will run out first: the gold in my mines
or the goodwill of the Iron Bank of Braavos?" 
If she had been treating with any other man they would have taken her words as
a strike, as the flung hostility they truthfully were. She immediately knew
what she had done - the error she had made. Her mouth clamped shut and an angry
blush rose up her neck. Sansa was furious at herself, but the Hand of the Queen
was calm, his features were not ticking in calculation for retaliation.
Lowering her eyes, Lady Lannister took the time he gave to control herself once
more.
"I have no inclination to fight, Tyrion," she said solemnly to her hands.
"I know, Sansa, and you do not have to." 
His words were tender, spoken in the gust of truth she had been looking for to
begin with, but even within the overt nicety was an underlying potential for
deception. Suspicion of that particular nature, in its truest and most volatile
embodiment, was a well learned attribute, a debatably intentional gift to his
wife from the Great Lion of Lannister.
Sansa raised her eyes to Tyrion, confidently, expectantly. "You cannot tell me
your queen does not harbour the desire to rid Westeros of Eddard Stark's
lineage, even more so to pay blood for blood for the designs against her family
by Tywin Lannister." Her entire demeanour hardened again. "I'm sorry Tyrion,
but if you tell me otherwise, you're a liar."
Tyrion exhaled audibly, not tired, no, but the exhaustion of trying to convey
the truth without giving up his foothold was an exercise worthy of any tourney
champion. "The Queen is young, but she is far from stupid and even farther from
untested." He looked at Sansa with eyes that told her she should feel a
connection to what he was saying. "Yes, your father helped lead the rebellion
against Aerys, but she also knows why."
At his words, stories from her childhood flitted through her memory: her
aunt... her grandfather... her uncle... She snapped to the present when Tyrion
worked himself from his seat and stood before her. Clasping her hand in his, an
unexpected gesture, he spoke with such warmth it all but destroyed her.
"You are regent in the West by marriage, in the North by blood. You are tied by
family to the Riverlands, the Vale, and the bloody Wall!... Sansa, you
are not a pawn." Tyrion bent awkwardly at the knees to look her directly in the
eyes she had turned downward, whispering rather playfully, "And I dare say this
is no revelation."
She nodded to herself as Tyrion let go her fingers and rounded to the table
holding the wine service, pouring himself a glass.
"Sansa, you are safe. My little brothers are safe. The Queen will not seek
retribution through your blood." He took a drink of his wine and returned to
his seat. Once comfortable he spoke again, all arrogance and pride, "Nothing
will change for you, mother. You will keep the West, and the North, but,"
Tyrion dropped his humour, "the Queen will keep you."
"Define keep, son."
"Your fealty, of course. Your assurance of assistance in convincing the rest to
bend the knee. Like you, Queen Daenerys has no will for war. But if pushed, she
will push back-"
Sansa became distant and austere, carrying a tone Tyrion remembered from his
youth - from his father, "Tyrion, tell me why the lives of myself and my
children are being spared."
"You live. Not enough?!" Sandor barked from the dimmest part of the room.
Sansa did not spare him a look, her hard gaze piercing her son.
Tyrion took a deep breath and seemed to be in pain. "Because, you aren't
like him. Your children aren't like me." He leaned his head back as though his
thoughts would spill and he had to adjust to save them.
She considered him, absorbed his words, and felt the pit of her stomach go
cold. "Your brothers are third and fourth born and will not challenge your
claim, Tyrion." It was said with palpable sincerity, but the purpose of her
statement was to coax out the information she knew she did not want to hear.
The Imp smiled his crooked smile. He knew her game.
Blinking slowly, Tyrion spoke with an air of whimsy, "The continuation of my
life requires three things: that I remove myself from succession in the West,
and that I do not marry, nor sire children."
Sandor snorted at the last stipulation.
Sansa was still completely focused on Tyrion, the images and calculations were
piling up in her mind. "And what of Ser Kevan's wife and children?" She was
thinking of his daughter.
Tyrion again looked pained and, without breaking eye contact, he shook his head
slowly. 
This time there was an element of desperation in Sansa's voice as she said,
"His wife is not a Lannister, their children..." She was now edging on anger.
"Spare them, Tyrion. If that's what saves me, why doesn't it save them?"
He noticed her inquiry left out the children of his aunt Genna, but, he smiled
inwardly, his mother only had so much leeway for Freys. And the way he
addressed her introduced a new kind of callousness, an inner deadening of him
that had never been there before. "They are not Starks either," he offered
blandly. "They hold no name or claim of value to the people of this land.
Sansa, to the people who really matter - regardless of what they may say
amongst company - your name is a fable, the North is highly accountable, and
your father and brother are now legends of their own."
Sansa closed her eyes and fought the screams and tears she could feel in
herself struggling to be freed. Once again her name would lead to condemnation
and the forfeiture of life. It was an endless line of needless suffering.
There will always be suffering, in one form or another, waiting for you in this
life.
What do you choose?
Fight.
She snapped her eyes open. "Spare them," she commanded. There was not
one fraction of negotiation in her tone. "If your Queen wishes to puppet me,
she will be wise to spare innocents for the sake of revenge."
"This is something you could bring to the Queen personally when you swear
fealty for the West and the North."
"This is something that will be agreed upon as a condition of my fealty, my
lord."
"I am not a-"
Sansa's mind flew into a panic, buzzing in its jumble of images and nightmares
as she recognized the piece of the puzzle she had so willfully ignored since
the fall of the capital: she would be required to go back to King's Landing.
She would be there… He would be...
Another man connected to her, doomed to death by the powers that be.
Her mind choked on a spike of anxiety.
Her mouth did not.
"I will not... witness..." She took a shaky breath and laid her stony gaze upon
her son. "His death, Tyrion, I will not be forced to watch another-"
"No. No, of course not." Tyrion tried to smile thoughtfully, but it came out a
pathetic grimace.
"This is a start," he said as a form of cover. "A good start. If it please, my
lady, I will send a raven this evening and look to continue talks tomorrow. I
am sure your councilmen have frenzied themselves awaiting your word."
"I will not be bending the knee for the North," Sansa said, half distracted yet
fully invested in her words, an attempt to clear as much as she could in one
sitting. "The Blackfish has been elected by the northern lords for that task-"
"Tomorrow," Tyrion said gently.
She looked at him then, at her friend. At her friends, as her view flicked to
Sandor. She nodded in acquiescence.
It was something of an invite for the large man, that brief look. That
acknowledgement of him as more than merely a sword and an intimidating presence
within the room. Sandor stepped forward and watched as the little bird - no,
the Lady Lannister - quickly stood up in practiced anticipation of his next
move toward her. Against her. It was a realization - whether it was terrible or
perfect, he could not decide - that she had been thoroughly conditioned to such
an extent.
A physical demonstration of self preservation, and Clegane felt a pinch of
guilt in that this type of wary vigilance, though not necessarily distrust, had
probably begun with him all those years ago. To think on those memories made
him punchy and hollow. It may as well have been another lifetime, another story
altogether. But it had happened, those fated paths, and he had followed them.
Not blindly, mind, but thoughtlessly for the most part. And though it took no
effort to amble along without care, the results were more than compelling. For
those roads and markers, those forks and choices, had lead him to exactly where
he stood now: before her.
In a careful measure, Sandor slowly lowered to a knee and gently swung his
giant sword between him and his saviour - his banker, his backer - laying it at
her feet, never once removing his eyes from Sansa's.
There were no voices left in the room, the silence taking on its own noise.
Lady Sansa knew this pledge, had seen it in the North on the smiling faces of
men, in the South amidst looks of fear, and here in the West with greedy,
knowing grins.
Loyalty.
But what she saw on the face of the man in front of her was the purest form of
such allegiance. Neither coerced nor forced, but a decision made inwardly - by
the mutual contentment of the mind and soul. There was no material price you
could pay for that type of devotion; no gold of any colour, no jewel of any
size.
"Before I accept your sword, Sandor, know my terms and make your choice," she
began. Her chin angled up a tiny amount, and her voice flitted with the same
softness Clegane had heard for years in the murky depths of sleep - and for
those days on the Trident when he had skirted the horrible promise of a slow,
fevered death. "Your protection will not be for me, but for my sons." She
watched for anything - disgust, annoyance, anger - there was only
impassiveness. "They need neither a father nor a nurse-"
"What is it you want me to be?" he snorted, his usual ready impatience begging
for air.
"Sandor, I want you to be yourself-"
"I'm no man to influence children," he growled in his familiar way,
"You know this."
She was unfazed by his gruffness. Careful to maintain his eye, her inflection
serious, "You are who they need, and you are who I trust." Sansa watched as
Sandor's jaw worked and flexed, his eyes narrowing and widening as he
deliberated, until finally he shrugged. And it was that accustomed action that
eased her mind.
"If it please you," he said.
Her shoulders relaxed at his agreement, she then tilted her head to the large
man. "Your queen will allow your dismissal?"
"I offered no promises to her, I did not live for her."
Sandor's words were sneered, but Sansa could easily tell there was no venom
behind them, no contempt seeking her as a target. The profound depth from which
they were spoken was readily apparent to her. She smiled at him then - the same
subtle grin she offered in the godswood the second time they had parted ways.
It was the pleasantry offered to a friend, and the acceptance of his sword to
her service.
As Sandor made to stand, Tyrion offered further context to a story he was at
the periphery of. "The Queen had meant to have our Dog culled, at first.
Though, he fought for his life..." Tyrion absently brushed his fingers over his
own mangled face. "...and won."
"How was it you two aligned?" Sansa truly couldn't help but ask.
The large man began to open his mouth, but the half-man used his personal
strength to overpower him.
"Allow me, Clegane." Tyrion chuckled at the snarl he received for his
interruption.
"Finding himself funded," the half-man grinned at Sansa, the same smile he
would tease her with from across tables at feasts in King's Landing, "Clegane
bought plate and passage to Braavos. Boring, boring, boring," he sighed,
"Contracted with the Golden Sons. Boring, boring, boring. Fought for the Queen
in her army... Defended his life and became prettier... Now we're here."
There was an awkward pause, as though the air had been stretched taut, pressing
against the trio like an uncomfortable skin.
"And you became… friends?" she said without bothering to hide her doubt. Sansa
watched as Sandor tensed in a wave that started midpoint on his armour, led
straight to the sneer on this mouth and the deep pull of his brow.
"No," Tyrion said, shedding every bit of humour. "He wished me dead, truth be
told."
The lady of the castle flicked her eyes to the large man in question, observing
his silent admission then returned to the half-man who was talking - sitting
once again, leaning forward in earnest.
"Wished that for quite some time, not that I blame him." His voice was
drifting, unmoored on the ocean of this recollections.
Looking between both men, Sansa could see the stirring of something painful.
Something that had been rectified as best as it could be amidst them, yet still
raw.
"What… Why?..." She didn't know to which of the two she should be asking the
question, either way she was concerned, even more so when Tyrion answered.
"It's not a pretty story-"
"Tell her," came the command from Sandor.
This version of him was the terrifying Hound that Sansa remembered, a version
so fatally authentic she was unsure she wanted to know Tyrion's tale. She
watched the Hand of the Queen worry his lip in his teeth; trepidation - yet
another young characteristic worn on her old friend. Even if there had been
cause for hesitation, the Tyrion she knew while Joffrey lived would offer the
farce of courage before admitting to anything less.
"Your Hound hated me for what he'd heard so many years ago - in rumour and talk
around the Rock - that I'd given my wife to my father to punish and saved
myself. He never knew I was part of that punishment." It was said like stone,
and he was getting lost in the memory.
His wife? Sansa knew she had been offered in marriage to Tyrion and that he had
rejected, but she was at a loss to his confession of a previous bride.
"You see," his voice was a ghost, "I was three-and-ten when Jaime and I came
across a girl who was surely going to meet the worst kind of ravaging by the
men who were about to set upon her." He paused a moment, swallowed, and set his
jaw. "Jaime chased off the men, and I helped the girl. I took her to an inn and
tended to her," he huffed a tiny laugh, "and she tended to me." Tyrion blinked
and looked down at his hands, "I loved her. There and then. She looked at me
and saw nothing of what my father had always told me I was, and I fucking loved
her for it.
"I am a Lannister despite what Lord Tywin says, I had gold, and I paid a septon
to marry us. We stayed at that inn as husband and wife, and for the only time
in my life I felt as tall as any man." He laughed again, but this time it was
parched and desolate. 
He took a fortifying breath through what was left of his nose and cleared his
throat. "The septon feared my father far more than his gods, and his confession
ensured we were found and brought back here.
"I was beside myself," he whispered. "Until Jaime sat me down and told me the
girl was a whore. That he had paid a maiden whore to make me a man."
Tyrion looked up at her then, and Sansa's heart bled. The hurt and turmoil in
his eyes...
"He told me he could prove it and took me to my lord father." His vision did
not sway, but it became so very intense. "Lord Tywin showed me the parchment
voiding my marriage, then dragged me by my collar to the east barracks..."
Sansa's breath began to quicken, her teeth clenched, and she felt an ominous
prickle start at the back of her neck. Again she watched her friend become
washed away in a current of horror - worse than that, of remembrance. And Lady
Sansa knew all too well the toll of swimming against those types of waves.
"Each and every man in that barracks took her." His eyes watered and his voice
became wet and nasally through the hole where his nose should have been. "She
was a purchased courtesy, a favour paid for by their lord. He encouraged them,
praised them in their degradation." He looked at Sansa then and sobbed, broken,
and undone, "The final act of which w…," his voice wavered, intoned to almost
mute, "...w-was me..."
The room fell again to an uncommon quiet, the sea also having seemed to hold
its breath at the story being unfurled. Sansa looked past Tyrion to the wall
behind him, not trusting her own emotions to view either man, offering her
friend a reprieve to collect himself.
He took the time he needed to recover, there was no pressure or ridicule
directed toward him, a luxury he knew would only be afforded by the people in
that room. "I know now the look she wore was that of terror, not pleasure. I
know what he had done." Tyrion spoke again quietly calm, grim though the
statement was. "The night I left King's Landing I meant to kill him. Jaime
pulled whatever debt he needed to help me escape, but my freedom was no match
for his conscience. He held me still in a cramped corridor and told me the
truth about my wife."
Tyrion looked at Sansa dead-on. There was not one thread of warmth in him. "Her
name was Tysha. She was the daughter of a crofter, happened upon by the sons of
Lannister - married to one, betrayed by another, and raped by a hundred men at
the orchestration of their father."
It was a dirge of the worst kind, one of broken love; more so, one that sounded
rehearsed. Sansa dropped her eyes to the floor, her teeth bared in a grimace
she was unable to hold back, fighting to balance the agony of both want and
necessity, those constantly warring divisions of life seeking to overwhelm her.
Her gaze remained averted, she felt the pool of time grow stagnant and start to
drown her. Sansa moved slowly, first to step, then to kneel in front of Tyrion;
her hands blindly sought his, her guts tightened and churned, her heart was
erratic in fits of pain and sorrow.
"I'm… so sorry," she forced out. Forced herself to give him her voice, forced
herself to finally meet his eye.
"Saying you're sorry implies you carry fault," he teased sadly.
Sansa looked at her friend as the tears she struggled so hard to keep buried
rolled over her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. "You want me
to hate him, Tyrion, and I can't." She ducked her head and sobbed into her
hands where they clung to his. "That's why I'm sorry."
When she looked to him again, she saw a distinct flash of unmitigated rage that
was eaten by unmitigated anguish as his own tears trailed down the pits and
scars of his face.
Tyrion tightened his jaw, thrashing the wish to both despise and admire the
woman before him.
His friend. His mother.
He knew he was asking too much of her. They were all fractured in some way, but
she more than most. Sansa had more pieces scattered about than all of them
combined, and he all but cornered her in his demand that she divide those
shards again - break them into even smaller pieces.
What a selfish prick he was.
Tyrion juddered bodily as he made to stand, wiping his face on his sleeve and
freeing the woman who wept her sympathy and solidarity into his hands; her
tears in his palms were his forgiveness of her - the currency of their deal.
They each stood. There would be no more negotiation or conversation that day.
And as he gathered his bearings and set to walk past his mother, Tyrion gripped
an elegant hand that hung abnormally limp and wayward at her side. There was no
contact other than that, there was no power in the two to offer anything more.
Sansa felt the grip of stunted fingers on her hand, then the tight squeeze she
knew to be of assurance. It was the same reticent assertion he used on more
than one occasion to relieve her doubt in the Red Keep.
...in that one rudimentary act of communication, he told her she was safe.
She did not watch him leave, could not, but knew when the doors had opened and
closed to allow him exit. Her tears kept falling, the visceral impact of the
day settling over her like a wet cloak.
"No point crying for the Imp, girl."
Two large hands snaked around each of her upper arms, the strength of those
hands turning her to face the other man in the room. The man who became a
shadow himself, overlooked amidst the riot of emotion that had claimed her. But
his actions, unthinking and brutish, doused her tribulation in a wave of the
potent fury she possessed but rarely displayed.
"Remove your hands from me, Sandor."
Her voice was as steely as her glare and Sandor pulled his hands back
cautiously. Whatever tears that had taken her in the moments prior were
forgotten, in their place was something the large man was sure resembled anger.
"I address you without the titles you loathe out of respect for our history,
but that in no way allows you the presumption of liberty." It was anger and
it was not even close to being diluted. She cocked her head, her eyes all the
more fiery. "You will show me the same respect - I have titles, you will use
them." He stepped back from his obvious offense, his look somber, though there
was no fury in him. "And you will not handle me as you once felt permitted."
There was no plea in her statement, it was a fact. One that Sandor believed to
his bones. He looked down at her, his face still not showing a shred of anger
or annoyance or amusement... or the Hound.
"Apologies, my lady." The words were rusty in his mouth, but the gruff
sincerity was not.
Her eyes darted over his face, from ruin to roughshod, scrutinizing his candor
with cool interest, not letting one single scrap of tell float away - anything
that would allow him insight. This had nothing to do with truth or lies, her
scrutiny was built of something greater and he felt honoured to have her
appraisal. Her approval would be seen on him as he had seen it on the men and
women of the Rock already, those people proudly displaying Lady Sansa's
acceptance.
She's their queen. That particular truth punched him directly in the
throat. Tywin Lannister married a little bird and cultivated a gods-damn queen.
Sandor looked at her with such gratitude, such open appreciation, that Sansa
could not help but feel its sting. It leveled her indignant posturing and
covered her previous outburst with the succinct inflection that was more her
manner. "Your charges are elsewhere, Sandor. Until their return, you will help
in overseeing our leave and travel when the time comes - and you will serve as
a liaison of sorts once at court. Is this agreeable?"
"Yes," he said immediately, then remembered his reprimand from but a few
moments before, "...My lady."
He was honestly trying. It would take time, but his reflex courtesy would fall
back into place eventually. Until then, as he looked at the tiniest of glints
in the eyes of the serious woman in front of him, he knew he had best get used
to being held accountable for any lack of it.
"Might be I should start making those plans now, my lady."
Lady Sansa's face gentled a fraction as her armour was reapplied. It was only
momentary, but she looked more like the girl he knew in their life before, if
Sandor were to judge.
And what a surprising relief it was to know that not everything had been
removed or remade.
"Tomorrow," she said.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
King's Landing was as it had been to Lady Sansa in the last half of her life:
utterly forgettable. But her reasons for being there were nothing short of
life-altering. She stood before her queen, appropriately reverent, timely in
her propriety, and flawless in her elegance. Her fealty had been negotiated,
termed, and agreed upon. All that was left was the pomp and show of submission
before lords and courtiers who were there for the same reason.
There had been some tense moments of back-and-forth between her and Tyrion,
mostly pertaining to the sparing of lives, and then again when the time came to
discuss the Crown's debt to the Rock. They wanted it to be - they assumed it
would be - buried with the deeds of the previous lord, but Sansa would not
budge in her insistence that it be honoured. She was as unmoving as the man she
called husband, and Tyrion made the effort more than once to remind her of that
fact, if only to try and garner leverage.
The tactic failed to work. Lady Sansa was formidable in her arbitration and
more than a little stifled in her compromise, but her intent was genuine and
her compassion for the greater good of the matter was evident. She was not
heartless, no, though she was certainly not weak.
Queen Daenerys spoke from atop the dais, from atop her throne. Sitting almost
lost amongst the honed points and curvatures, she was small in comparison and
cast the image of a child playing queen. Though it was her eyes that proved her
age, and her tone of voice that stated clearly this Queen was not engaged in
frivolity.
"Regent of both the West and the North-"
Tyrion interjected softly, "My apologies for interrupting Your Grace, Ser
Brynden Tully is present and will be speaking on behalf of the North."
The Queen looked squarely at Sansa. "Why aren't you speaking on behalf of your
North?"
"The North is not mine to speak for, Your Grace." She chanced a glance to her
great uncle, and at the confident incline of his head, felt a relief, thick and
true, wipe away her nervousness as she continued, "The North is not the seat of
the Lannisters."
There was an uproar in court around her. Sansa distinctly heard a few lords of
the West, new lords in the West, testing the infancy of their fealty, baulking
at perceived treachery. She also observed the Queen not trying to quell the
backlash, but notably dissecting it, putting complaint to a face and that face
to a name.
The lords of the West that sat on her council at Casterly Rock knew her reasons
for abstaining from the rule and influence of the North. The only way the West
was going to be able to carry forward under the new Targaryen Queen was to
sacrifice something she would view as significant.
By removing Rykar from succession and supporting Rickon in claiming the seat,
greed would be replaced by sentimentality - and thatwould be reflected as
compassion and compromise on a House wherein those traits had been absent for
decades. It was a move indicating positive change more than nepotism,
especially when it was forged in such a strong alliance.
The lords of the West, those of the highest standing, those of Lady Sansa's
council, each knew the benefit of such a sacrifice… More so, how it would
benefit them.
There had been rumblings of a coup when it had been known that Sansa would bend
the knee. The younger lords, the lower echelon houses of the Westerlands,
thought it was time to remove the name of Lannister from Casterly Rock. But
those notions, those men, were cut down as fast as they emerged, actions
commanded at the icy nod and approval of Lady Lannister.
As long as Tywin Lannister's youngest sons took breath, there would be
Lannisters on the Rock. And those particular Lannisters had the guaranteed
protection of North and the Riverlands - and the backing of the Crown.
Survival had been assured, it was now a matter of proving worthy of that
consideration, and Sansa vowed to carry as much of that burden for her sons as
she possibly could. Give them every advantage she possibly could. Teach them
everything she had learned… as much as she possibly could.
The noisy din of the Throne Room had yet to lighten, the Queen was now viewing
her audience with narrowed eyes - those of contempt, not consideration - and at
length, she turned her head sharply and gave a terse nod toward the darkness
along the outer wall.
The Unsullied.
Their tanned skin lent to the shadows, and it was not until, as one single
entity, their spears clashed with their shields, once, then twice, and again
and again, that one was reminded that those stock-still forms were living,
tangible men.
Men of the deadliest kind.
Tywin required her, them, to read about their enemies. Each variety. They had
spent endless hours in thick tomes and brittle scrolls acquainting themselves
with hairless warriors and horse armies, each whose only purpose it seemed was
to breathe and fight and die.
It was something else altogether seeing those words and descriptions come to
life, and she was only glad she had been prepared. The Unsullied, she found,
moved like a hive. Even in pairs there was no conversation, only mirrored
actions and fluid movements. But in watching them, Sansa also saw
individuality. For some, their eyes were dead and bottomless, but for others,
there was a spark, a glint of life amidst the rigid mechanism of their day-to-
day existence.
And mayhaps, she thought, that spark of life beyond the hive was a gift from
their Queen.
Whatever their cause, the actions of the silent sentries were effective -
marching over the drone to regain order.
"And who are you to think to petition for your brother?"
"I am no one, Your Grace. It is Ser Brynden Tully who is petitioning for my
brother Rickon. I am simply assuring you the West will remain compliant."
"You will remove yourself from those negotiations?"
"If that is your desire, Your Grace. I would only ask to speak as Regent in the
West to renegotiate terms of restitution and current finance with the North, as
my duty requires."
"You would give up the North?"
"I gave it up the moment I left it, Your Grace. The moment I was betrothed to
Joffrey Baratheon."
"You mean Lannister, a product of incest."
Sansa did not speak a word to the insult. Instead she raised a brow the barest
of fractions on her serious face, the best imitation of her husband she could
afford, and waited for the Queen to move forward. Thus allowing the silence
between them to acknowledge the Targaryen's hypocrisy of her own familial
lineage.
"You then married Lord Tywin," the Queen continued with an air of agitation.
"I was married to Lord Tywin as a political maneuver against my brother, as a
means to end a war."
"And heirs, which you gave. Two sons, correct?"
Sansa chewed back her instinct to protect, never shifting in her calm
seriousness. "Eventually."
The Queen looked from her Hand to her Lord Commander, then addressed Sansa in
question. "Explain."
Lady Sansa took a moment. She looked to be gathering herself, strength and
otherwise. "My first child was lost, Your Grace," she said baldly, her eyes
leveled and her expression only slightly pinched in the pain of a loss that
never seemed to fade.
The Queen faltered at her confession. It was nothing overt, a sadness in her
countenance, purely subtle, but it was one of the many things Sansa was looking
for; therefore, it did not go unnoticed.
"The second instance, my sons were born..." Sansa trailed away; with the words,
her view strayed to ever familiar points within the room they occupied. Her
voice was rough with an emotion belying the sternness of her face. Her eyes
widened for only for a small beat before reeling everything back in.
"Your Hand can attest the truth, Your Grace." Lady Lannister now spoke in a
manner of detachment, something clinical. "My pregnancies were not forced. I
was not bred."
The Queen looked down from her place upon the throne. A place and implement
that had only meant loss for Sansa, and, she supposed, that particular tide
would never turn. However, she did feel bereft - an empty calm. Perhaps it was
second nature, unlocked by the chamber itself, to hold such a placidity under
scrutiny by the occupant of that chair. Like Joffrey before, and like Cersei as
well, this new royalty owned nothing of her - could take nothing from her.
Sansa had paid her due to the Iron Throne, she owed no more. And while her duty
would not allow her fealty to waver or her word to the Crown and the terms they
had negotiated be anything save honoured, her soul would never be bound again.
"The heirs of Tywin Lannister were summoned along with you, why are they not
here?"
The voice of the Queen cut through Sansa's lament, though it did nothing to jar
her mettle. "They had been sent to safety prior to your arrival, Your Grace."
"Send for them." It was an order that sounded bitter.
"My apologies, Your Grace, but I will not willfully submit my children to
danger."
Lady Lannister heard the familiar subtle shift-and-flex of the four brave
knights who would fight to their own deaths for the preservation of her life
and dignity. With them was the new noise, no less subtle, of a large dangerous
man, her large dangerous man, adjusting his stance to accommodate whatever the
Dragon Queen decided to act upon.
Queen Daenerys went on. "I could just as easily execute you, if that is your
preference."
"It is." Sansa said those two words without hesitation and with more than a
hint of anger.
The quiet in the room was uneasy. The shifting, fidgeting noise of men and
women either moving away from, or vying for a closer position to, what was
slowly becoming a prelude to carnage, seemed loud around them.
There was a feral quality to this Queen, Sansa noted. Whereas Cersei was
vicious and Margaery was calculated, each was blatant. Queen Daenerys though,
she was wild under her skin of royalty - baseborn compassion with an edge of
highborn cruelty. The Queen reminded Sansa of her own sister. All roughened
defiance and passionate righteousness, mostly blind to the important details
that require patience.
"He called for you, my lady. Your great lion wept and cried for you like babe
for its mother."
"I expect he would, Your Grace," Sansa said unperturbed.
"He does this often, then?"
Ignoring the titters and laughter-adjusted-to-coughs, Lady Lannister addressed
her new queen with every scrap of courtly decorum belonging to her. "No, Your
Grace, I have never witnessed that in my husband. I only know that when I was
tortured for the entertainment of regency, I also cried out for those close to
me."
It was then Sansa realized what she was missing: fear. She did not have it when
Tywin first told her of the impending invasion, she did not have it when he
left, and she did not have it when the Tyrell betrayal was revealed. She held
fury and confusion and hurt, but not fear.
Her lord husband had taught her that fear was useless. There were better
instincts to trust in for guidance; that fear, although the antithesis of
dreams and wishes, was as equally crippling. Sansa did not believe him then,
thinking only fools never obliged their fear, but here she was, fearless in the
face of yet another queen who would think her better if she were dead.
"Lord Tywin will die."
"I am aware, Your Grace." Her voice was not lifeless, nor was it quaking. It
was plainly neutral.
Keep them guessing.
Queen Daenerys tilted her head; a minute adjustment of angle, a tiny smoothing
of blatant hate. The lady before her was a mystery. Strong, yet refined. Open,
yet cunning. "Then why else are you here?" Dany asked blandly.
"On behalf of Lord Tyrion, Your Grace."
There was a stifled coughed from the half-man situated beside his Queen. The
look on his face both begged for restraint and offered shrewd approval.
"Tyrion is no lord," the Queen said, almost preoccupied.
"No, Your Grace, but he should be-"
"He won't be."
Sansa closed her eyes then, breathed deep the stale air she never for a day
missed, and opened them once more. She looked upon her Queen without the mask
that shielded her from the world around her, without a stitch of reproach.
This was her honesty; this was her offer of love and protection.
All of them.
"Please value him, Your Grace." Her voice chose that moment to finally waver,
as her eyes threatened to betray her. Sansa cleared her throat lightly and
spoke reverently, "Please treat him as the treasure his father refused to see."
Tyrion wore a look of such admiration, Sansa had to quickly retreat behind her
armour lest she be caught in tears. And though she now looked stony, Tyrion
refused to hide his caring affection toward his mother.
When Sansa returned her attention to the Queen, what struck her was the young
woman's smile. It was barely there, yet it changed her entirely. The severity
of Queen Daenerys was brushed away, but her outward demeanour was not overly
amiable either. She seemed settled. Whether in position or decision, Sansa did
not know, but it was definitive in its portrayal.
"Lady Lannister, you are welcomed in your stay. For the duration and to the
conclusion of our business." The Queen's words did not hold the malice they did
earlier. Like that of her countenance, the pitch of her inflection seemed to
have calmed in some sort of acceptance.
That calm was what she angled for, as there was one last appeal Sansa had to
make. "Your Grace, I thank you. Though, I must ask-" But she was ended before
she began with the raise of the Queen's hand. Her palm-out gesture an ingrained
prompt to cease and listen.
"You will see him." Targaryen violet hardened a fraction in their lock on Tully
blue. "Just before his end. Not prior."
It was with some effort Sansa swallowed the cusp of grief before it rallied
into an evident physicality, yet devoured it she did. Officials and their court
had no right to her sorrow and gloom. It was hers alone, and Sansa would never
publicly display that part of her again.
The Lady of Casterly Rock stood before the Queen and bowed, her flawless curtsy
part of her old-found gentility toward her new-found monarch.
As she turned to leave - Sandor at her lead, two knights at her side, two at
her back - Sansa knew she should be gratified and comforted in the knowledge
that her brother would be seated rightfully in the North, the end of the Stark
line to define a new beginning; that her children would not be denied their
succession, nor their name or freedom - another new beginning.
But it was the long sharp needles of melancholy piercing her breast bone,
gifting her with agony for every jostle of movement - be it by breathing or
walking - that encouraged her to tread fast and seek the solitude of her rooms.
She would see him.
...she would see him.
And that particular happiness tore through her heart with the hurt of it.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
***** Truth VI *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
Sandor Clegane walked Lady Lannister to a nondescript room in a nondescript
building near the heart of King's Landing.
The heart of the capitol was in truth nothing more than a sunken pit, one large
enough to house dragons and accommodate an audience to appreciate mortal
destruction. Sansa could only acknowledge the twisted irony that the center of
her chest seemed cavernous in its own right. Sandor had instructed her, not
ungently, to wait inside and offered her one of two chairs - the only furniture
within - before leaving.
The room was a small thing, its windows perched high on the walls and barely
more than cracks in the stone. However, as Sansa experienced in those early
morning hours, when shone upon at the correct angle the light poured in and the
space was as bright as anything. Cheerful even. But she was not. For what felt
like hours, but was surely only a handful of minutes, Sansa had been pacing,
staring blankly at those cheerfully encroaching walls and ridiculous chairs
when the door opened again.
Flanked by a no less than a dozen of the same savage warriors she had seen
throughout the capitol was her husband. Or so she assumed. Sansa blinked openly
at the scene, she thought she knew how their reunion would play, but this was
almost like she was meeting a stranger. 
Physically he was a shock. Always a lean man, Tywin was now sickly thin. His
collarbone jutted out in a way it never had before, and the skin that once fit
snug to his whipcord musculature now hung slack and papery. He was all angles
and shadows; cheekbones hollowed to his jaw line. His overall posture told not
of a man, but of a dog beaten to heel. 
Yet, in striking contrast, his fingers and hands remained elegant and
unblemished, and it was with that acknowledgement Sansa understood her startle
had little to do with the slump of his shoulders or the deep set lines on his
face and neck, but that her husband looked tired. More than that, he looked old
in a way she had never seen. Lord Tywin looked as if he'd been dragged through
every single one of his years, unwillingly.
Hers was an unforgiving assessment, she knew, but Sansa had not thought she
would find herself faced with another man entirely. Perhaps a wounded man, in
part, but not one so... familiar. A frightening honesty burrowed under her skin
and brushed along raw nerves to sit static as a tingling fear at the back of
her neck. A breath made of lead caught midway in her throat. This feeling was
known. This was the same unnerving sensation from the first and only other time
it manifested: when she witnessed her father being hauled to the steps of
Baelor.
The old lion stiffened under his wife's scrutiny. Self consciousness was
something Tywin Lannister had never, in his waking life, experienced and the
ensuing embarrassment of it goaded his ire.
Sansa watched his shoulders roll back straight, for him to stand rigid before
her; his sunken eyes narrowed, sharp as ever. The gold was burning, hot flecks
in a sea of shimmering green, and the tale told there was one of arrogance,
confidence, and all out power.
This was the man she knew. Beaten bloody and dressed in no more than
rags, this Tywin Lannister she now saw was every bit her formidable lion,
commanding even the air around him.
When he had walked into the small, sunny room she could tell he was surprised
with the company found there. It was only a flash in his eyes, but enough for
her to discern she was not expected. Sansa felt an irrational pang of hurt, but
it was quickly put to rest when Tywin twitched the corner of his mouth. She
knew then that while unexpected, he was pleased for her to be there.
The guards left wordlessly, closing the door behind them. The men remained
silent, though Sansa could easily hear that they had stationed themselves just
without.
Lord and Lady Lannister simply stared. It had been nigh on a year since they
had last seen one another, spoken, or touched. And like when she returned from
the North, it was as though they were new to one another again; awkward in
their silence.
The mood did not last.
Tywin moved toward her, his hands limp at his sides, his steps small and
painful looking.
Sansa closed the distance between them instantly. From her new vantage point,
she could see clearly the extent of his physical deterioration. Both of his
eyes were not merely sunken, but blackened, the scarred remnants of a large
gash that had extended from the bridge of his nose, up and over his forehead
and ended midpoint at the top of his head was a sharp white line against his
now pale skin. He had various cuts and bruises seemingly everywhere.
Her chest tightened at the barbarism inflicted on her husband. Standing in
front of him, she placed her hands gently on his forearms. The gesture was not
an attempt to assist him physically, but the comfort it offered was almost
overwhelming. Equally as powerful when she traced her palms up his arms and
shoulders, brushing tenderly over his now prominent collarbone, coming to rest
on the sides of his neck. Her fingers danced their way along the familiar line
to his jaw, burrowing themselves well into the shag of his sideburns.
He breathed deep at that singular contentment.
Her lion purred.
Tywin had neither the will nor the want to resist his body's need to lean into
his wife and accept her affection. He rested his head on her shoulder and
buried his face in the hair she had kept down and loose. For him.
Gods, he missed the smell and feel of it, of her. He brought his hands up,
raising his head as he did, and cupped her face before placing the softest kiss
he could manage upon her lips, fighting every urge to simply devour her. Sansa
kissed him back, so chastely, so softly, and when her tongue flicked, tickling
his lip, asking permission, Tywin's world bent in a whirl.
Such gentleness after moons of brutality. Such tender affection for a man like
him.
Her man.
...and he was truly hers.
Making soft noises, Sansa deepened their intimacy. However, when her tongue
slid into his mouth, she felt another effect of the treatment given to the
Warden of the West. Some of his teeth were broken, others were missing, and it
caused her to kiss him even deeper, wanting to lick away whatever pain he must
have suffered.
When he pulled back, Sansa noted his eyes looked more at peace. He was not
agitated or frightened of his fate - not that she would ever expect that of
him.
He lowered his arms to rest behind her back, hugging her into his chest. Sansa
returned his embrace fiercely, fisting her hands into his thin garment, resting
her cheek over his heart. She could feel him let out a deep breath and lay his
own cheek on the crown of her head.
"My queen."
Sansa smiled tremulously; yes, even in the most dire of circumstances, her
husband had to reiterate what was his.
Oh, how mighty and proud.
She felt to reestablish what was hers as well, breathing, "My king."
Sansa could feel the muscles of his face move in her hair and heard something
made of a laugh and a scoff bubble from his chest. Tywin squeezed her a little
harder, murmuring, "Indeed, beautiful girl." Lady Lannister was now long from
being a girl, but she always found a crumb of comfort in that specific
endearment.
It was her husband who, again, dictated their interaction by pulling away a
second time and stepping them both toward the seating provided. Sitting first,
Sansa watched Tywin wince and lower himself slowly into position on the
hardback chair. Once settled he reached for her hands, holding them, entwining
his fingers in hers, drawing little circles with his thumbs like he had done a
thousand times before on a thousand different parts of her body. All the while
he had trained his gaze on their contact of skin.
"No harm will come to you, Sansa." He focused his serious eyes on hers then.
"Or our children. That, I promise." Almost bitterly, he added, "Tyrion owes his
debt."
She knew this. Sansa also knew that her world as new as it was, had already
been secured. The contracts had been long concluded, the signatures long dried,
while all assurances and oaths had long since been stated. However, she would
never correct him or tell him otherwise.
Sansa nodded in acknowledgement.
Tywin shifted again on the hard wooden chair, and Sansa could not help but
notice him grimace.
"Are you in pain?"
"I've spent a year sitting on the floor, my lady. Suddenly, chairs are what I
find uncomfortable."
"There is plenty of floor here, if you'd prefer?"
"I couldn't ask you-"
"You're not, my lord. I'm offering."
Tywin angled his head slightly to the side, just to see her at a different
perspective. She was not anxious or nervous, but calm and definite in her
offer. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he stood with as much poise as his
body could afford him - which was not much at all.
Sansa made no move to assist him, no reach to help unburden his maladies. To
reaffirm his weakness. And though some might say it was a deed born of apathy,
the old lion knew it as respect. He knew it as one of the many reasons he
adored the young woman who chose to carry him with her eyes instead her hands,
for he would not be treated as deficient, and she would not impose that kind of
insult.
Standing upright, Tywin reached for her, his hand open and waiting. The offer
was more habit than anything, as was Sansa's immediate acceptance. She rose,
her fingers held gently in his, and her eyes softened with the familiarity of
it; she smiled, watching him pull her fingers higher to his lips.
If not for the bitter circumstance, the act between husband and wife would have
been sweet.
They walked in comfortable silence to a wall just out of the sunlight, where
they could watch the bright lines move with the day - something both
distracting and constantly taunting. With careful ease, her hand still held in
his, the old lion leaned back against the wall and lowered himself in the
manner that best suited his needs: legs splaying open, as was now a habit of
necessity.
Tugging lightly, he led his wife to sit in the space provided by his unorthodox
position, and was pleased when she did so without care or indecision -
something he rewarded with a hum of approval.
Situating herself into an accommodating arrangement, Sansa came to rest, her
backside on the cold stone, her knees bent and tucked to the side. Yet as she
settled with a deep breath as if to speak, her attention was inadvertently
drawn to the apex of his legs.
Tywin assessed her demeanour; again no overt sympathies were afforded, instead
he found concern set firmly in place. The same look she wore when earned by
their boys, if they happened to injure themselves as children were much apt to
do.
It was close enough to pity. He hated it.
Gripping her hand with an ungentle strength, he pressed her palm to the place
her eyes refused to leave. He circled her fingers with his own, pressing even
harder, showing her exactly what she must have been told.
There would be no day, in this life or beyond, that Tywin Lannister would
tolerate that type of condolence. His jaw flexed, his eyes narrowed, and the
old lion silently dared her to speak of it. To remind him of what he no longer
was to her, what he could no longer do to her, and it was his own ill-born
contemplation of what he was sure his wife was scrutinizing that shoved his
fury to the fore.
There it was met with understanding, not condemnation; the kind of acceptance
only Sansa was capable of - at least in regards to him - that snuffed his ire
and left only the faintest of plumes. Her thumb rubbed tiny lines over the
ridge his soft cock made in the fabric of his breeches, and they both turned
their gaze.
Whether there was any ability in him to harden for her was well past his body's
recognition and his mind's want to try. Sansa's touch was soothing regardless
of circumstance, and his muscles responded by seeping out tension and allowing
him to take comfort in her care.
Sansa was lost in him. Her lion. There was nothing vulgar in her touch nor was
it curiosity, more the satisfaction of extension and connection. For the nights
she reached out to find no one, for the days her fingers fidgeted for the feel
his skin or clothing, but remained empty.
Tywin's mouth curved up ever so slightly at her effort, grunting softly as his
thoughts dared turned to those of when he was whole, when she would use this
exact same teasing touch... wherever the little minx thought to tempt him. At
feasts, in counsel, from a deep sleep, it didn't matter, she took her pleasure
- and he let her. Even with half-hearted jeers and woolly threats, she was
inspired in her arousal. And all he wanted was to feel her touch, her heat, and
watch her lose herself to the desire she took for herself from his body.
His eyes traced hers - how her thighs strained the fabric of her gown, the
gentle contour of her hip, the plane of her torso wrapped rigid in her corset
…that same corset pushing and setting her breasts just so-
With a tentative reach and equally tentative stroke, Tywin ran his fingers over
the necklace whose large ruby nestled where it always had - on top of the
softness of his wife's breasts. A thick braid of white gold, teased with
strands of yellow...
The necklace long thought stolen, punishment for which long since doled to
those who were unknowing. Tywin flinched in recognition of the miscalculation
and looked at her squarely.
"A debt?"
The old lion stilled his palm over the jewel, the centerpiece, exactly how he
used to when the necklace was still in her possession. His fingertips flirted
with the cold metal in the same way he remembered doing before, especially when
it was the only thing she wore.
Sansa smiled, but it flattened to something just shy of grim. "An investment,"
she corrected.
"Was it worth it?" his voice was barely audible.
Sansa raised her hand to her husband's face and stroked through the scruff and
the shag until his eyes gave in and closed; it was then she returned his
whisper. "Yes, it was." The words cracked, causing the lion to open his eyes.
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Tywin grimaced and let out a loud lungful of air. At the same time he pulled
his wife close, dug his fingertips into a gown he so admired, into the flesh he
so wanted, and yearned to dissolve like - salt meeting freshwater - into the
goodness of her. His clever wife. She had her secrets and she kept them safe.
This was how he was reassured. This was how Tywin knew his wife would never
fail him. 
He held tight, his pride in her becoming a physical act, pulling and pressing
Sansa into a body that had never offered points of discomfort before this day.
Sansa took whatever she could from him, gladly, because it was so much better
than feeling nothing. That empty pit that had taken to greeting her as she
woke, that made her feel just as alone inside herself as she was in their bed,
was pushed aside merely by his touch. And she welcomed that comfort, that
safety, as much as the man himself.
She looked at her husband then, so beaten but not diminished, so real but an
illusion all the same, and her throat choked in shame. "I didn't save you." Her
whispered sob hung between them.
Tywin held her closer, his annoyance amazingly revived. "You can't save me,
Sansa. You know that, don't you?"
His wife twisted her fingers tightly into the rags his clothing had become,
anguishing at his words. "I didn't even try!"
She had done exactly what Tywin wanted her to do: exploit the weakness of the
new queen - her hatred of him - and save herself. He lifted her chin, and as he
angled her face toward him, her eyes refused to follow, threatening to spill
the tears she was swallowing hard to avoid.
"Look... Sansa..." His fingers pinched into her jaw to get her
attention. "Look!" It worked, she held his gaze - tremulously, but held
it. Each word he uttered was its own force, accentuated by the tiniest of
shakes in the grip he had on her. "You cannot save me." His delivery was as
narrow and pointed as his glare.
Several heartbeats later, Sansa could only watch, blink and marvel at the
imposing entity that was her husband.
It did not make it any easier.
"I know." Sansa's truth was minute, a frail thing. Her mind moved forward
taking her mouth with it as her body turned away. "I've failed. Again." Her
throat tightened. "First my father, now you... At least a war will end because
of me, not sta-"
Tywin gripped her shoulders, turning her more toward him. He tried to read her,
but she seemed so far away.
Come back. 
He kissed her softly.
"Is that what you think?" He kissed her again and could not help but sound
incredulous, "Sansa, speak to me true. Do you think you started the war? That
you condemned your father-"
"No, my lord." She muttered absently over him, looking so lost as she spoke.
"I know I did." Her demeanour then turned to something he had not seen in
years: wooden. "I was the one who told Cersei of my father's plans to leave. I
was the one who convinced him to admit treason. Don't you see?" It was a shaky
breath that carried her final words, her mother's words, "I killed him. I
killed everyone."
Her eyes were open, but unseeing, the world refracting in the tears that pooled
along her lashes. Her body trembled, but she was left unfeeling. The only thing
she knew was that Tywin had lifted her into his lap properly, that her body was
being cradled like a babe.
He held her, he rocked her, and he had no idea how to fix her.
Truth. That double-edged sword which may at once cure and kill, placate and
agitate... may repair or break, completely.
Tywin cleared his throat and spoke his blunt words into the soft hair at the
top of her head. "The Queen knew your father's plans, Sansa." Tywin waited a
moment, pulled back slightly, glad to see his wife not so hollow, and
continued, "He told Cersei exactly what his intentions were long before you
did." He blinked rapidly, internally assessing his honesty, getting lost in the
process. "I thought you knew... No... of course you wouldn't..." he babbled,
absent of true attention, adrift amongst his own thoughts.
The old lion caught himself, wading back through the thick mire of distraction.
There was no time left to horde his own secrets, no time for that kind of
uselessness.
Not anymore. Not with her.
Tywin steadied himself and spoke stiffly, as she was used to. "He was betrayed,
my lady. Your father tripped over his honour and landed amongst the rats."
It worked. Sansa rallied to Tywin's candor, though it cut her deep. The truth
dug to the base of those old wounds, rooted them out and milked away that
stagnate hurt. But left in its wake were fresh scars of doubt and upheaval. She
had carefully crafted her life against the hidden shame of her own ruination,
and now her husband had taken that away with a handful of words.
His honesty left his wife reeling and suffering. Tywin could see that kind of
torment like daylight.
One more push, he thought. One more nudge was what she required.
The old lion always knew how to gather and bind the threads of strength his
wolf needed to persist. "What do you choose, Sansa?" He smirked at her banked
wrath; this was the woman he dreamt of.
"To fight, my lord." The statement was cool, yet far from indifferent.
Lord Tywin leaned in and pressed his lips to his wife's temple before working
his mouth to rest lightly at her ear. He held her tenderly and whispered a soft
caress, "Petyr Baelish."
It was a name. It was a greedy condemnation. It was a debt, and the last gift
he could give her personally.
Tywin felt her breathing sink and become heavy, taking in the information, duly
processing what she needed of it now and shuffling the rest back for later. But
the stiffness in her muscles was still there, drawn taut and making her shiver.
Her conscience then was a jagged lesion. Her own morality was tearing it open
like hands clenched on either side, exposing the meat underneath. The meat of
who she really was, who she had been, and who she had yet to become.
"You cannot survive under the weight of so much guilt, Sansa." Tywin held on
tighter, pulled her in and wanted so much for her pain to transfer. "You have
made hard choices, my lady. None of which were ever wrong."
"H-how do you know that?" she murmured hoarsely, more to herself. As though to
accentuate the question, her head lolled ever so faintly as her view rounded to
meet his gaze.
His wolf was open completely, and Tywin could do no more than give her the same
of himself.
The face of her Great Lion pinched and frowned in a hurt she could read on him
openly, and it sobered her. The arms and hands of her Great Lion crushed her in
their embrace, and it soothed her. The call of her Great Lion purred past
whatever harm was clawing through him, and it strengthened her.
"You're here, aren't you?" he whispered to the treasure-of-a-girl sitting where
she always fit flush - on his lap, twined around his torso, her own arms and
hands seeking their rightful places on his body. She sunk into him, into the
curve that was hers; her head resting where it always had on his shoulder, her
breath reassuring and warm on his neck and jaw.
They so desperately held on.
The silence roared around them, crashing in waves like the Sunset Sea and how
it battered a rhythm into the very cliffs that made their home. A violent
thundering chorus within the caverns beneath the castle; the undulating force
of nature itself that could be felt shuddering through the solid rock, and
them, every time they would lay together and take their pleasure on those
battered-smooth formations under a steady mist of sea water.
They held on tighter.
Time stuttered forward inviting lord and lady to relax into themselves. The
manic pace of emotions having exacted the price of exhaustion.
The stripes of light on the floor before them had moved noticeably when Tywin
spoke again, his words seemingly from a conversation he was having with
himself. "They will turn to dust before finding me wanting of forgiveness."
Sansa did not speak in response to his statement, but instead pushed away to
look at him more directly. If he wanted to talk, she would not deny him, but it
was the hard edge to his glare and the deep frown that indicated he would talk
of something terrible, of something gnawing him hollow.
"I am sure the Imp has tainted m-"
And how correct she was. Sansa quickly raised her hand and clapped it over his
lips. She looked at him coldly, speaking a matching vent. "Tyrion has told
me... many things."
Both her hand and eyes dropped, her face etched in the pain she felt at knowing
Tyrion's anguish, of knowing the suffering her friend had endured before and,
even more, after truths were exposed. 
There was no stiffness in the body she leaned against, and when she looked at
him once more she was, sadly, not surprised that to see only cold indifference
set in the face and eyes of the man she called husband.
"I am a monster, girl. You had it right." His inflection was like chalk, flat
and tasteless.
Girl.
Sansa flitted her eyes closed and breathed deep. Such an expected way to create
distance, she was almost disappointed.
When her words spilled forth, her eyes remained shuttered, and they came out in
a whisper. "It's not the only thing you're built of." He did not respond, but
she felt his breathing dip her lower. "I know who you are and what you are. I
also know your truth Tywin, and I won't allow even you to mar it."
Tywin scoffed then. "My truth?" he spat, caustic and bitter. "If you think I am
viewed as a man simply lacking charm then you truly are stupid, Sansa."
Stupid Sansa. She looked at her doomed husband with wide eyes that burned both
in cold fury and white-hot agony, hissing out every syllable, "If that's all
you are, a fucking monster," her inflection shook in its intensity, "then what
does that make me?" An already cracked voice was strangled by the acute hurt
ripping through her. "What does that make our children?"
He was picked apart by her every word, by her every pluck of anger.
There wasn't much left of him anyway.
"No, Tywin." Sansa raised her hand, one supple palm pushed toward his face, a
gesture of indignant finality. "You're wrong."
Tywin wrapped his fingers around her hand and pulled it to rest over his mouth
- he was listening, but he also needed contact.
"You changed the perception of your name in light of the deeds of your father.
Our sons will do the same." Sansa's tone softened, her eyes softened, her
fingers flexed and brushed where they lay over his lips. "They have to," she
whispered, "For the sake of their own legacy," there was the smallest of
quakes, "and for yours."
The pain of such honesty crumpled the old lion's heart. Sansa was his
protector. She would defend him the only way she could, in the only way that
mattered: she would safeguard his heritage, his birthright, by simply being the
fierce and loving mother she had always been.
"I have no fear regarding my legacy, Sansa," he murmured into her fingers,
before guiding her hand to rest tender at the center of his chest; a flush
crept up his neck to colour his cheeks, a strange embarrassment at his previous
revelation.
"Our sons will grow to be great men," she said, broken now and full of sorrow.
He tightened his fingers around hers. "It's you that I am referring to, foolish
woman."
She looked at him then, question plain in her eyes.
"My lady, you are a wolf turned lion. More so, you are a flame that refuses to
be extinguished. A force unto yourself." He took a deep breath, looking at her
with eyes he hoped parlayed exactly how he felt. "My only regret is that I
won't be here to see your every potential."
Sansa knew this for what it was: the truth as he saw it. Tywin Lannister would
not bestow a compliment on anyone regardless of the personal cost, it would
only serve to harm his prestige in the long run. So for him to say these things
now was not to be taken lightly.
Her husband continued, his voice cut to a rough kind of whisper. "Our sons
are exceptional, and they will perpetuate in being so. Of this, I have no
doubt. You have ensured it thus far, and I'm certain you will continue to
accept nothing less of them." Tywin took a moment to blink back the sting that
threatened to overwhelm him.
When he finally looked her, he smiled. It was the smile she recognized as the
one reserved for her and their children. It was genuine and cherished.
Sansa leaned boneless against him, her head laid on his shoulder, and her
fingers aimless in their brushing exploration of his chest. As her mind
wandered in the comfortable silence, her fingertips drifted to worry a loose
thread under where the lacing of his tunic ended.
It was odd, the thread had been weaved finely into the garment, but its
direction was in complete contrast to the material. More odd was that she was
choosing now, of all times, to care about such a banal detail. But she did. A
slight tug on the errant string and she made out rectangle shape that puckered
into the fabric.
Pulled away from her comfort, Sansa's full attention was now on the mystery -
tracing the shape over and over again. When she made to draw the thread once
more, a larger hand covered hers, staying her.
His eyes were not angry. In fact he seemed almost pleased by her meddling.
"It's all right. I'll show you," he said in an all too casual tone. As though
this were simply another morning they had woken up together.
His fingers worked into the space between the lacing and Sansa could see
plainly that what she had discovered was a pocket. A pocket over his heart. The
same kind she, as a child, had dreamed of sewing into the clothing of her
betrothed.
A pocket for a favour.
Swallowing hard, Sansa found herself far too lost to tell him to stop. Favours
were from wives and lady loves, and in their life together she had never given
one to Lord Tywin. After all this time Sansa could not fathom she was still in
competition with a ghost and it flooded her with such hurt and rage and
sadness. Nothing, no emotional or physical leverage could ever give her an
advantage over the dead.
She did not want to see his golden wife's favour. She did not want to have
proof that no matter how far she forced herself to journey, her existence would
still be an afterthought. But before she could sob or throw angry fists against
the chest she was leaning on, it was held before her - a square of fabric that
her husband felt, felt, he needed to wear against his heart.
Her own heart was but an echo of itself.
It was her trained courtesy that commanded her fingers to retrieve the
proffered item. Perhaps her husband wanted it entombed symbolically with Lady
Joanna, and she was no more than a messenger. Perhaps he wanted her to comment
on it... Gods.
That echo of her heart became even more faint as the ache there clenched
harder.
Scrutinizing the swatch in her palm, Sansa realized quite unintentionally that
it was more than a simple shred of fabric. It was delicate, almost silky, but
she could not discern if that was due to the wear it endured under Lord Tywin's
armour or if it was a trait of the fabric itself. The stitching was fine, not
cumbersome, and she knew whatever it was had been made of quality. The square
had also been pressed unbelievably flat, lending her to think it was a kerchief
of some sort.
Although, in turning it over she found the truth.
Lady Sansa uttered a sound created from pure disbelief. Along the top edge of
the square, what she thought was embroidery was in fact a ribbon, and that
ribbon was knotted in an overly familiar fashion. Her memories reeled her back,
so far back. To a meeting. To an inspection. To mortification that swept itself
into unexpected discoveries. To a gift left in the wake of pitiful mock-
maturity she, herself, thought to front.
Suddenly she was that naive young girl again and blushed straight into her
hairline.
"How..." No. She knew precisely how he received it. It was an effort to get the
words ordered and coherent. And regardless of aural tactic, Sansa's vision went
nowhere save the elegantly kept smallclothes resting in her hand. "But... When
have you..."
Her lion saved her from her words. "Every moment we have been apart more than a
day."
Her eyes refused to leave the garment, but her mind knew his statement was
incorrect - she shifted uncomfortably at that realization. They had been parted
off and on since the day they were-
"Since you gave them to me, my lady," Tywin said in his serious way.
Whatever scandal there may have been at the enlightenment of such a detail was
knocked away without pause or embarrassment. 
Sansa had not been holding her breath, but it rushed out as if she had been. 
Her movements were slow, deliberate; her face masked with nothing readable -
she rose. Kneeling high, as close as she could be, very near leaning full on
him, his wife looked down. Tywin angled his head back and let it list to the
side, watching her. Staring at her graceful movements, at her elegant hands, as
she carefully bestowed her favour upon her lord.
Her king.
The man who was going to die - for his own actions and for the sake of the
lives of her and their children.
Tucking the material into its pocket, making sure it was safely concealed,
Sansa looked down at him. Tywin was placid, his eyes glittered at that angle
and she hoped it was a play of the light in the room. Bending her neck, she
lowered her mouth to his, kissing him just as carefully as she restored his
favour. She felt his hands travel up the backs of her thighs and wrap their
claim on her backside.
The wolf smiled coy onto the mouth of her lion.
The lion smiled back.
Three resounding cracks on the door of the small room may as well have knocked
their force directly in the hollows of their hearts.
Sansa found herself crouched lower, her mouth breathing heavily on the side of
his neck; covering her husband much like she did once in the dead of winter,
shielding him from death.
But this was something she could save neither of them from.
Tywin's hands had found hers, their fingers twined around one another like
vines, possessing each other at the most basic of levels. He encouraged her
weight against him, her chest against his, her heart matching his beat-for-beat
in their attempt to regain calm.
He breathed deep. In their marriage he had compared her to nature, to the
animals of their sigils... to the dead. But when his days had finally run their
course, he understood that Sansa was none of those things. She was better.
She was living, breathing. She was his.
The Great Lion made to stand, untangling their hands in the process, and Sansa
felt the crush of reality: this was the last time she would see him, feel him,
smell him. It took everything to bite back the lump of sorrow in her throat,
the one that would only open the pathway for tears. She rose with him, once
again tangling the fingers of one hand with his as they made to the door. With
each step was a heightening of dread. The culling of distance a statement
toward an end.
His end.
Their end.
Standing to the side of her, Tywin brushed the back of his free hand down her
cheek and neck, watching as she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.
Sansa turned then, facing her husband fully, and jaw clenching as she met his
eyes. Not this. Not now. Please... Be strong, her mind choked out through the
agony. Her hands came up to rest flat on his chest - both palms converging,
covering the piece of her that covered the life of him for so very long. But
they did not stay static. Pushing outward to the edges of his chest, Sansa's
fingers curled to fists taking with them the material of his tunic. And with
the desperation of a woman set for one more loss, she shoved him back. Hard.
Her face was pinched and skewed in her anger, Tywin was unnervingly calm. He
kept his arms lowered and his hands palms-out, surrendering to her, as he
breached the small distance to the stony wall.
He let her.
...and he was truly hers.
Sansa pulled her grip, the momentum enough to bring her husband away from the
wall once more, and with a renewed strength built of a palpable fury she shoved
again and again and again.
It was self pity fueled by rage. It was everything she wanted to say but had no
words for: because he married her, because her brother died and her mother
turned into a creature of hate. It was for the freedom he stole, and the life
that was nowhere near what was promised by her father. 
It was for making her strong and giving her what she wanted most of all.
He let her.
He let her pound out her hate and frustration on his body because for
everything that Tywin Lannister was - arrogant and merciless and cruel - he had
never, in fact, been wholly ignorant when it came to his wife.
His wolf.
And he let her.
Because all he wanted was for her to care; about what he had taught her and had
given her, of course, but he also wanted her to care about him. About who he
was despite his flaws, despite his temperament and history. For once you
removed everything dark, Tywin was still the lonely little boy without his
mother, forced into a being a man and to raise his siblings the best way he
knew how. Which was well outside the shadow of a weak and detrimental father.
And she did care. The gods be damned, she did. He knew.
His wife's growling violence upon his person was losing spark. After one final
drive into the wall - their eyes meeting for fleeting moments, her bottom lip
trembling - Sansa followed the momentum and all but fell into the body she had
battered, defeated and sated just like that.
Tywin did not say a word, not a protest or reprimand, simply folded his arms
around his girl and found sanctuary in the warmth of her. 
Sansa clawed and pinched and dug into his ribs. Around his flanks to his back,
her fingertips bumped over ropy scarring, and with a noise keened in shared
suffering, she burrowed into the closeness she had craved. Yet, now that she
had it, after so many moons of pining, it was going to be taken away from her,
and that was a terrible reality for anyone.
"Just... Just hold me."
In what would be her last command to him, Tywin could scarcely conceive of
disobeying.
She controlled him. It was a blatant truth to which he was no stranger. It was
a truth he would take to his death and refuse to deny. Sansa lessened the onus
in his life. An oppressiveness Tywin did not know was an impairment prior to
binding himself to her. With that thought the Great Lion wanted to spur his
wolf on, convince her to tear him open and feast, to take from within him the
vital parts that allowed him to live, to do physically what she had already
done in spirit - the certainty of which bothered him little to none. Instead it
made him feel a loss he had not felt since the fateful birth of his second son.
"Thank you."
His voice was calm and his thumbs tapped and brushed about their familiar
patterns over her lower back, his long fingers resting on the swell of her
arse. Sansa peered up to him, trying to keep a grip on her emotions, a
questioning look in her sad eyes. He could tell that she was struggling. Tywin
smiled, broad and kind - like it was a pleasantry he offered regularly - he was
proud of her either way.
"Some men live and die never knowing what it's like to exist in the presence of
a great woman." He cleared his throat before continuing, "I have been granted
the opportunity twice."
He shifted on his feet, looking above her head, rocking her with his sway. In
that instant he looked so very much like their sons when caught in the act of
mischief. Her breath caught and her fingers dug in deeper.
"I cannot..." He shifted again, clambering for the right words, calming at the
feel of her gripping him tighter. "Your circumstance was not of your making,
but you overcame everything with such strength and grace, Sansa." Breathing
hard, he flicked his green eyes at her then - in the intense way that always
made her feel as though she was helplessly caught in his current - his throat
thickened, his jaw ached, and he could not fight it this time. All those years
ago Catelyn Stark had been right. Even through her madness she could see it
clearly: whatever magic Sansa cast around her, he was not immune. "Even me," he
huffed through clenched teeth.
She could not help but bring a hand between them, to her mouth - an effort to
hold in a sob. He swallowed hard, over and over, and she could see his eyes
become watery. It was now his lip that shivered in time with overwhelming waves
of emotion. She felt his skin grow hot through his tunic, his lungs fought to
control their pattern that was gradually tipping to erratic - the Great Lion
was ready to falter.
Tywin felt her hands before he even registered they had moved. His wife grabbed
hold of his face, pushed her fingers into his side whiskers, and met his mouth
with the crush of hers. Her kiss was a demand without words, powerful and
passionate. Her tongue swept over his lips as she angled her mouth to an almost
seamless fit. Her body pressed into his, telling him in no uncertain terms that
he would yield to her.
He opened his mouth, and she stole his breath, her tongue teased his until she
stole that too - sucking and nipping at it from her side of the kiss.
It was frantic with an element of threat.
Tywin carded, then buried his fingers in the tresses he had for so long slept
nuzzled in. He took the lead and slowed their pace, his lips working over hers.
His hands slipped downward, drawing tender lines, roaming her back as his mouth
kissed softly from the corner of hers across the line of her jaw to the
sensitive skin at the lobe of her ear.
Her lion soothed her panic, in turn soothed his own, and held her with the
unhurried stillness she found only after they had laid together.
His wolf was settled. Her manner staid.
She was ready.
Tywin straightened his stance, raised his chin, and spoke to his wife in the
most confident whisper he could summon. "It has been my honour, love. Truly."
Sansa felt her heart lurch painfully as she watched her husband retreat behind
the armour he had forged and donned for almost the entirety of his life; the
same armour he helped her build for herself and taught her to use. His eyes
darkened, his mouth became a thin line, and in an instant his mien folded
inward, making him calculated and cold.
The infamous Lion of Casterly Rock. The Warden in the West. The Hand of three
kings.
Lord Tywin Lannister.
Without turning to the door, simply reaching, he only had to knock once before
it opened. The guards appeared again and pulled him roughly from the arms of
his wife, from the clutch of his wolf and into the hall.
There were tomes of words she felt she had to speak, but in the moments it took
for Tywin to be handled and pushed ahead of the warriors at his charge, there
was nothing left to be said that had not already been swallowed by the widening
fissure inside her chest.
She was growing cold in the sun-drenched room and had to grip the jamb of the
door to ensure she would stay upright, staring helplessly at the form of her
lord husband being led to his death.
"Tywin..." His name tore out of her, so she thought; forcefully roared and full
of conviction, she so wanted. But it was hardly set to voice, nothing more than
a billowing of air.
He did not look back.
Stepping away, in a scene from outside herself, Sansa closed the door and
gasped as the air around her suddenly felt heavy. She was alone.
All of her emotions were sitting in the pit of her belly, churning and fighting
for priority. She didn't even know who she would be any more: Sansa Stark,
Sansa Lannister, wolf of the North, lion of the West. She felt both lost and
found all at the same time, and it threatened to wash her out into a sea of
confusion.
Sansa closed her eyes to the empty chamber, reigning in every thought and
emotion she needed in order to move forward.
Her husband was being led to his destruction, but she knew full well that Tywin
Lannister would be remembered. Remembered for his achievements and victories
more than his failures; bards would still sing his refrain. Regardless of moral
validity, tell of the man and his accomplishments would live well beyond this
age and the next.
As she stood with her thoughts Sansa contemplated some of the first impressions
she carried for the man. She had been petrified of him initially. No, she
amended, frightened of his reputation. Sansa corrected herself once more, that
the truth was she had feared him then. She had been meek in his presence in
those first days and moons, but more accurately was that there had always been
something else, something... of depth. Even during their first meeting - their
first provocatively improper meeting - he had shown her a glimpse of the man he
really was under the legend, beyond the intimidation, past the songs and
stories.
Her marriage, her husband, was clouded with far too much nefarious shade to
ignore, that was a given, but what was also a given was the fact that she would
adamantly refuse to regret it, him - them.
The knowledge one would gain from simply being on the periphery of Tywin
Lannister's life was invaluable. She became his most trusted ear and advisor.
Her education in years with him was beyond conventional value and worth even
more as an asset to her children's future.
He taught her to think critically, adhere to logic, act decisively, play to her
strengths, and to never forget that the only person who would save her
was her. But more than that, more than most could ever understand, was the fact
that he gave her the security and love of a family again. In the beginning of
their marriage so many people, including her husband, made sure she knew that
she was worth no more than her womb and the direction from which she was born,
and it was Tywin himself that proved those assumptions false.
The birth of their sons dismantled the Great Lion in a way that forced him to
rebuild himself a different man. He was happy in the company of his sons, in
the company of his wife; he allowed himself to enjoy what he had set aside the
first time. It changed him, but Sansa could not, would not, wonder if that
change was for the better. After all, he was not sentenced to die before.
She thought of that equally. Tywin would no longer be. Her constant wealth of
counsel and strength would no longer be there for her to consult, to whisper to
in the darkness, to feel wrapped around her or deep within her. At that, Sansa
understood there would be a part of her life, her heart, which would be nothing
more than a void.
His absence played as a physical pain, a crushing pressure under the muscle and
bone of her chest.
She missed her husband. Her lord. Her lion.
It was an absurd memory that graced her then, in the most absurd of times.
She remembered a morning at Casterly Rock a few moons after she'd returned from
the North. A memorable morning because she woke early, a rarity in itself, but
the greater wonder was that Tywin had still been in their chambers.
It was a morning that was his alone, free from commitment, and instead of
finding her husband diligently sifting through parchments in the great solar,
she found him seated at the small table within their bedchamber.
The table had been arranged by the eastern windows and she could see that he
was sitting in no more than a pair of light breeches. If there was a way to
steal sunlight, Tywin had found it. He bathed in it, sitting there, his posture
slacked and his view somewhere in the clouds outside.
So much was the lion immersed in his contemplation, he did not hear Sansa
approach. She padded quietly, stopped silently, and reached out to tease a
finger along Tywin's jaw. In times before, her unexpected touch would have
earned an angry reaction; however, this time paid fully with a reach of his
own. Without looking away from whatever marvel he found outside, her lion
draped his closest arm around her waist and pulled her the rest of the way to
his side.
It had looked as though Tywin was being held prisoner and could not turn his
attentions away from the world beyond the window. Yet, in the meantime his hand
had come to rest on her backside and his thumb rubbed light circles.
Without much pretext, his grip tightened and he pulled her into his lap, a
place warm with the sun as was his bare chest. Sansa curled into him, serene
and easy, not really fighting the want to close her eyes and sleep again. She
dozed and could feel him moving in little shifts and adjustments. So it was no
surprise when she finally blinked past bleary to fully awake and found him
gazing at her the same way he had been looking out at the morning.
His only word to her was as he tugged on the fabric at the middle of her
bedgown was the gentle instruction of, "Off."
One corner of Sansa's mouth rose as she shimmied from his lap to stand directly
before him. With only a brief hesitation, she raised her hands high above her
head - an indication that Tywin had been commanded without words in a procedure
he had inadvertently started on their wedding night. A swift and singular
motion had his wife equally undressed, another saw her straddling his thighs
and her hands braced on his chest.
They took a moment to look at each other. Nothing brazen, no matter the nudity,
merely a silent conversation in the heat of the morning sun.
Tywin had slid his arm past Sansa's waist, making sure to drag the barest of
touches along the soft skin of her there, easily reaching the items he'd set
out while she was sleeping. She could hear a faint clink as though something
were being stirred, but she could not take her eyes away from the pools green
with flecks of gold - the ones that had tunneled to the very foundation of her.
Sansa watched, captivated as his arm returned to their periphery holding an
implement she didn't recognize, covered in a foam she had never seen the likes
of. Settled in her quiet awe, she sat mesmerized as he spread a thick lather of
soap high on his cheeks to the edge of his whiskers; over his mouth and the
span of his throat. Every so often reaching past her again to grace the room
with that same ringing tempo. The motions were perfunctory, she noticed he
never once looked at the mirror behind her that had been angled to be used.
Tywin cocked an eyebrow and said not one word as he reached to replace the
horse-hair brush on the small table, next procuring his razor.
Sansa felt a fool, more so a child, having her husband mold her fingers to grip
the folded blade in the proper fashion. But there was a certain intimacy that
compensated when he placed his own hand safely around hers, brought the sharp
edge to rest on his cheek and slowly swiped downward.
She smiled at the loosening of her tense muscles and marveled at how Tywin was
not nervous at all.
Methodically, they shaved his face. Some strokes were short, some long, and
each required the razor to be wiped afterward. A job that fell exclusively to
her after only a few passes.
The old lion tucked in his lips to provide a smooth surface over his chin,
where there was the final patch of soap on his face. Sansa had hunkered close,
dedicated and meticulous in this task as she was with any, and had made the
final swipe before she noticed he had let go of her hand entirely.
Blinking and involuntarily wiping the razor clean, she found herself suddenly
anxious at what she had done. So wrapped up was she in her wary accomplishment,
that when Tywin spoke it startled her.
"Now the neck," he mumbled lax into the air.
Her self-consciousness twisted through her then. "What if I cut you?"
Without bothering to tilt his head forward, Tywin drawled, "If I don't survive
your attempt to barber, rest assured you will be provided for."
It wasn't just the words that caused her pause, but the sense of whimsy in
which they were said. He was being jovial, teasing her, and Sansa had to take a
moment to appreciate it.
When he noticed she hadn't moved nor made any attempt to shave him, the old
lion nodded forward. His face was still relaxed she noted, yet there was also
an unexpected look in his eyes. There, set in the green, flickering amongst the
gold, was the trust she so deserved. The trust she had so endeavoured to earn.
The trust that was now so easily seen, deep-rooted in the way he regarded her.
In the way, she had realized then, he had regarded her for quite some time -
and this was what it looked like when he freely admitted to such.
When she pieced it all together it seemed far too easy a puzzle to have gotten
away from her. Her husband's emotionally erratic stints were because of trust,
or mistrust as the case may be, but it was of himself, never of her. She had
simply been convenient quarry for his frustration.
Placing the pad of her thumb on the point of his chin, she tipped his head back
again.
At the angle he showed her, with the pressure he guided her in, Sansa made
clean methodical lines down the length of her husband's neck. It was
beautifully tranquil, the scrape of the blade against his skin, and for every
line that she finished, Sansa tested the quality of her work by lightly
brushing the backs of her knuckles along that silky expanse.
He purred in reply, so caught up was he in the comfort of her, he barely
registered when she'd finished, nor when she wiped away the dregs of foam.
Comprehension only came when she massaged the after-oil into his freshly shorn
skin. The sting was a good kind of pain, the kind he had been used to since
before his wife had been born. More a consolation now, but he couldn't help but
gasp a pleasant hiss when a flutter of lips followed her fingers.
Everything about her was temperate. Everything about her was reassuring. And in
those precious moments of that day Tywin felt a shift. It was internal, but
wasn't physical. It was painful, but not fatal.
It could no longer be denied.
Straightening, he took her wrist in his hand, equally tender in his grip and
intention, and immediately his thumb traced circles. Such a soft moment made
warmer by the intensity of the morning sun radiating through the glass of the
east-facing windows. Tywin then lifted her wrist and pressed his lips to where
her pulse was thrumming. There was nothing lustful or salacious in what he was
doing.
It was caring affection.
It was wanted.
In a drawn and considerate motion, the old lion used both his hands to position
her palm and splay her fingers over the part of his chest where she could
instantly feel his heartbeat. Looking at him, Sansa noticed his eyes showed an
element of uneasiness, a despondency; his breathing was faster than it should
have been. This was a man she did not know, a stranger in familiar skin. This
was a man who had shed his mask for her.
For her.
There was no context or further contribution, emotion was whirling in him
clearly, his jaw worked but said nothing, his thoughts and implications simply
a raw taste sitting on his tongue. Tywin had all but confessed his feelings the
day Sansa bore him sons, but she had held hers to the bone, leaving him to
assume.
This was his question to her, asked in the only way he knew how: in silent
absolutes.
As Sansa sat there, almost completely naked in the sunshine, facing the man who
married her - who bound her and set her free all at the same time - she removed
her mask as well. She felt her tears streaking her face before she knew she was
crying. Through the blur she found his free hand with hers, held his wrist in
the iron of her fingers and sobbed into the air between them.
They each had to know. They each had to be sure.
It should have been an inquiry of the most rudimentary kind, fundamental in a
marriage, but it wasn't. Theirs was a relationship of intricacies and
sophistication. It was labyrinthine at its core and another language altogether
at its surface.
Sansa kept locked away deep inside herself the kind of truths she had learned
by lesson and experience were weaknesses; the kind that could be used to
kill. This was one of them. With her words stayed, she pulled his wrist and
nestled his palm against the center of her chest, a mirror of his own hold on
her. One that looked to cause him pain. His expression rattled her in a way
that made her feel unconfident, but was soon quenched to relief when she
understood he merely needed reassurance.
In a rush of sentiment, Sansa bowed forward onto her husband - her arms swathed
his neck as his wrapped around her waist - and she nuzzled into the smooth skin
of his neck. Its familiar smell and feel and fit, a comfort she had never known
before her marriage.
Their fingers roamed, their breathing became heavy, and the union of skin-on-
skin built a gradual intensity. When their mouths met, that mounting passion
manifested into an incomparable sense of completion that tore from them moaning
acknowledgement. They kissed until their lips were red and swollen, nipping
playfully at each other's accomplishments while recovering from the haze they'd
roused.
Tywin inclined to his wolf and splayed his hands wider to support her back as
she leaned to accommodate the gentle touches of his mouth; first along her
collar, then licking and sucking over each breast in turn. His tongue flicked
as he suckled, and Sansa only registered the hazy groans as her own when she'd
made a conscious effort to rub against the stiff line of his erection.
Such contact flared his arousal and forced the lion to hiss and moan into his
wolf's sternum - straight to the heart of her.
In a span of time that distorted with pleasure, Tywin had lifted and was
carrying her to their bed, they were mere strides from the edge when Sansa
finally noticed. Yet, like most things in their life, even intimacies came with
reality. As such, he stumbled causing her to unwind her legs from around his
waist and find her own footing - which happened to be on top of his.
There was an excess of profanity from them both, then a rapid still of calm
when they encouraged and regained their sense of playfulness.
If the fumble were to have happened outside their bedchamber the result would
have been bloodshed. But in the company of themselves they dispensed with their
armour and became new people, different people. People who could laugh and
tease and prod each other's irritations like children.
Trust. For the lion and his wolf there was nothing more important, nor
precious.
Sansa backed her way onto the middle of the bed. Laying flat amongst the
rumpled coverings, stretching and displaying her body for him. Her hands
trailed down over her breasts, her stomach, and lower. Lower to her
smallclothes - she could see his cock straining in anticipation.
Tywin leaned into the side of the bed, his thighs preventing him from bending
or falling forward - he watched her. Watched her fingers slip under the
material at her waist and her thumbs hook the garment's cusp. His mouth went
dry, his vision narrowed to only her, his wife, and how her hands were slowly
lowering a piece of clothing that was, in that one speck of time, the most
offensive thing in existence. 
She raised her hips, pushing her underthings down over her arse; he palmed his
prick through his breeches.
She let her knees sway together as she pushed the fabric further down her legs;
he did not know he had torn open his lacing until the felt the cooling air
around his cock.
She rid herself of her smallclothes; he did not care where they landed, he
would willfully sleep with them in the bed linen as long as he held the sight
before him.
Sansa watched the utter concentration of his every move, the fluctuating depth
of his every breath, the expansion of the black in his eyes, crowding the green
into narrower and narrower rings. It was all of those things that let her know
her husband was focused on not one single thing, save her.
Only her. Only Sansa. Only his wife.
Her heavily lidded eyes narrowed a fraction, her mouth curved in equal subtly
as her knees separated tortuously slow.
His cock throbbed at the display.
Tywin gave no command to do so, but he rode his body's craving, crawling over
the bed like a predator to prey, gulping in air at the arousal caused simply by
the touch of his fingers to the skin of her thighs. He settled with his mouth
at her cunt and the smell of her want sitting heavy on the back of his tongue
with every inhale. That slick seam of flesh called to his need, the baser
temptation that rules most every man. Slipping his hands under her arse, Tywin
lifted his catch in order to feast. And while his tongue slipped into her wet
furrow, her legs tightened around his shoulders and her hands scrambled for
purchase at the back of his skull.
The lion dined on his wolf. Every part of his mouth savoured the most tender
parts of her; he played with his food, teased it and rolled his tongue to coat
his palate.
Only when Sansa's gasps became craggy and uneven, when her fingernails bit into
his scalp, when her legs flexed for leverage and her hips matched the move and
sway of his mouth, did Tywin adjust one of his hands. The first and middle
fingers of that hand paid the debt of her initial tease, pressing into her with
a torture of their own - knuckle by knuckle, giving his wife the friction her
body was begging for.
When his lady arched, rigid and shaky, Tywin added a third finger and sucked
directly over the most sensitive piece of her, laving it with the flat of his
tongue, flicking it with the tip. Her moans prompted his own, and those sent
her shaking again.
Sansa relaxed slowly from her peak, whimpering blithely. Her lion laid warm
between her legs, watching. His mouth no longer on her, so as not to ruin her
descent. His fingers still working, gently now, stroking at the tiny shivers
inside her. With the slow blinking and opening of her eyes and the lazy smile,
Sansa gently tugged her command to her husband.
The tender pull at the back of his head and neck was an instruction well
learned. The lion stretched out above his lioness, her hands still apt to guide
him - his face so close, his lips had no option other than to meet hers. Her
mouth was as greedy as his, tasting herself on his tongue, licking and
playfully biting his lips until he growled his need.
Shifting again, Tywin leaned on one arm and used the other to take his cock in
hand. Grinning as she thrashed, as he teased her with his prick, stroking but
never quite entering her, though always slipping upward to nudge at her hard
little bump.
In the end even the most divine cruelty will turn upon its administrator, and
Lord Tywin felt his need take hold. Pressing firmly, the tip of him notched at
her entrance, he took in the view of his wolf - her eyes closed and her smiling
mouth sighed in expectation.
"Open your eyes," he ordered tenderly. "Let me look at you."
Blue eyes, his sky, blinked open. Her mouth stayed in a smile, but she tucked
her bottom lip between her teeth and the Great Lion wanted nothing else but to
be inside his girl. He entered her gently, slowly, with every consideration,
and watched her teeth dig a little more into her lip, felt her fingers claw a
little more into his nape, heard her moan their joining into the sunlight of
the room.
Hilted into the warm wet squeeze of her body, Tywin readjusted to carry his
weight on his elbows, resting his hands at her crown where he had always
enjoyed burrowing his fingers into her soft hair, and brushed his thumbs along
her hairline over and over again. Only when he was ready did he hunch his hips,
working them both into the best kind of delirium with his rhythm, his depth,
and his speed.
Her lion had lowered his mouth to her neck and murmured words into her ear as
he took his time moving within her. They were nonsense words, gibberish she
never thought she would get used to hearing from a man like him. She had no
recourse for them, ever, other than to hold him tighter. To pull him onto her
skin and show by action that he wasn't alone.
"You mean more than anything to me, Sansa."
The statement was barely there, it only just existed on a wispy exhale. And
when her husband whimpered that raw rush of truth into her neck Sansa knew she
held in her hands a soul that was just as fragile as her own, she felt the
responsibility of it.
"I know," she whispered in return.
Tywin stopped moving mid-stroke, levered himself higher on his elbows and
peered down at his lovely girl, his eyes sliding from fear to utter devotion
and back again. "I don't think you do," he whispered back. His low voice was
not just a reflection of hers, but a testament to the secret he was trying so
desperately hard to hold close to the heart.  "More than anything," he
choked. Sansa looked on, her eyes so warm and so caring, for him; his face
contorted in pain around those words, as though they were made of broken glass.
He felt her arms slink up behind his head, and watched her arch her back
slightly - whatever she was to do, that was not a natural position in which to
do it. Then he felt it. Her fingernails, with the effort of a feather, dragged
from the front of his bald scalp to the base of his neck. Never once forcing
more pressure, never once hesitating in its trail.
Tywin Lannister shivered above her, inside her, and Sansa saw first a fine
tremor travel his body that was soon chased by goose flesh, then heard the airy
sigh that was had been a solitary gift before that moment.
There is something to be said about baring oneself well past the nakedness of
the flesh. It is nothing to be bereft of clothing, but to peel away the layers
and expose your soul - your vulnerable, unprotected soul...
With a soft tug, she lead him to rest his head once again in the dip of her
shoulder. Her own breathing was becoming unsteady even as they lay unmoving.
Her heart knotted, and with every push of her pulse she felt that knot twist in
her chest. Sansa wrapped her arms around the neck and head of her husband and
set her trembling lips to his ear. "I love you."
It was a shaky confession. But if not now, then when could she finally speak
honestly? There was no need for courtly propriety in their bed, and no one
there to judge their truths save the Sun - and she had been witness to man's
horror and grace since the moment the gods bestowed life on the lands beneath
her.
Sansa had sealed her fate with three words. But it wasn't a fate from the Great
Lion that prompted her hesitation or worry, it was the fate she had condoned
from herself. Her feelings were never a matter of Lord Tywin's approval, she
had built a cage around them and it ensured they would only be dependent on her
own acceptance. However, it was one thing to keep emotional revelations silent,
it was quite another once they've been admitted. Once personal epiphanies are
given a voice they're given life, they suddenly became truth.
And the truth will always cut both ways.
Sansa felt Tywin's body relax above her, but curiously, his fingers tightened a
gentle grip in her hair as he pressed his face harder and bared his teeth on
the smooth skin of her neck. As though he had been untroubled and bothered at
the same time. When he spoke again she knew there was a knot twisting viciously
inside him, too.
"Please," he begged in a tone she had never heard before. Over time, Sansa had
become familiar with them, his fluctuations of emotion, but this was altogether
new. "Say it again," he keened into her flesh.
When his face rounded to hers, Tywin wore a look of purely unguarded credence.
It had been startling just how much of himself he was confiding to her and
again responsibility asserted itself when she understood the magnitude of such
a task - the same one she was trusting him with.
Her hands slid to cup his cheeks, her fingers finding their own comfort in his
side whiskers as her thumbs traced little lines just under his eyes. "I love
you," she said in earnest.
Sansa watched Tywin's eyes as they softened in their adoration, as he shuddered
out all the air in his lungs, and felt his body settle on her ever so slightly,
moving himself inside her with a minute stroke.
"More than anything," came his trembling pledge.
Wrapping her legs around his waist, she met his intimate sway with one of her
own - a tiny churn where they were joined. Her hand cradled the base his skull,
ushering him to rest once again on the place on the curve at the base of her
neck, the place she knew to be his. Her nails dragged their teasing friction
down his nape, and farther, between the blades of his shoulders. Her eyes
fluttered closed at his blissful groan, her own pleasure then rushed ahead. Her
limbs cinched around him tighter while she squeezed him intimately from the
inside as well.
Her mouth smiled at the airy gasp of her name.
Both his prayer and curse.
He threaded his arms behind her knees, hooking them high and close on her
torso. His mouth at her ear, their bodies pressed so impossibly close, his
voice a rumbling seduction. "More," he said, pushing forward bodily, filling
the deepest part of her.
Sansa had turned her head to find his lips with her own. Her tongue coaxed
entrance and played the same rhythm inside his mouth as his cock played inside
her quim. 
The sounds in the room were that of the soft slap of skin, the wet noise of
arousal, and the muffled moans of two people finding an instance of pleasure
before they donned their masks of apathy.
Their tempo crumbled and their mouths broke apart to allow heavier intakes of
breath and a louder chorus of gratification.
As Sansa flushed a deep red, digging her nails into her husband's back, Tywin
felt the first fluttering clenches of his wife's peak. In thrusting his own
erratic pattern of release into the heat of her, both knew they were living yet
one more moment of certain change.
Of necessity, and of trust.
And of admitted love.
Absolutely.
No, Sansa conceded in her terrible, lonely reality, that memory was not absurd
at all.
The admission of love.
Love.
...a fools word, but the concept is rather sound.
Theirs was, as with every single piece of the puzzle that built their existence
together, a love formed and cut to fit them solely. Nothing of convention,
nothing of tales or from the lips of bards, but a vital part each of them.
An acceptance made in order to live. In order to survive. To survive in a world
that encourages hesitations and doubt, only to use those same attributes toward
your demise.
Their love was a silent affirmation of caring, of affection, of unbending unity
and tempered strength. Nothing ever served itself as love indefinite. There
were never declarations beyond that warm and sunny morning, but there had been
actions.
Actions and movements and gestures and knowing. There were compromises and
learning and adjustments and frustration - an awful lot of frustration. There
were also blinks of thoughtfulness and heartbeats of tenderness and an awful
lot of understanding. There was closeness and intimacy, and times when even the
words that had been used for lifetimes to describe such things paled in
retrospect of their lovemaking.
Making love.
Perhaps if you swept together all of those things, those tiny grains of time
and function, pulled them into themselves and piled them like their sons would
pile sand in the calm inlet shores around Lannisport, perhaps that would define
them. Maybe it was the culmination of everything stacked high and brought down
with the slightest of waves, only to be restacked and built again, sturdier
every time, that added up to their interpretation of love. Maybe that was
exactly what love was for everyone. She did not know.
All Sansa knew was that there was an agony inside of her that would not be
quelled by deliberation or consideration. It was leagues beyond physical
understanding, dwelling purely in the realm of emotion. That horrible snake
once again ascended the cavern in her chest, curling into itself, pulling
tight, merciless in its constriction.
Her heart was breaking.
Yet even as her knees gave out and the floor got closer, as her throat strained
and her lungs ached with the grief her body had been fighting so desperately
against, she already knew.
She knew she would heal.
She knew she would be strong again. Once more she would adapt and overcome. Not
only for the sake of herself this time, but also for those who called her
mother.
All of them.
Lady Lannister would pick up the pieces of her broken self and evolve again,
and with that freeing affirmation came a terrifying sense of guilt.
You cannot survive under the weight of so much guilt...
Sansa came back ever resilient.
But first she would have to let herself shatter, let herself rend to the
acceptance of every fragment and detail of suffering that awaited her in this
horribly familiar devastation.
And fracture, she did.
Absolutely.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sandor entered the room in which he left his lady only to find her on the
floor, distraught and wailing her sorrow into the stone beneath her knees.
He paused, not out of fear, but out of the shower of infuriating helplessness -
of knowing he could neither dent nor remove her grief. Though he would do, if
ever there were a way. He chose instead to carefully kneel beside her without
touching, to simply be a presence for her in her misery.
The room itself was nowhere near the pit Lord Tywin was being led to, but it
was open enough to the sounds of the city, to the impatient chants of the crowd
gathered for the death of a pride of lions.
Starting of the cull was distinct, with the crowds going into fits of volume.
First was the repeated moniker of kingslayer and sisterfucker - ending in a
resounding cheer signifying the death of golden knight. It was followed
by whore queen, then little bastard king, then a lull when they had no defined
slur and opted to simply repeat Ser Kevan until the man's life was no more. So
it went for hours, the call for countless others as Lannister after Lannister,
and slews of military leaders and anyone unlucky enough to have been associated
with the name in a meaningful manner met their end.
With every death, Lady Sansa became quiet by degrees. Her sobbing petered to
hiccoughs to sniffling, then to nothing at all. Although her body remained
folded into itself, a grotesque parody of prayer.
A shift both in the air nearing early evening and in the crowd outside the
walls of the keep made Sandor feel antsy. It was the same type of surge felt on
the skin in the moments precluding an impending strike of lightning. It set
Sandor's teeth on edge and caused him to glance at the door he knew he had shut
and bolted.
He watched Sansa tense in the position she was in, she knew as well as he what
was coming, what this lightning strike was set to destroy.
Sandor raised a tentative hand to his lady's shoulder and, in finding her
receptive, slowly gathered her to him. Her angle was awkward, she was boneless,
but he did not care. Pulling her upper body farther onto his lap, he cradled
her head, pressing one ear into his tabard and covering the other with his
hand. He could at least try to spare her the cacophony of it all.
When the noise of the crowd dimmed then slowly, ever so slowly, met its
crescendo in The Rains of Castamere, Sandor knew Lord Tywin was being tied to
burn. The Little Bird was quaking at her own realizations, and all he could do
was hold her tighter. His hands pressed harder and he was sure he was hurting
her, but she said not one word, moved not one fraction to impede his attempt to
block out a world getting louder around them.
The cheer that followed reverberated through his body, through his mail,
straight into his charge. It lasted, that audible torture, until he felt his
muscles shake from the strain of clutching her so tight.
That kind of torment had to be unspeakable, he thought. And as though to
accentuate his meandering mind, Sansa's lamenting sobs returned with a
vengeance. At a complete loss, Sandor found himself clumsily petting her
shoulder, suddenly very aware of his inept compassion.
Yet, even through the distraction of his attempt at comfort, Sandor managed to
find irritation. It baffled him that Lady Sansa - the woman he found ripe with
power, who replaced the fragile girl he lost - was mourning a man who quite
literally forced himself upon her. It was then, in the exact same thought, he
acknowledged himself a fucking hypocrite.
He was ignorant to the details of her life with the old lion, he knew.
She would share it with him if she wanted to, in time perhaps.
Sandor had patience enough for that now, for her now, and he would not fail her
again.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Surrounded by Dothraki the Great Lion stepped out of the darkness and took a
deep lungful of air. Not stagnant like damp air in the tunnels he'd just
traveled to arrive at the pits, this held life, but for only a moment. Where he
stood, at the bottom of the bowl, it should have been cool. That deep in the
ground even the most stubborn heat couldn't penetrate the natural chill, but
here and now it bore weather no better than the cramped pack of Flea Bottom on
a sweltering day, and with another step toward his judgement, Tywin gagged down
the smell of spilled blood and burned meat that hung, thick and curdled, in the
abnormally stifling heat.
The pit was broad in width and concave at an easy slope, allowing an audience
to collect and gather along the sides on steps hewn from solid rock. As Tywin
could see, those steps moved like waves, affording no room for anything save
the endless undulation of the curious and morbid. Those who had already seen
their share throughout the day but were greedy for more.
He walked.
Tywin walked and he tried not to notice, tried to stare only straight ahead,
but as stained red as it was - a colour always worthy of his attention prior -
the large wooden structure was hard to miss. Those before him met the mercy of
the headsman before their bodies were scorched by a beast, before their forever
yawning faces were lined up on pikes to greet him as he was led to his own
place amongst the dead.
No. He would be shown no mercy. There would be no reprieve for his torment, he
would meet the beast full-on. And lose.
Tywin walked with no mind to the scorched black ground on which he tread, nor
the piles of ash - some small, some large - that with every step were kicked to
clouds or heralded by a clatter of bones, only to be tasted and smelled anew.
The lion plodded through the dust of his family: his first and second born, his
grandchildren, his brother, his cousins, choking down the acrid taste left in
the ash. He could only assume the more pungent sourness was residue of dragon's
fire.
In a burst of sudden wonder, Tywin lived a tragic flutter of childlike
anticipation at the thought of seeing dragons, only for reality to eat that
sentiment alive.
He had barely halted when his arms were bound in what had become familiar
lengths of leather. Instead of allowing them to be pulled back behind him
though, he mustered every bit of strength he could and hugged his hands close,
tight to his chest, cradling her there against him. The barbarians were not to
be confounded in his defiance and simply fastened him as he stood to a rough
stone column punching up from the ground.
By digging his fingers into the comfort hidden above his heart, Lord Tywin knew
he would not be alone.
Alone.
For as much as the Great Lion felt he wanted nothing more than to be by himself
after the death of his first wife, he also conceded that the peace he found in
his marriage to Sansa was truer than what he found in solitude. He also
conceded that every once in a while, far more rare than ever known, a cold-
hearted man could be thawed - tamed and claimed - by a wisp of a girl with fire
in her hair.
Sansa. She flooded him.
Trussed and immobile, Tywin felt nothing but the constant breeze over Casterly
Rock. He heard the laughter of his children and saw nothing but the golden sun
painted low in the cloudless blue horizon.
The first time Sansa ever sought his hand to hold it, for no other reason than
to knit their fingers together in simple fondness, he looked at first their
hands then her. She had held his glare, offering herself up to his unforgiving
scrutiny, then smiled like the girl she was. Of course he had snarled and
scoffed at her, in her face, and told her she was a foolish child - though he
never let go of her hand.
The Great Lion took in a great breath and although his face remained serious
his mind smiled wide and genuine. The day was comfortably warm now, in his
mind. Even when the snarling shade moved to enveloped him, his day was perfect.
And with what sounded like a gale off the coast of the Rock, Lord Tywin lived
his end.
The scorch was quick and consuming, and his mind focused only on one person,
one name. If he allowed himself to succumb to the flame his agony would
ricochet for the duration of his death.
No.
Sansa.
His lioness. His wolf. His wife. His lady.
His lover. His friend.
The flesh of him was snagged and pulled back. Ribbons flagged, turned from
pliable to brittle then finally to ash at the force of the incinerating wind.
Of the world he occupied for more than six decades, he could no longer see, no
longer hear, and no longer feel. Though he knew his body was falling. Bones
exposed, cartilage burned away, the structure of him refused his heft no matter
how light that burden was becoming. He did not know the logistics of it, how
far down or in which direction the descent was, but his mind seemed to keep
check on his equilibrium.
There was no breath in him, that function seemed to stop at the first sign of
heat, but there was no urge for him to suckle for air either.
Sansa.
She was his air, his breath, his balance.
His mind was darkening, a starless night creeping further inward at the
edges. It wasn't claustrophobic, that squeeze of murky nothingness, because
through the ink was a pyre.
He laughed - it sounded just like him, that voiceless chuckle - what humour it
was that he conjured comfort in a flame when it is the very thing to destroy
him.
What humour, indeed.
But his comforting flame moved nothing like the fire in a hearth or the fire
from a dragon. It moved like the sea, like the waters of home.
Home.
                                Kissed by fire.
                                Built of fire.
                           The lion truly was lucky.
                      For he'd died long before this day,
                     Having drown in her waves of auburn.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
 
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Epilogue to follow.
***** Epilogue *****
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
"Is Aunt Robyn a bastard?"
Lord Tysan Lannister quirked a smile at the small boy who squirmed
subconsciously against his father dressing him for bed all the while peering up
at him with eyes so like his own.
"She's my sister, Ty," he scoffed lightly at his son.
"I know, but her father isn't the same. That makes her a bastard, right?"
He was only seven, but his uncle Rykar had begun taking him to Lannisport on
business and the gods only knew what his son was learning from the
mariners. Tysan laughed to himself at the picture in his mind of his wife's
reaction to her son slinging words like a sailor, and his twin grinning
encouragement to the boy. His bride may have been wild by blood, but she had
learned propriety from his lady mother. If ever the boy was doomed for his lack
of decorum, it was between those two. The only leeway he'd been afforded was
from Lady Genna, and that was because despite her winter years she was as
shameless as Rykar in her coaxing. 
"You're right Ty, she has a different father." He carded his fingers through
the pale blond waves of his son's hair. "But your Great-uncle Rickon petitioned
the King to legitimize her - and Uncle Aaryn too. They're Starks, not Hills,
you know that."
"Why not Lannister, like us?"
Thinning his lips slightly, taking in a deeper breath, Tysan hoped his words
would inform his child not complicate his understanding. "Because your
grandmother was a Stark before she was a Lannister - before she married my
father - and she wanted them to have the name she was born with."
The boy blinked a few times, meandering through that path of particular thought
only to offer another. "Grandmother says I look like him. That when I'm
thinking, that I look just like him." He beamed at his father, "Do I? Look like
Grandfather?"
Tysan cocked a brow and smiled wide, teasing, "Your grandfather was bald as an
upturned bowl." He then tickled his fingertips down his son's cheeks. "And had
thick golden whiskers all the way to his jaw."
His son giggled and squirmed even harder, then became serious - scrunching his
nose in confusion. "Then why would she say that? I'm not bald. I don't have
whiskers."
"Maybe because there are times when you do little things and it reminds her of
him. You have his eyes, like I do-"
"Was he a good man? I want to be a good man." The interruption was spoken with
the sincerity that only children can muster, and Lord Tysan had to swallow back
the darkness that threatened to spoil this precious time. He knew the horrors
his father wrought throughout his life. When he and Rykar had been grown enough
to hear the truth, their mother had not lied to them when asked, but Tysan's
own son was nowhere near ready.
"He was a great man." Tysan smiled at his son. "A great man who achieved many
great things." He paused only briefly, thinking of his own truth. "And an even
better man to those he cared for."
His son had taken an interest in the lacing at the neck of his tunic; the boy
spoke absently, reiterating what he found important in his father's words, "He
cared for her."
"Your grandmother was very young when she was married to your
grandfather." Tysan had drifted in thought and the words were out of his mouth
before he considered them fully. 
Young Tywin Lannister stopped fiddling with the laces in his hands and looked
at his father squarely. In that instant Tysan was catapulted back to a memory
of his own sire. You indeed look like him, boy.
His son spoke almost gravely, "They loved each other though... Like you and
mama."
It was a statement, not a question, and the older Lannister felt the
conversation suddenly become uncanny. Tysan closed his eyes then, allowing his
mind to travel, sweeping dust from the recollections he was looking for. He
could see them, his father and mother, in moments they thought their children
were distracted. He could see clearly the smile on his father's face when his
mother was preoccupied and not paying attention to her husband. He could see
the way he looked at her in the rare instances when he would pull her in for a
kiss or an embrace made of equal parts severity and desire. He could see her
adoration when she would touch him; brush her fingertips over his own fingers,
hands, arms, chest, neck, face...
Small moments of history, his story, and Tysan cherished them all.
"Yes Ty," he smiled out the words, "they loved each other."
In a swift movement, and subsequent giggling, father scooped up son and walked
him to his waiting bed. In an uncommon mood of compliance, little Tywin lay
down without complaint, fuss or negotiation. However, the reason for such
unlikely placidity was standing at the entrance of the room.
"Is the little lord ready, Tysan?"
The Lord of Casterly Rock approached his sister where she waited in the
doorway, grinned at her, ribbing, "He's conned you again?"
Robyn Stark raised a brow, her normally serious face returning the slightest of
smirks as confirmation of his suspicion, and Tysan wondered just when it had
been his baby sister bloomed to become so much a woman.
It's because she's wearing a gown, his conscience laughed out. His sister was
raised amongst boys, played amongst boys ten years ahead of her, and Rykar was
unforgiving in his stance that she be allowed breeches and adventure. Their
mother had been surprisingly accommodating to the demand, but wore a look of
something akin to sadness whenever she watched over their rowdy horseplay -
more so when Rykar began teaching Robyn archery and skill with a blade.
Though Lady Sansa never said a word against her daughter's preferences, only
encouragement, she also took meticulous care ensuring Robyn not only knew the
role of a lady but excelled in that duty. 
Sidling beside his sister, Tysan did not have far to look down. Robyn stood
taller than their mother, but not as tall as either Tysan or Rykar, and
certainly not as tall as Aaryn - still a boy at four-and-ten, he all but
towered over most men already.
Like her Stark brother, Robyn had dark hair. Where Aaryn's was black through
and through, Robyn's looked inky in the shade, yet in the light, at the proper
angle, it hinted to the auburn of the Riverlands. She could be two people with
the tilt of her head, and it served to make her the best kind of mystery. And
although her blue eyes could not be called Tully they were ever sharp, ever
fair, and wonderfully unforgiving. For a young lady she knew well the play and
gambles of both men and lords; better, in fact, than most men and lords.
She was confident yet demure, exciting yet studious, and had all manner of
suitors, from lands they had never heard of, vying for the hand of the she-
wolf. These traits, Tysan admitted honestly, were what gave his sister
advantage over her brothers and leverage against the rats, and prepared her for
the time when she would leave the safety of the Rock and the circle of her
family.
Rykar had been knighted at seven-and-ten and remained securely at the side of
his lord brother. With the continued guidance and support of his mother, Tysan
had stepped into the role of Warden at nearly the same age.
As soon as Aaryn began to toddle there was no doubt of him becoming a warrior.
As though to confirm it, as soon as he could, Aaryn spoke of his dreams, of
being part of the Kingsguard just like their slain brother, Jaime. The boy had
always been, and continued to be, very much a shadow to Rykar. With the same
type of enthusiasm for sport and mischief, Aaryn took to swordplay like
breathing. The difference between them being Rykar flowed like water,
mesmerizing to watch, whereas Aaryn moved through men like a storm. Not clumsy,
mind, his way was quick and fearless and never held hesitation, and even though
their youngest sibling did have moments of bitter jealousy and palpable
frustration, he also possessed a gentleness of spirit and a sense of fairness
that was every bit their mother. A quality that all but ensured Aaryn would
wear a white cloak at the same age the Golden Lion was anointed and given his.
"Your son spends too much time with his uncle Ry," Robyn smiled as she stepped
past Tysan, walking to greet her nephew.
"No," he drawled in a tease. "He spends too much time with his conniving aunt."
Robyn looked over her shoulder at him, once more raising a brow then scoffing
in a way learned from her older brothers, a way that was undeniably Lannister,
"I'll be sure to tell Genna you say so."
Lord Tysan huffed out a loud, genuine laugh as Robyn settled with a practiced
ease on the side of little Tywin's bed. Her eyes narrowed in playful judgment
at the boy. "Ready for your story, bug?"
It was a name only Robyn was allowed to use. His son loved his aunt like no
other and her endearment was clung to with an extraordinary possessiveness.
Rather telling since the boy was not afraid to make the offense known to
whomever thought to use it besides her, regardless of where that person stood
on the scale of station.
However, instead of answering her question, his son asked one of his own. "Are
you a bastard?" 
Tysan stifled a groan and observed with interest what would come next.
The innocent way in which young Tywin's voice carried the question merited a
smile from his aunt. The type of smile shared by all in their family, one that
was kind and inviting. Robyn leaned down over the boy and spoke in a tone that
twinned the look she wore, "Do you think I'm a bastard?"
"No," the little lion said honestly, shaking his head to reinforce his
feelings. "You're my aunt."
"Then that's all that matters, bug."
Tysan could not help but be caught adrift in the warmth of the two, his son and
his sister. There was as much age between aunt and nephew as there was between
he and Robyn, but the gap was negligible in terms of love and affection. A
truth for all the children of the Rock, no matter their fathers. The thought of
his siblings and the thought of his sire found Tysan losing more and more
footing in his current surroundings, slipping into distraction as he focused on
the images playing in his mind.
His memories flooded him then.
One of his earliest, he and Rykar could have been no more than four, was one of
his most defining. It was the only time he had seen his mother lash out at his
father. They had been supping in their private chambers and Tysan recalled
himself asking - he could not remember of which parent - when he and Rykar
would have a brother again.
His lady mother had grown big with a babe, and he had gotten excited when she
let him feel it move in her belly. He remembered the reverence his father had
for her, the way his fingers would touch where the baby was sleeping, and how
his mouth would twitch - and sometimes smile.
His mother always seemed to be smiling when she was with child. When she
carried Robyn, and eventually Aaryn, it made her even more beautiful - everyone
in the castle always said so - and it was the truth of it, not flattery. But
that first time he was to be an older brother, by more than moments anyway, was
what Tysan would remember most. Perhaps because the child was a full sibling,
someone else also made of his own lord father. He didn't love his Stark
siblings any less, he simply remembered that love at that time differently.
When Kevyn Lannister was born, labour had been difficult for his mother. It
took days. Servants ran back and forth with linens and water or stood frozen in
nooks and galley-ways muttering about all the blood and things happening again,
and at the time Tysan didn't know what their fear meant.
The third day their mother was in childbed, when their nurse took he and his
brother to bid goodnight to their father, they found him in his personal solar,
his arm resting on the mantle of the large fireplace, his face buried in the
bend of his elbow. Lack of sleep and unexpected interruption had Lord Tywin
screaming in his way, the way that did not require any volume at all,
threatening the woman until Tysan felt the hand he held shaking and heard the
young nursemaid begging forgiveness, begging for her life.
Through all of that, Rykar let go of his own designated hand and ran to their
father like it was any other day, as though that type of anger were an illusion
and the youngest son saw only a game. Their young nurse had been horrified, too
horrified to even move, but as Rykar made to climb his father like a tree, the
nurse let go of Tysan and fled outright.
The youngest son had almost scaled his father's breeches when he was rescued by
strong arms and strong hands. And in those hands the rambunctious boy had
calmed almost immediately, then made a reach for the rough whiskered neck that
meant his father had been awake and occupied in one place for longer than a
day.
Tysan thought his father would scold Rykar; that he would scream-quiet and make
him shake like their nurse had, but he did nothing of the kind. Instead the old
lion acquiesced to his son's affection, hooked his arm under his legs and let
him hold on. His brother laid his head on their father's shoulder and began to
pet his mane with tiny fingers. Lord Tywin had taken a deep breath then, his
eyes far away, and had leaned into the touch of his son.
There had never been a time prior that Tysan wanted to be bold and reckless
like his brother. However, then, as he remembered looking on while Rykar sat
upon the arm of his serious and cool father, the oldest twin hated the
cautiousness so many praised him for.
His mother lived. The baby did not.
Tysan had woken a time later, curled with his brother on one of the large
chairs in their father's solar. He smiled at the smell of Lord Tywin, his
doublet had been tucked in and around his sons, but that smile quickly faded
when he heard the old lion question the Maester sharply as to the health of
mother and child.
The Maester had spoken low, but not so low as to be unheard, and said, "As per
your directions, my lord, when the choice had to be made, Lady Sansa was
spared."
"The child perished?" His father sounded so very tired.
The Maester hesitated, then whispered sadly, "Yes, my lord. A son."
Next was heard the sound of a door closing, then Tysan heard the voice of his
Aunt Genna. "I am so sorry, Ty-"
"Can I see her?" His father no longer sounded weary, but had the voice that let
his sons know he was agitated.
His aunt sighed heavily, "She's weak and resting just now, I'll come for you
when she wakes... Or if you're needed."
"Genna, was the child... Was he... Again?"
It had taken only a moment for Aunt Genna to comprehend and move quickly to
reassure, "Oh, Ty. No. No, the babe was all health. It just took too long."
There were muffled words, and Tysan was sure there was an embrace being
administered, as his father had grumbled and his aunt held a voice of light
admonishment. Soon after that the door opened and closed again, and Tysan heard
his father's footsteps getting closer.
Curling more into Rykar, the older twin pressed his face into his sleeping
brother's shoulder to help keep his eyes closed. Lord Tywin always knew when
they were awake, even if they were pretending, so he had to try much harder so
as to not be caught eavesdropping. The footsteps ended close to the chair, and
Tysan made a concerted effort to breathe slowly, hoping and hoping his father
wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary. It was another victory altogether
that he didn't flinch when he felt the large warm hand brush gently over his
hair.
The touch was soothing, like how he would talk to them or rock them before they
slept, and the little lord relaxed even more, regardless of the
circumstance. He did not remember falling asleep, but he did, contented. And it
was that same fuzzy happiness that had prompted him to ask for another brother
in the first place.
It was the viciousness of his father's instantaneous reply that shredded that
contentment tenfold.
"Never!"
His lady mother didn't say a word to the outburst, but she threw down her
cutlery, stood and stormed away from the table.
Tysan's child-self had been terrified. He'd never seen anything but poise and
love from his mother, and this was something shocking. He was certain that both
he and his brother started to cry - or perhaps it was just him - as they
watched their father rise from the table as well. Tysan had also been certain,
in that long ago moment, that he was going to be punished severely, not only
for his display of emotion, but for making his mother so upset. But the old
lion hadn't spared his children even a single glance, merely strode quickly to
his wife. Lord Tywin caught her by the arm, and Tysan saw clearly how she
fought to be free of his grip, and knew without doubt that he had bawled openly
and loudly then. He didn't want his father to hurt her because he had said
something wrong.
The Great Lion did not harm his mother though, he hugged her. Tight, like a
vine, pulling her into his chest. She had struggled and balled her fists where
they were tucked between them, but his lord father would not let her go, not
for anything. And Tysan remembered watching his father's head slip down cheek-
to-cheek beside his mother's, but on the side he could not see, and his
mother's face gradually soften from where it had been locked in fury and grief.
He did not know what the old lion was saying, but he could see the back of his
father's neck going pink, then crimson. Lord Tywin's fingers were clasping and
releasing where they lay on his wife's back, and his four-year-old sons thought
it looked an awful lot like what they would do to stem the hurt of whatever
injury boys were apt to inflict on themselves at that young age. After what
felt like forever, his mother wore a look of sadness again, though not as
severe. She had even brought her arms up, draping them around his father's
neck. Tysan recalled vividly his mother stroking her fingers from a point on
his father's head that he could not see to the collar of his doublet where the
hot, red skin disappeared.
Reflecting as a grown man, as a husband and a father himself, Lord Tysan knew
that whatever words his sire spoke to his mother at that time were built of
truth and honesty, and that they had hurt him equally.
The hands that were clenching at his mother's gown slowly moved up her back, to
where his arms swathed just below her shoulders and his fingers cradled her
head. His lord father shifted slightly then, pivoting his lady mother so her
face was pointed toward his; so her lips were aligned to his.
Their sons looked on, stunned out of their fits of weeping. Through his tears
and snot, Tysan crinkled his nose at the display of intimacy between his
parents, but it was Rykar, the fearless one, who spoke. 
"Stop biting her!" roared his brother, something tiny and true, and he'd heard
his mother and father scoff in airy humour - at least, he was sure that's what
he heard from them.
Delicate peals of laughter roused Tysan from his reminiscence; the sound of his
own son expressing joy, a sound the Red Lion would live and die for. He focused
once more on the room around him and watched with a certain fondness his sister
undo the effort it had taken him to calm the boy to the point of sleep - her
hands sweeping in grand gestures, and her voice changing pitch and intonation
to emphasize whatever story she was feeding his child.
In watching their mutual excitement and glee, the Red Lion could appreciate the
value such instances held, which were more than worth the cost of any
disruption of rest.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Tysan moved from his son's chambers, navigating the corridors from the high-
perched living area on the sea side of the castle toward the common rooms on
the main levels. In his journey, his mind bandied the topic of his father. He
remembered clearly the last days he had seen him; the days before he set out to
kill the dragons. The image of his mother came to him, holding the hands of her
sons as they watched the Lannister host leave. 
It wasn't until they were many years older that Ser Daven told them the truth,
that what they had watched from the battlements was in fact the rearguard and
that their father had actually left many hours prior with the vanguard. Tysan
remembered his exact flush of anger at that truth, of being lied to even if he
were a child, and that same vent of rage was snuffed out as the story in mind
unfurled to its completion - telling that Lord Tywin had spent the hours up to
his leave sitting quietly in the room of his sleeping sons. That he endured the
settling pinch and weight of full plate armour to count as many moments with
them as he could.
As a man, Tysan still choked down bitterness of the fact that his mother knew
they waved at strangers, but he also understood his mother's desire to let her
children keep their hopes and happiness. 
Even as they traveled to save the North, his mind chuckled sadly, he and Rykar
never doubted that their father would return. As a boy he feared the beasts,
but nothing was a match to the Great Lion. In his mind he could also see with
horribly clarity the way his mother looked when she came to retrieve them from
White Harbor, alive and well after the dragons had quieted... noticeably
without her lord husband. 
She had smiled her love to her children and her brother, even Aunt Genna,
embraced them all and wept with the joy of seeing them again. Yet when she was
alone or caught in thought, she would look so empty, so incredibly bereft that
it made Tysan feel the same way just for looking at her. But given a heartbeat
of time, Tysan would watch with no small amount of awe, his mother swallow her
grief, fold it up and tuck it away in order to focus on the hope that remained
kindled within the people around her.
He knew then, at an age not yet two digits, his mother would always be his
hero.
Lord Tywin was gone; Lady Sansa remained. Though, some would say the old lion
never died at all, that his wife was every bit the fabled man. And to a very
succinct degree, Tysan was apt to be of the same opinion. 
He recalled a specific instance while they were readying to leave the North;
his mother stood talking to her brother Rickon in one of the large court yards
that ensconced Manderly's castle. The young man towered over her, his massive
wolf standing high about her waist.
Both beast and man were wild and unpredictable. The entire time they were
hidden with the fat laughing lord, his Uncle Rickon's wolf emitted a constant
low growl. It wasn't a noise of warning so much as it was a sound to remind you
the animal was near. But as his mother stood with his uncle, smiling and
talking, and touching and smiling more, Tysan had watched her absently reach
up, like it was a usual occurrence, and stroke her fingers through the fur
along the direwolf's neck and back. He remembered being riveted by the motion
of her petting the fabled creature over and over. Her fingers wiggled with each
pass, and with the motion the noise from the beast gradually faded to nothing.
No one noticed. The deadly wolf, the wild animal his uncle took Rykar and he to
watch hunt game larger than any he had ever seen, was calmed by the hands of
his delicate mother. Only now, as a grown man, thinking upon those uncertain
times, Tysan recalled that singular incident with an echo of familiarity.
The same gentle motions of his mother's touch - her fingers each caressing
paths of their own - would also find their way into the shag of hair at the
sides of his father's face. Lord Tysan marveled at how he had never made that
connection before and was truly elated that he could remember something so
significant so many years later.
His lord father would calm at her touch. She could bring him out of a shaking
fury without so much as a word. They were private moments, the few times he was
witness to that particular magic. His mother would stand to face the man all
others feared, her actions fluid like the sea, her demeanour cooling like the
air above it, and she would reach up and trace her fingers down the side of his
face.
Once, he remembered, she used both hands - one on either side - but the other
times she only needed one. And his father's face had transformed. Melted from a
pinched, blatant rage to his usual seriousness, then finally his father would
look at his mother with the same eyes people sometimes wore when looking at
him: reverence of a kind, ingratiation, fear... worship.
His hand subconsciously drifted to clutch the heavy steel key he still wore
around his neck. The key to a place that now locked away and kept safe the
treasures of his own life.
Tysan missed his father.
He was hardly older than his own son at that time, and he wondered now how his
mother had never let her grief affect her family. It took the passage of years
for him to understand the type of wreckage his mother held together in that
time. It was the sinking and raising of herself, willing herself to overcome
her tempest of sorrow and loss that Tysan found so extraordinary.
She is the strongest person I have ever met.
A statement true enough, but for the longest time his mother was also afraid;
never publicly and barely in the presence of her children, but there was a fear
to her that could be seen sometimes. She had freedom after Lord Tywin died, a
precious new thing, and it took her more moons than she would ever admit before
she understood that it was hers - that she was allowed to have it. That she was
allowed to enjoy it as she pleased, and that no one could take her new self
away or force her to set it aside.
With the help of others around her, people she trusted, Lady Sansa learned to
live again. And once begun, she refused to bow to the whim of anyone on the
matter.
Including him.
As Tysan grew older, not anywhere near an adult, just outside the blinding
shininess of childhood, he hated the man his mother kept as their shield, as
their pet. To him the giant beast was infringing upon what was his father's.
Where Rykar took to Sandor without hesitation, Tysan grew to become suspicious
and wary. He revolted against his mother's wish to treat his shield with
respect and started summoning and commanding him like the dog he'd heard named
in the whispers and titters of servants and knights alike. The insults had no
effect on him though, he would heel and stay and sit as his small charge
directed - as if the degradation was something he was used to.
Unable to get a rise out of the brute, unable to show his mother that the man
had no place with them - that only Lord Tywin was deserving of her friendship -
Sandor's compliance infuriated him as a boy
Tysan now scoffs and cringes equally at his behaviour then, but as a boy he
loathed the Dog. So much so, he ignored the reality that his attitude and
actions were hurting his mother; more than hurting her, in truth he was
breaking her heart.
It had come to a head one random evening when the Dog made his mother
laugh. The words of his lord father rang in his ears, ...it is your duty to
protect your mother, even from sadness..., and this, this boor thought to usurp
him in that pledge and take his place. He roared as much as a boy could, first
at Sandor, then, as he felt his anger control him, he spit vitriol straight at
his mother.
"You disgrace my father!" He had seethed. "You... You... Whore!"
It was the most hurtful, foul word he knew - until then, not yet spoken openly
- and he watched his mother bring both hands up, one covering her neck and the
other covering her mouth; as though trying to keep from coming apart. But her
eyes went wide, then they watered, then she began to sob.
...it is your duty to protect your mother, even from sadness...
Tysan had no time to consider what he had done before he was shouldered
violently off his feet. For an instant he thought the Dog had been unleashed,
but when he opened and centered his eyes, he was confused to see his brother
straddling his chest; his blue eyes, so much like his mother's, were brimming
in such a frantic kind of anger Tysan knew, he knew his behaviour was something
that would not be swept away, would not be forgotten behind a smile and the
bond of family.
Everything was slow, stuck in the thick mud of focus, and he watched Rykar
raise his fist, twist his body at the waist, then unfurl the coil as his punch
landed squarely on his mouth. He tasted blood, but that was secondary to the
fascination of seeing the fledgling beginnings of the unparalleled soldier his
brother would eventually become.
The fascination was short lived when the second and third punches landed in and
around the same spot.
He gawked; his brother was suddenly levitating, flailing against the wings that
made him float, and a booming voice broke whatever trance they were in.
"See to your mother, boy." It was the voice of the mutt he hated. It was a
command, telling his brother to perform the duty that his father gave to him.
Before he could say a word, Tysan himself was floating too. He could feel his
heels dragging on the ground here and there, he could see the ceiling, first of
the large sitting room they were in, then the corridor without - each, he
noticed, stained with black pools of soot from where oil lamps, torches and
candles had been placed for generations. However, it was the constricting pinch
at the front of his jerkin that became his sole worry.
The Dog had his giant fist buried in the fabric there and was carrying him like
one would a sack; a sack of anything, even a boy. The large man was striding
fast, his limp no longer a burden, and when Tysan looked to the ruined ugliness
of the man's face he understood why.
Even with the young lord's flow of taunts and disrespect, Sandor never looked
any more than impassive, but his eyes right then were burning with a dangerous
fury. Any guards, servants, and soldiers they passed offered no help to the
sack-of-boy, their liege, and stepped away from the seething Hound marching
with purpose.
Tysan had felt the need to make water. He felt that this man was about to kill
him, and no one would stop it from happening.
The trek ended when the petulant little lord met the dirt and sawdust of the
inner sparring yard. It was a jarring thump that caught his breath; the
clattering thump that landed beside him only lent to his pique. Turning his
head, Tysan saw his sword. It was the second sword commissioned for him; the
first had been waiting for him when he was seven. It was the finest castle
forged steel, and a scaled replica of his father's golden hued blade.
Dragging himself up from the ground, he noticed the dog panting and waiting
with a blunted training sword. Looking down, he furrowed his brow at the live
steel in his own hand then back to the dull length held by the man across from
him.
"You best kill me, you little cunt." They were the only words the dog spit at
him before he stood at the ready.
Tysan's anger had consumed him. He charged at the man wearing nothing but light
leathers and swung with everything to damage him, to kill him. To rid their
lives of the vermin that had infested it.
The length of time that passed was unknown, but in the end it was the boy who
was on his hands and knees retching into the loose dirt, and the Dog who stood
without a scratch and barely perspiring.
"I'll be here tomorrow, and the next day," the Dog had sneered as he crouched
before his lord. "And the day after that. You will be too."
Tysan peered up, Sandor's eyes were wide, and the grey seemed to darken. "You
take your rage out on me, you fucking animal. Shame your mother ever again, and
I will end you." It was all a low menacing growl. "Believe that."
He did. Tysan believed it true. But his ego and his anger were still in the
forefront, and he hated that bloody dog even more. 
Every day he found the beast waiting with his practice steel, equipping Tysan
with live steel. They would spar until Tysan gave in or could not stand. There
were never any words; the anger simmering in them both was enough to speak
volumes.
The days turned into moons, and the moons eventually turned over a year.
A full year of hating the giant man - who would stop to correct the young
lord's stance or his blade position so the boy would know how to better slay
him - all because he made his mother laugh. The horrendous crime of making
her happy.
In that year there was no conversation between his mother and the Dog while
Tysan was within earshot. There was no rudeness or teasing from the dog that
would make his mother scoff and admonish him in mock seriousness - like there
had been when Tysan was younger; when Sandor was just Sandor and he would lift
him high to get a better view of Lannisport from over the battlements of the
Rock.
As a man reflecting, Tysan could see clearly that Sandor had always been there
for him, for Rykar as well, then again for Robyn and Aaryn, but as a child that
specific clarity was luxury he had not yet been afforded. And as it turned out,
there would be no time for easy restitution between the man and the boy - that
valley was swallowed in snow and ice, besieged with a walking terror.
At the end of their tenth year, the twins knew what it was to be truly cold;
both as something felt in their mind and something weighed in their
bones. Winter struck at such a devastating pace, ravens froze mid flight with
the news and families fled for the South leaving meals to freeze on the table.
Though it was what followed them that separated legends from facts.
Children and women and soldiers were packed on any water vessel that would hold
them; gold and food were packed as well. Lord Rickon's children, babes just
newly weaned, were put in the care of Tysan and Rykar. At the time Tysan felt
that their leave was a scramble, but there had been too much put into motion
for the plans to have been offhanded.
The only thing that did not get packed away, safe with everything else, was
their lady mother. Because their father was gone, it was her responsibility to
care for and protect those in the West who were left behind; to help defend the
North and the Riverlands - to ensure they had a castle to come home to.
It was the only time, then and since, that Sandor ever raised his voice to the
Lady of the Rock. Tysan was not in the room, both he and Rykar were in an
antechamber, but they heard the words of what was a one sided struggle for
power.
Sandor must have known his efforts would be wasted, but he was as stubborn as
the rest of them and never left things unsaid. Lady Sansa never met the Hound's
bellows, her words were soft and muddled through the door, but whatever she had
said had calmed the big man - or merely rendered his attempts futile.
Although both Tysan and Rykar heard Sandor clear at the end; something they had
never heard from him before, said in a way that would never be forgotten.
"Please."
Their shield begged their lady mother to board a ship with her sons. Begged
her. The Hound never begged, you begged the Hound - for leniency, for your life
- and it was with a single word Tysan saw the Dog once more as a man. It was
with a single word the sons of the great, the dead, Tywin Lannister knew
absolute fear. And because of that single word they held onto each other, those
brave little lion-boys, and wept like the children they were never truly
allowed to be.
If they lost their mother too - this time to ice not fire - they would not be
the same. They would be as dead as the northern fiends and amble just as
aimlessly the rest of their days. Yet each boy knew they'd not convince her to
leave either, their begging would be as useless as Sandor's. She had more than
the duty heaped upon her, she was the hope of the people entrusted to her care.
The day their boat sailed, they left behind the only parts of their lives that
mattered; waving at their mother standing stoic on the pier - and continued
their waving down to the shallow docks to Merik who had also refused to leave
even though he had passage.
Their hearts broke, adding to their suffering, but their mother told them there
would always be suffering and the only choice they had in the matter was to
give up or fight. They were lions, they were wolves, and so they fought as they
could - being led away from danger in order to survive once again.
The heirs of Lannister were gone more than two years, homed on the hottest
place they had ever known - then or since - before word reached them that the
winter had retreated. No one truly believed a winter didn't last years, but
they also said it wasn't a true winter to begin with; that evil brought its own
weather.
Throughout their return journey, the boys were fed tales of what had happened,
of what they were returning to.
Stories of the Queen and her dragons sacrificed in the North to save the land
she'd invaded. The twins did not share the same sentiment that most did,
praising her as a martyr, as a mother to those left fighting the frozen horror;
the boys knew her as their own horror with her own monsters. In their eyes, the
death of the Dragon Queen was a debt paid to both them and to their mother.
With news of the northern battles told by passing seafarers, they also learned
of the loss of their brother - the Queen's Hand - and their uncle - the Lord
Commander of the Nightswatch. They heard of the new King. A king who walked to
Casterly Rock over the frozen Sunset Sea, built his army there, and walked
again to reinforce and win the North just as they were slipping. Some said this
king was the rightful heir to the throne. King Stannis: a dower man who simply
refused to die - even by Lord Tywin's hand.
Gossip from the West told of devastation, and as they sailed to cooler and
cooler waters, there was no telling what they were to expect. In the end, it
was their lady mother who greeted them on the same pier where she had bid them
farewell.
But she was not the same.
Their mother was so thin her gown hung from her frame as though it were being
stored, not worn, and her eyes held a hollow fear and wariness.
The grown lion shivered in the waning sun of the lord's solar as though he
himself had felt the true cold of that endless night, that unfathomable winter.
The only respite from their hesitation at approaching the husk of their mother
was when she smiled. She smiled with warmth, and she wept from her heart,
embracing her children with a fierceness and love that felt like they had only
been gone a day.
Looking at the people of Lannisport, they were easily as thin as Lady
Lannister. The truth was unfettered, their mother starved alongside her people
and would not see them suffer any more than she. Her selfless acts and decrees
within the years of dark and terror would make Lady Sansa a legend in the West
- a stunning counterpoint to the legend of the late Lord Tywin.
The first order of duty upon their return was to board another boat and set out
for King's Landing. Tysan was to meet King Stannis and bend the knee at the
side of his mother.
They had been in the capital moons after their fealty was sworn, and Tysan
recalled whispers of hearsay that Lady Sansa was being courted by the scowling
King, that she was to be his Queen.
He and Rykar were assured that they were nothing more than rumours; his mother
told them they stayed on in King's Landing because she was building new trade
with the Lord of Highgarden and the delegates from Dorne and the Vale. But the
moment the Vale's entire emissary party were found slaughtered at the edge of
the King's Wood, his mother packed them all and abruptly left for home.
There were to be even more rumours, viscous ones, when they returned to
Casterly Rock with Lady Sansa noticeably with child.
He remembered his mother deciding to have the child, but not marry.
The Lannister bannermen were furious, frothing of new Baratheon bastards and
conspiracies of Flower babes. There were some, more stupidly courageous men and
women who thought to point fingers closer to home, and other's who were
discreet but no less vile in their gossip about their mother's betrayal to King
Stannis. 
Tysan equally recalled his mother, the Lady of the Rock, being aggressively
confronted by Lord Crydene for her decision to flaunt a bastard. Then looked on
with the rest of the assembled lords as she barely blinked and had the man
detained in the lowest of their cells for a fortnight; extracting an amercement
from his coffers to be paid to a Lannisport orphanage for his troubles.
When she gave birth to Robyn, as his sister wailed her first breaths, Lord
Rickon was present in the capital in order to appeal to the King for a decree
to legitimize her as a Stark.
Unsurprisingly, this had always been his mother's intention. Just as
unsurprising, was that there was no mention of bastards, no rumbling in the
slightest actually, when Aaryn was born. His siblings looked of the North, so
for them to bear the name Stark seemed appropriate, almost as though his mother
planned it all along.
Whatever her reasons, they would remain her secret.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Lord Tysan blinked at his surroundings, and for a moment wondered if he'd been
sat static throughout the night and into morning. It took a moment to affix a
time of day. It was the height of the summer and daylight stretched well into
the evening, meaning he'd only been lost in his mind for an hour at most.
Breathing in deep through his nose, the Red Lion leaned back in the chair that
had been his father's, doing the duty the man entrusted to him. Yet his eyes
refused to focus on words or parchment.
His mind was restless, his memories would not be ignored.
The year Tysan turned six-and-ten he became Lord of Casterly Rock and was only
a few years from the responsibility of Warden of the West. At the same time,
the Brotherhood had encroached too far onto the lands of his home - stealing
crops and livestock, terrorizing crofters on the furthest edges nearest the
Riverlands - and his mother supported his decision to strike and push back the
menace.
Sandor stood with him at the time he rallied his banners. He was between both
he and Rykar when they rode out, a thousand men strong. He was also there when
the battle raged a league away and their encampment was raided; when Tysan
stood his ground like he had been taught and took the life of a man bent on
relieving him of his own.
His brother had already spilt blood, had his first kill fending off raiders
during a summer spent at Crakehall when they were four and ten. It seemed a
fantasy then, killing, a tale told in the winks of bolstered men and snarls of
those whose trust was buried; stories regaled by the old knights and drunk
lords at every feast and tourney they had at the Rock. The notion sounded of
excited whispers amidst the brothers when they dreamt aloud in the blackest
hours before morning.
And Tysan wanted to know the fun of it.
He asked Rykar what killing was like, if it was exactly how they'd planned, and
watched as his brother lost the smug smile that defined him, as the shine in
his eyes that always danced with life was extinguished.
Sandor bid him an answer, one rasped from the darkest part of their room. "Send
a soul to the Stranger, boy," he'd said. "Then you have the right to ask."
And it was in the very same moment he dealt death with his own hand, felt the
hot sticky spray of blood drench him in that horrifying responsibility, he knew
the utter vulgarity of his question two years prior.
When he fell to his knees and shook and wept into the gore-soaked bracken; when
he choked on the bile that plagued him in his guilt and horror of sending the
Stranger that soul, it was his shield who was there to comfort him, in his way.
There were no soft words, but an abundance of gruff advice and opinion.
More than anything, relief came by way of camaraderie in the grimmest of
experiences.
Sandor remained. His shield was there when he took his oaths as Lord of
Casterly Rock, and when he took more oaths becoming Warden in the West. When
Tysan married, Sandor stood off in the shadows, yet in his line of sight while
he pledged his vows to the Seven. He was there when his own twins were born and
helped carry the grief when one of them succumbed to illness not a year later.
And though his limp is more pronounced now, though he no longer carries the
title or obligation of his personal shield, though his hair now matches the
colour of his eyes, and his coarse demeanor has not flagged even a fraction...
Sandor remains.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The sky was streaking in vibrant shades of orange and red when the door to the
solar opened to admit a tall black-haired knight. Tysan didn't have to look up
to know his friend had answered his summons, or that he had taken a seat in the
more comfortable of the two chairs in front of the large desk.
"I will remind you of discretion, Merik," he said in the middle of reading
missives and scrawling replies. It was with the same detached tone his father
was known for that he spoke.
Merik lost his smile, tone and all, "We have never acted to disgrace you, my
lord."
The Red Lion stopped writing then, raising this eyes and devoted every bit of
attention to his friend. "There are no titles in this room, Merik. Not with me.
Not ever."
The strapping man that came of the scruffy stable boy sat stiff in irritation
and a hint of recollected caution.
Tysan knew the error he made, the careless offence he gave the knight in front
of him, and that the knight strained to remember the friend and not a shadow of
the lord that deemed him chattel.
"I know you have never acted in a manner other than upstanding, Merik," the
young lord grinned. The offer of something playful and genuine as penance to
his friend. "But if I plead my unnecessary worry to the fuckwit portion of your
pair, he would act purposefully to spite me." He leaned back then, his hands
resting folded low on his chest. "It may be a tourney, and it may be in the
Riverlands, but I don't need any more gossip."
Imprudent little shit, Tysan thought of his twin, as he struggled not to talk
himself angry.
Merik's broad smile returned with it a glint of mirth to his onyx eyes. The
restitution from Rykar's most recent scandal - a matter of championing a
tourney melee clad in only boots and a helm - was still being doled to King
Stannis; restitution for his brother avoiding the black cells of King's
Landing.
Tysan's looked at his friend and smiled for the man's obvious contentment.
There had always been a type of caring between the stable boy and the youngest
twins of Lord Tywin Lannister. Although, when exactly that regard caught and
changed into an intimacy between Merik and Rykar was unknown. Perhaps it had
always been there, the truth was that the when's and why's didn't matter, only
that they were happy. Their relationship was encouraged, their happiness more
so, and no one protected that course more than Lady Sansa. His mother did not
care whom her children loved, as long as it was their choice.
"Aaryn will be accompanying us, Ty," the knight scoffed. "He's more Rykar's
conscience than I am, you should be assigning this responsibility to him."
When the Lord of Casterly Rock didn't say a word, only narrowed his eyes in a
mock look of scolding, his friend knew there would be no argument... But that
didn't mean his fun was restricted as well.
"I see. Then I will try my best to keep him... in hand." Merik fitted himself
with a rakish grin and waggled his brows at lion wearing a look of his own, one
of exaggerated repugnance.
Both men failed in their battle of wills and ended the draw with the same
carefree laughter they shared as children - only this version was deeper, in
both pitch and trust.
With the last dregs of frivolity tinting his words, Merik spoke of what he and
the older twin always discussed when the younger twin was setting to leave the
security of the Rock. "The Reach has accepted their invite - for certain there
will be Fossoways and Redwynes in attendance."
He did not have to explain further. Tysan was well aware that those of House
Tyrell carried no esteem for the sons of the man who struck down both their
lord and greatest knight. Their lady mother was seen as a friend to Lord
Willas, but their lord father was now considered a pariah. And in most circles
the term evil was used in conjunction with the Great Lion of Casterly Rock. By
the same token, it was also well known was that the evil lord's sons would
exact a debt from anyone daring to disrespect the Lannister family in their
presence.
This was especially true of the youngest.
Rykar was known as blithe and fun loving, uniformly known for both his pranks
and acts of selflessness. He did not care who you were, or where you were from,
if he counted you as a friend he loved you as family. But he had inherited from
his father a remorseless viciousness that could be wholly terrifying.
In battle, Rykar killed without thought or pity, and he did it well, better
than anyone living most would say. And if he were within earshot of someone
disparaging any member of his family - adopted or true, alive or dead - that
same ruthless behaviour snapped into place... usually accentuated by blood,
sometimes accentuated by death.
"I will send word to Lord Edmure..." Tysan furrowed his brow slightly, making a
decision. "And I will speak with Aaryn, let him know to keep his own temper and
wits."
Merik nodded solemnly. It was to be the boy's first tourney, but Aaryn was the
only one, aside from himself and Lady Sansa, that could pull Rykar from the
darkness that sometimes consumed him.
The knight made to stand, their conversation waning to a close, stretching like
a cat as he strode to the door, when Tysan halted him with the distracted
words. The lord's focus once more pointed toward the endless stacks of
parchment covering the desktop. "And remind Ry not to dally your return-"
"We'll be back for your mother's nameday," Merik complained in a whine more
suited to his five-year-old self. 
This was another cue he'd had thrown at him for the majority of his adult life.
His lover had no mind for dates or occasions, and once again Rykar's deficiency
became Merik's accountability. With an overtly indignant huff, the knight
opened a door and took his leave, not hiding the smile nor smothering the
chuckle caused by his lord's own laughter behind him.
The Red Lion gazed at the closed and heavy doors as though his friend were
still standing before them as his eyes crinkled at the corners, again tangled
in thought.
Tomorrow was his mother's nameday, and like every nameday save one, since the
death of his father, she spent it in the very room he now sat in - alone. No
one disturbs her, she takes her meals within and exits only when night draws
out to just before morning. She never speaks of what she does or what she
thinks about in that time, nor does Tysan care to intrude on her that way.
Those of her family and those the Westerlands had simply taken to celebrating
properly in the weeks after, and it seemed his lady mother preferred it.
Though on the day, everyone in the castle knew she received a gift. A single
token that is delivered to her by her handmaid, while keeping to herself in the
Lord's Solar.
A gift from Lord Tywin.
Whatever the Great Lion had planned, he must have known there was a good chance
he would never return. For the same reason he gave Tysan the key to the
treasure room, he coordinated for his lady wife to receive a gift every year
after he was gone.
The gifts were always made of white gold, always clever in their craftsmanship,
and always accompanied by a small note.
...stacks of tiny missives - there must have been a hundred of them - with
golden wax meaning they were from his lord father...
It was only in the first year after his death, when her nameday came, they were
together as a small family. The three of them were breaking their fast when a
page presented a small box and a small gold-sealed letter to their lady mother
at the table. She had looked at both he and Rykar as if to assess if the gift
was their doing, but they were barely eight years old - that kind of thoughtful
insight wouldn't be for years yet.
Lady Sansa had left the parcel for the moment and snapped the seal of letter, a
terse smile playing at the corners of her mouth - but it only took a moment for
even that guarded smile to be banished in a grim line. His mother did not cry
or show that sort of distress, she merely stood and walked to the nearest
window - seemingly hunting for something on the horizon, her arms wrapped
around her middle.
Rykar was the first to approach, the first to reach and wrap his own arms about
her; wherein Tysan stepped to the opposite side of her and mirrored his
brother's embrace. She did not embrace them back, but cinched her arms tighter
on herself, the missive dangling from her fingertips near level to Tysan's line
of sight. It was a temptation he could not fight even if he wanted to, and it
was only the first line that was available to him - of that, even to this day,
he is glad.
My beloved wife,
Those were the words he read. Those were the words quilled from his father to
his mother, and Tysan hoped upon hope that those same words had greeted her
every nameday since. The one day - in a year full of days - she gave solely to
herself was for the memory of her late lord husband, and Tysan would strike
down anyone, man or woman, who thought to take that away from her.
The Red Lion sighed audibly into the empty room. He did not have many stints
like this anymore, hardly any bouts of melancholy or pangs of inadequacy at the
memory of his sire.
Making his way to the expansive balcony, Lord Tysan Lannister looked out over
the tranquil waves of the Sunset Sea wondering, not for the first time, if his
father ever came out to absorb the same view. To appreciate the same magic. He
could only assume he had. His father was very much like the water that
stretched out to the horizon like an infinite blanket; both calm and volatile -
equal measures of opposite extremes. An entity that held within its control the
vastness of life, and, justly, disregard for that same mortality.
Yet, for as much of a monster others swore the man to be, Lord Tywin Lannister
would always remain the compassionate father who held together the pieces of a
sad and heartbroken little boy. He would always be the perpetual influence that
helped guide that little boy toward being his own man. A little boy who knew
how to interpret both the best and worst of his father, a little boy who had
been given a choice of exactly what kind of man he wanted to be.
And that was the truth in the simplest of forms: regardless of how people tried
to paint both he and his brother with the same brush, with the same crimson, as
Lord Tywin, they would never be their father because they chose different
paths.
Lady Sansa honoured their lord father by being faithful to who she was, to who
she had become in light of her marriage, by the acts and decisions she made
after Lord Tywin's death; by not succumbing to the grief or pressures
encompassing her. And so, both Tysan and Rykar also formed themselves from her
example, living the best of each of them, their mother and father, through
their own lives. Improving on what had been rendered to them.
It is, after all, about what you create amongst the suffering and celebration
of life around you. It is the only gift you ever truly leave behind:
your impression upon the world through your deeds and the honour you live by.
That is your legacy.
                                      ...
                                      ..
                                       .
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