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s a n s a:

In that moment, time seems to slow down.

She hears the clashing of swords and she knows it’s Jon. Her brother doesn’t hesitate, despite the fact that there’s so many of them – too many of them – and Sansa thinks she hears her sister’s battle cry as she joins the fray instead of running to get Father as Jon had yelled over the noise of steal. Someone grabs her arm, she twists and fights, her free hand desperately trying to reach for the dagger hidden in her skirts as her head is hit against something hard, and for a moment her vision blackens.

It’s a dangerous miscalculation to make. There’s not enough time, she had seen Baelish up in the stands near Jon Arryn which means they’re running out of time. She hadn’t expected Littlefinger’s distraction to be such a... spectacle.

And it is his show, of that she’s certain. It’s not only the fact that there’s no reason for the Lannisters and Starks to be at war – as the armor of her attackers suggest her husband’s family – but the fact that said armor is...old. Second hand, and looks almost as if it had been bartered for and sold multiple times just for some coin. It’s the last thing she manages to comprehend before she’s knocked to the ground.

The hand closes around her ankle, and for a moment she’s back in King’s Landing, with the riots. Only there is no Sandor Clegane. Jon is surrounded , Arya calls out her same, and just as Sansa is ripped up from the ground roughly, hands holding underneath her arms, she reacts.

The dagger doesn’t hit right – it’s difficult to push any further than she already has – but it does its job. Blood spatters and the Lannister imposter drops to the ground with an agonized cry. He’s not dead, Sansa knows enough to understand that her blow had not been fatal, but it’s enough.

She drops beside the body, her chest heaving as the sound of her heartbeat thunders in her ears. Get up, Sansa. Get up. There’s no time for this , she tells herself but her body shakes , and she doesn’t realize it’s over until Arya’s close by.

“Sansa! Are you alright?”

“Get Father,” comes her brother’s voice – authoritative, calm. It’s soothing even now, and Sansa blinks as the world around her comes to, and it’s her brother’s hands holding her face as he looks her over searching for anything more serious than the blood from a split lip. Most of it belongs to the man who remains ignored. “I’m alright,” she tells Jon quickly, her hands gripping onto his wrists.

There isn’t time. If this is meant to distract the Lords, the crowd from what Littlefinger intends to do with the news of the legitimacy of the King’s heirs they need to act fast. Jaime will be in danger, and she needs to get to Tywin Lannister before anyone else. Varys needs to set what he has to in motion in order to keep Robert far enough away until he can be convinced of anything other than having her husband’s head.

“Arya.” She whispers to her sister, eyes fixated on her sister’s mouth. She looks like a true wolf in the moment, and there’s a flash, a memory of the terrifying assassin her sister had become in her last life. She can’t afford to say the words aloud, not with Jon so close, but the plan. They need to start moving, and they can’t afford to delay simply because she had been the target.

A crowd begins to form, and Sansa already hates it. Where had they been while Jon had been fighting off a small army by himself?

It doesn’t matter now. There are more important things, and rumors will fly fast in King’s Landing. In the Red Keep. The false information will spread faster than wildfire, and she needs to prevent a war, save her husband, and remove Cersei from power before the opportunity is gone.

“ Sansa .”

She doesn’t know who’s said her name, but Sansa ignores the soft rebuke as she pushes herself to stand. Her legs wobble, and she turns her head away from the sight of the man who lies in front of them, bleeding out slowly.

Baelish is nowhere to be seen – neither is Jon Arryn. Or the King.

She cannot pass out, she will not pass out. It becomes a mantra as she looks for someone – her brother, a guard– anyone to help her make her escape from the proverbial vultures of King’s Landing, so she can slip away. 

o b e r y n:

He’s exploring the finer workmanship of a Valeman’s lance when he hears the swords. The sounds are perhaps a few tent rows away, but he scoops up his jerkin and coat all the same, blessing the Seven for the millionth time in his life for Dorne’s loose and forgiving fashions. He doesn’t have a spear, but he’s still got three throwing knives and a dagger on his person. It’ll do.

By the time he reaches the brawl, he’s horrified to find its no brawl at all, but another Stark woman that has been set upon by Southron men. He shoves his way forward, fighting his way through the crowd, just in time to see Arya run off. Jon is covered in blood but a quick scan reveals no serious injuries. Impressive , he notes, though he’s already looking over Sansa. 

“Sansa!” 

People are in his way , and he has to watch as Jon and Sansa struggle to get her to her feet. Her balance is impaired and there’s blood in her hair. A blow to the head is a dangerous injury, and she’s had at least two judging by the split lip. He needs to look them both over now. They need a maester but he’ll have to do. 

He finally breaks through the circle of onlookers to rush to the pair’s side. 

“Sansa, Ser Snow,” he says. “Please let me assist you, I have a maester’s training and your sister’s head injury is dangerous. I must check that she does not have a brain bleed. Do you have any serious wounds?” He asks the boy urgently. Jon shakes his head and steps to the side, ducking under one of Sansa’s arms to keep her upright. “Sansa, sweeting, look at me. Follow my finger, please,” he says, catching her chin in his hands. The split lip will swell, perhaps, but not scar. 

s a n s a:

There is no time .

Realistically, she knows there is some time, Arya still must track the Spider down in order to catch Baelish in his self-made trap. They must allow the Lord to believe himself in the clear. But judging how quickly they gain attention, it’s only a matter of time before the attack is heard by those who have the power to do something about it.

Her sister runs off and she blows out a breath of relief. No one needs to see her sister in such a state and wonder and speculate, and at least things are moving on that end. But she feels cold, her hands won’t stop shaking and so Sansa grips onto the skirt of her dress to give them something else to do.

Jon will be the hardest to slip away from. There’s no way her brother will allow her to take any detours on her way back to her chambers or to a maester. There will be time for that, but there must not be a war between the Lannisters and Starks this time. She will not let what’s happened to her just now turn into the fable of Tyrion and Bran.

What happened to Bran may have been at the hands of a Lannister, her Lannister no less, but this is not. This could destroy the treaty Jaime has worked so hard to secure, the peace , and lines will be drawn. And once highborns start planning, it is the smallfolk that pay for it.

There’s also very selfish reasons why there cannot be a war between the two Houses.

“I can stand, Jon,” she says, and takes real care to make sure her voice doesn’t shake. As long as she doesn’t look at the man with her dagger sticking in him she can do it.  Blue eyes flicker up to the Prince and she gives him the best smile she can manage. “Prince Oberyn.”

Sansa ought to correct him, they’re not so familiar, but she can’t bring herself to as she follows his finger.

“I’m alright, my Prince.” She needs to move, they need to move, and she swallows as her mind tries to come up with something plausible.

“Mayhaps we can move inside,” she suggests softly, eyes flickering towards the crowd surrounding them. “Jon, you could find Father and meet us with the maester, if you would be so kind as to escort me, Prince Oberyn?” It’s a bold move, but if it comes to convincing her brother, or the Dornish Prince – even with his past history with the Lannisters – she may have a better chance with the latter. 

o b e r y n:

He surveys the men laid out on the ground. Five of them are in a heap to one side, and Oberyn eyes the Snow boy again. Five on one and no major injuries? Impressive indeed. But there’s one more, right at their feet. Like the others, he’s still alive, but if the man doesn’t receive aid, his wound will almost certainly fester. The angle the blade is lodged at suggests it’s stuck in bone, and he’s got a wicked bite mark oozing blood on his cheek. Oberyn lifts an eyebrow at Sansa. 

There is something...satisfying, in knowing how to properly wield a blade, she had said to him only days ago. 

She got lucky this time, but this is not properly wielding a blade. He decides then that his daughter can handle training Arya when he is busy as her sister will have training of a different type, to suit different needs. 

The boy bristles at the way he grabs Sansa’s face, and Oberyn meets his gaze and gives him a sharp shake of the head. She’s shaking, and her eyes are not focusing on his finger as well as he’d like, though it is not the worst case he has seen. She’s right though, they should move out of the crowd. With the end of the tourney, spirits and blood are high, the losers looking for a fight to redeem themselves in. This could easily devolve into a free-for-all. 

“Lannisters,” he says and spits on the man at their feet. 

This will mean war, he has no doubt. 

“Prince Oberyn should find father, I’m your guard, Sansa. I won’t leave you—”

“Your sister is displaying the symptoms of a severe shock, Ser Snow, and I have trained with the Citadel. If she doesn’t not receive proper care before it sets in completely, it could be disastrous. I swear on my honor, I shall escort your sister to safety, and monitor her health until a maester is found.” 

Jon Snow’s eyes dart back and forth between her and him, before the boy squares his jaw and takes off toward the keep. 

S a n s a:

She doesn’t trust herself to speak immediately. She’s suffered worse, she knows this logically, but still she cannot will her body into responding the way she needs it to. Sansa sucks in a slow breath and tries to focus instead on Prince Oberyn’s attempts to examine her. She must pass them if she is to achieve what the entire goal of this thing has been. The man who touched her lays in agony in the grass, the others dispatched easily by Jon.

There is no lasting torture with this. Not like when she was held prisoner in the Red Keep during her last life, and not like it was with Ramsay Snow.

If she can survive them, this in comparison should be nothing. Even so, Sansa cannot stop the shake of her hands, and she clamps down on her lower lip with her teeth to make sure it hasn’t gone numb.

The pain is dulled, but still there.

Lannisters .

Prince Oberyn spits out the name like it’s filth, and Sansa frowns slightly. She knows of their history, knows that Prince Oberyn has no reason to trust the Lannisters in this regard, in any regard. But she had thought it fairly obvious that these sellswords are merely dressed up in whatever their benefactor had been able to get their— his —hands on.

“He’s right, Jon.” She agrees easily, though a part of her stomach swoops when she watches her brother run off.

She has no intention of going straight to the maester. It will have to wait. Prince Oberyn’s somewhat grim diagnosis will have to wait. There’s too much at risk if she delays too long.

It’s why she remains quiet as they walk into the keep, her arm in his as she maintains that she can and will walk. It’s not a matter of pride, but an effort to push forward, to see what she’s planned through. It’s their first attempt, her first attempt at trying to fix some of the wrongs from before...and she can’t fail now. She cannot when there is so much at stake.

“It wasn’t the Lannisters,” Sansa finally speaks once they’re away from the crowd, once she trusts her voice to carry without shaking. “The armor was wrong.” She knows the Prince is no fool, not really, but his hatred may blind him, so she presses forward anyway. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like House Lannister is attacking House Stark. Can you think of a reason why, Prince Oberyn?”

Sometimes when I try to understand a person’s motives...I play a little game.

“Forgive me, my Prince. I must go this way.”

o b e r y n: 

He’s somewhat surprised as Sansa agrees with his assessment. Most young maidens are not so eager to disappear on the Prince of Dorne’s arm—at least, outside Dorne—but he recalls their dance and her similar lack of trepidation there as well. Even now she shakes, but she has not gone into hysterics, nor has she swooned or even shed a tear. Perhaps when the shock fades it will hit her, but Oberyn is beginning to think the North breeds stronger stock than that.

They make slow but steady progress, and her balance seems to have recovered, another promising sign in her favor. When she speaks, she doesn’t say what he expects her to say.

He saw the armor. Even she should be able to recognize the Lannister lion. Crimson and gold. Of course it was the Lannisters. Who else could it be? 

He looks at the young girl, who by all rights should be crying for her father, clutching onto her brother or him to protect her. And yet she’s instead claiming there’s been a conspiracy, has been making gentle commands since he found her, is not anywhere close to hysteria. An odd bird, this one.

“You think someone wants a war,” he says, eyes narrowing, though he will wait to make a judgment about the armor after his own inspection of it. He doesn’t want to see any sense in her words, and yet even as she says them he realizes she may be right. The Lannisters have no feud with the Starks, in fact, the new friendship between the two lands is actually the envy of Westeros. Why would they risk it so obviously? And why go for the Stark children? They are interesting, yes, but not some kind of phenomenon . The youngest is rambunctious, perhaps, and Sansa sophisticated for her age, but neither has rocked the boat in their time here. The bastard has barely said two words as far as Oberyn can tell—a shame too, for his mouth is so pretty. 

She’s right, he realizes, crestfallen. 

He wanted it to be war, he realizes, and doesn’t know what to make of that. Tywin Lannister doesn’t deserve the neck his head rests upon, and war would give him the chance to rectify that situation, and yet it is not Tywin that would ride in the vanguard, is it? 

My innocents paid the price in his war, should his innocents not pay in mine? It’s a dangerous thought to go through his head, and his prides himself that his homeland does not engage in the barbarism of its northern neighbors. But his blood sings for blood.

They stop, and Oberyn frowns. Her family is not staying in Maegor’s, they are staying in the Tower of the Hand. “Why?” He asks, suspiciously. Everything about this situation is leading in the wrong direction. What has taken place today? What is working behind the scenes?

S a n s a:

Can she trust the Prince of Dorne? No. The answer is simple, immediate. No matter how charming he is, no matter how handsome and friendly he is an unknown. Friendships and alliances are not born so quickly, and Sansa would be a fool to think of him with such certainty. That’s not to say she finds him an enemy though. He had offered to help train her sister...And he had rushed to find them, find her and help when he had no real reason to. Nothing to gain, and he hadn’t even noticed the Lannister armor until after he had arrived.

It’s the start of a friendship, maybe. And Sansa prefers the opportunity of his friendship more than anything else that could happen.

Though she imagines her husband won’t be as fond of the idea as she is.

When the Prince turns to look at her, Sansa stops. Tully blue eyes meet his gaze and she doesn’t waiver. He must know she’s serious, that this is no jape and that not everything is as it appears. The consequences of a war between the two houses, the destruction of the alliance between the North and Westerlands....it would be devastating.

“I do,” Sansa confirms easily as Prince Oberyn comes to the very conclusion she had hoped he would. It’s fairly obvious, she thinks, once the pieces are put on display. The fact that the armor had been wrong is the best evidence she has, apart from her knowledge that this is what Petyr Baelish does. It is history repeating itself, only this time someone knows of his little games before he has the opportunity to stab them in the back after pretending to be their friend. Their ally.

Why?

Sansa gives him a small smile, though it’s not nearly as bright as it had been while dancing during the feast. Her head feels somewhat hazy, and she’s sure she could do with some sleep, and maybe a bath. She hasn’t checked, but it’s likely that her dress—a gift from the Queen—is somewhat torn, and definitely dirty. But there’s no time to change or clean up, and she can only hope that once Tywin Lannister understands the meaning of her visit, her appearance will be the furthest thing from his mind.

“If I don’t stop this now, Prince Oberyn, there will be war. And when the highborns plan their moves and hatch their schemes, it is the smallfolk who pay the price. Innocents will die, my family’s people will die, but right now there is a chance of stopping it before it ever comes to be.” Sansa reaches for both of his hands and gives them a gentle squeeze.

“I must see Lord Tywin.”

o b e r y n:

This girl has steel in her , he thinks. She prophecies war and doesn’t look away, she smiles kindly when she could be screaming. She has the strength of Dorne in her, and Oberyn briefly wonders if he has any Tully relatives. He knows no Martell have ever married into the North. That’s twice now that the Stark daughters’ odd kinship with Dornish strength has peaked his curiosity. 

The wisdom of her words is baffling, and humbling. He remembers her words about friends and allies, and once again he has to wonder where she came about such knowledge. A young thing like her should think that war is about tragic romance and gallant knights atop white steeds. Young things like her don’t know what war looks like, they haven’t seen the haunted look of the survivors left behind, farmers with no arms to till their land, children with no parents to teach them. And yet, someone has clearly told her such things. 

An odd, odd bird. 

At Tywin’s name, he jerks and pulls his hands free. “You want me to hand deliver you to the man who may have ordered the attack on you and your siblings? Even if he did not, the man is not innocent. He is a monster, Sansa,” he says, the familiarity he has not been granted slipping free once more. He cannot help it, she has a name that is meant to be said with warmth. And this is a situation which calls for a lack of pretense. They speak of conspiracy and war, and potentially treason, if someone is trying to implicate the Queen. Surely they need not stand on ceremony? “And please, I have your blood on my coat sleeves. You must call me Oberyn.”

S a n s a:

Whether she’s given him a lot to think about or otherwise, now isn’t the time to dwell on it. Every moment she spends explaining herself, trying to convince someone else that she knows what she’s doing, that this is necessary, is another moment where the rumor continues to spread. It’s only a matter of time before everyone within King’s Landing has heard of the so-called Lannister attack on House Stark.

Jaime.

It’ll only be a matter of time before her husband hears, and guilt twists in Sansa’s stomach painfully. She hadn’t anticipated this, and she had promised him that she would be safe. At the very least she is okay, and she had kept the daggers on her. Jon had been with her as well.

He won’t break his promise. Not if there’s a chance that Tommen and Myrcella will be in danger.

Prince Oberyn pulls his hands out of her grasp and Sansa drops her own to her skits. She doesn’t feel so weak on her legs anymore, as if without his grasp, she’ll topple over or swoon. “Yes.” Her cheeks flush ever so slightly at his familiarity, but she doesn’t comment. Not when there is something much more important than manners and propriety. “Whatever Tywin Lannister may be - innocent, guilty, monster or otherwise - he is the only one who can truly help put a stop to this. Though I won’t wait for you to deliver me, my Prince.”

And then comes his request and she looks towards his clothes somewhat mortified. “...If you shall continue calling me Sansa.” It’s only fair.

She watches him carefully for a moment and then takes a step back, in the direction of Tywin Lannister’s solar. “I must go, Oberyn. While I still can.”

o b e r y n: 

Why do you think he’ll stop it? Why do you not fear he will have you raped and murdered? Perhaps he’ll toss your body from a window, or maybe he’ll just slit your throat. Don’t trust that man not to hurt you, Sansa.

All these thoughts and more rush through his mind, and perhaps he should wonder when he became so attached to this girl. It is her choice of course. There is no reason for him to have any bearing on the decision in truth, and yet he’s ready to beg. 

He cannot see another woman sacrificed to this horrid place. He will not.

“I had planned to,” he says rakishly, trying to free them from the heaviness of the moment. It does not work.

She will go whether he likes it or not, he can see. He could force the issue, knock her out and carry her to the Stark rooms, but such a thing is dangerous when she already has on head injury to contend with, and truly that could start another war.

“Fine, but I cannot let you journey alone, Sansa.” He escorts her the rest of the way, each step closer to the man he has spent half his life trying to eliminate. To the place his sisters children were violated and mutilated and murdered. Sansa needs his protection. And yet…

He catches the arm of a servant. “Find Stark guards, send for four of them to meet their Lady outside Tywin Lannister’s rooms.” Such a thing will probably cause a ruckus, but better they hurry than she go unprotected. 

They reach the door, and it’s not Elia’s old chambers—he thinks one of the Butcher’s children live in them now—but it is closer than he has ever been since his sister was alive. And the man who had her murdered is behind that door. He should escort Sansa in, provide her a guard and chaperone, particularly with Tywin Lannister but he knows himself, too well, maybe.

“If you are looking to avoid a war, I cannot accompany you further. I shall stand guard until your own retinue comes. Be safe, Sansa,” he requests solemnly.

S a n s a:

Prince Oberyn takes her by surprise with his offer to escort her. If it shows on her face it is quickly schooled into place by the beginnings of the mask of the Lady of Winterfell. The Prince had promised Jon that he would escort her in until a Maester was found, and she supposes in a way it will honor that promise. If all goes according to plan, this shouldn’t take entirely too long. The rest depends on whether or not Arya had found Varys, who in turn managed to get to Jon Arryn and her father before they could get to the King.

The timing in all of this is the most dangerous and tricky part. If they fall behind, or are ahead, the results will be disastrous either way. No, their actions must be done with precision if they are to take today as the first victory. The first victory of many. Something starts to grow, a feeling that she had started to feel upon watching the Red Woman light the Dragon Queen’s Dothraki army’s swords. It feels dangerously like hope, despite the fact that Sansa tries to remind herself that there’s nothing to be hopeful for.

Everything has been calculated. Everything will work the way she and Lord Varys have planned.

But hope feels nice, anyways.

The Guards will either have to escort her to the Black Cells after this meeting, or will have to be ordered elsewhere. There’s no arguing with the authority in the Dornish Prince’s voice, and she is not truly their Lady. Not in the sense where they once would have looked towards her for confirmation before running off. Now she is young, her father’s daughter once more, and given the fact that she looks battered and bruised on Prince Oberyn’s arm, they listen with a sense of urgency.

“I understand,” she says softly. Sansa cannot ask anymore of him than he has already willingly provided. She takes a moment, grabs both of his hands once more. “Thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown me, Oberyn.”

The North Remembers.

“You as well, my Prince.” The Court had not been a friend of his in their last lives, but hopefully there will be no reason now. Perhaps he will get his vengeance...or perhaps, he’ll find something else instead. With one last look Sansa straightens her back and walks into Tywin Lannister’s rooms with a sort of authority she has no right to truly claim.

Her entrance startles them, one of his men rushes ahead to announce her arrival, and despite the shocked look on her good-brother’s face, Sansa finds she’s relieved to see Tyrion there.

It’s a question as to why Tyrion Lannister is sitting at the table with his father, but it will have to be asked another time.

And so, Sansa ignores what must be the state of her appearance – her gown – when she turns towards Tywin to afford him the type of respect his position – if not the man who had once orchestrated her prolonged captivity – deserves. “Lord Lannister, Lord Tyrion,” she greets, before her eyes look upon the man who is her good-father, whether he knows it or not. “I must speak with you.”

t y w i n:

There’s an old, familiar ache in his jaw, one he hasn’t felt since the day he learned what his son had done to his king. No one could make him grind his teeth like Aerys. 

“What do we know,” he bites out. There was a time he wouldn’t dream of trusting the imp with this job, but even Tywin’s pride is not so great as to ignore a resource available to him, and surprisingly enough, no one knows the Westerlands soldiers as well as Tyrion. Tywin had been flabbergasted to learn that his men actually quite like him. Apparently, Tyrion had earned their respect for his ability to hold his drink. He had, naturally, put an end to the drinking competitions, but the respect hadn’t gone anywhere and Tywin was more than willing to take advantage. 

“I am searching father but so far—”

The door opens, and Sansa Stark strides in, a serene expression on her face utterly at odds with the blood matting her hair and speckled across her face and dress. His guards are apologizing profusely, and he dismisses them with a look. 

Tyrion’s jaw has dropped, and he goes to speak too, but clamps his jaw shut with one look at his father. 

Tywin says nothing, mind working feverishly to try to make projections of where this conversation will go. Why is she here? For all intents and purposes, he is the man who ordered the attack on her, as far as she knows. He has no information on this attack, has no clue where it originated or who ordered it. The attackers have been taken into custody by the King’s men, and he has not even been allowed to verify that they are indeed Westerlanders. He has no leverage except for his mines and the debt the crown owes him, and nothing at all to ensure Ned Stark doesn’t declare war. 

And Sansa Stark has just marched herself into his solar—a potential hostage if war does break out. He thinks about securing her now, keeping her under guard, but that is sure to result in war and he is not ready to commit to such a thing if it can be avoided. There is no harm in hearing her out, and deciding at the end of their situation.

“I am surprised to see you, Lady Sansa,” he says tone even, offering her nothing of his own knowledge or sentiments regarding their current situation. Tyrion keeps silent. Good.

s a n s a:

She doesn’t say anything at first, and instead weighs her options.  Tyrion looks shocked to see her, and it’s another reminder that she’s not who she once was twofold. Although, perhaps it would have been just as shocking for her former self to stride into a Lannister’s chambers unannounced in King’s Landing, even as the Lady of Winterfell.

There will be questions later, of that she’s certain. From their few interactions, she’s already provided him with riddles to figure out. Sansa gives him a small smile before all of her attention is back on his father again.

Lord Tywin may have been in charge of the Seven Kingdoms once, maybe even now, but he had been murdered on his chamber pot while she outlived most of the people in this Keep.

It’s not the silence that unnerves her either, as she stands firm and waits. Either she will be granted the conversation with one of the more powerful Lord Paramounts in Westeros, or she will be dismissed as a small child, leaving her no choice but to speak over him. She hopes it’s the former, especially with what’s to come next when everything goes accordingly to plan. Tywin is still here, having been in what she can only guess to be a private conversation with Tyrion. Why has he not gone to investigate? Why has he not denied the attack or at least made some effort of any kind in either direction?

Sansa tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. There’s no proof that she has on the perpetrator being Baelish...yet. With no proof, she has no doubt Lord Lannister will dismiss her words as wind.

“I had hoped you would be glad, my lord,” Sansa replies in turn. “I had some questions, on my walk back to the Keep, which led to information that I think may help both of us.” Information, she only has the information of what she had seen in moments between her breaths. “Someone is trying to start a war between us, Lord Lannister.” If she’s to take lead on the conversation, then she must.

Six men had attacked, one had fallen by her sister’s hand, and perhaps her own, while the remaining five had been stayed by her brother. Her brother is good with his sword, has always been good with his sword. But those men had not been soldiers. There had been no strategy in their attack, just chaos.

“And I don’t believe it’s either House Lannister or House Stark.”

The fact that he has not said to the contrary is concerning, yet not damning. If the first move isn’t the correct move, the consequences will be dire.  

“Those men wore false armor, in imitation of the Lannister army.”

t y w i n:

Tywin’s eyes narrow. This child is not intimidated by him in any way that he can see. He feels an unsettling and unfamiliar frisson of unease. He does not deal in unknowns. His entire political career has been built on predicting the moves of his adversaries, and getting there before them. 

He had not seen Sansa Stark coming, and he is now at her mercy. There are things he can say every time she pauses, ways for him to assert his dominance over the conversation. That remains to be seen , is on the tip of his tongue, but he stays it. He can not afford to give an inch in this unknown situation to this unknown player. 

But yes, he has reached the same conclusion. This attack was an act of war. 

He had thought, upon learning of his son’s infatuation with this girl, that perhaps he could finally figure out how to free his son, could arrange a match with the daughter of a great lord, could finally pull his son from the fog that had stolen him under that white cloak. And now those plans are smoke.

Until she speaks again.

“You are sure of this,” he says. It is not a question. “Why.” 

Why do you think this? Why do you know this? Why are you sharing this with me? 

Tyrion clears his throat, and risks a look at his father, then decides to venture forward anyway. “Lady Stark, we are glad to see you well. And I can assure you it was not House Lannister that ordered this attack. Our friendship with the North is very dear to us, and the last thing we would do is wish harm on their daughters and son. You are...well? Yes?” 

Tywin eyes his son. That was… well done of him. Tywin doesn’t see the need to add anything. The girl is obviously fine, or she wouldn’t be here, attempting to discuss more important matters. Still, it is good that it was said, he supposes.

S a n s a:

Sansa focuses on Tywin Lannister’s face, ignoring the way that her head throbs. It’s a dull sensation, not enough to meddle with the situation, and certainly not enough to make her move to take some kind of a seat. Whatever this is, this standoff between her and her husband’s father, she can only imagine that he’s waiting for her to blink, to misstep and give him something he otherwise can’t read.

Wolves don’t blink under the stare of a Lion. Not in this life.

But she will not let her pride be the foolish mistake that costs them everything. If she must attempt to cross any bridge first and the outcome is war between their families diverted, with a stronger alliance towards a common enemy...It will be worth it. Some of the shaky foundations of peace will be stabilized.

“Yes, my lord.” And it’s not the first time it’s happened. “I saw them quite clearly when they attacked my siblings and then myself.”

Her gaze locks on to his and Sansa watches him until Tyrion clears his throat. It takes a moment from Sansa to look away from the Lannister patriarch, but she will. She will not blow off Tyrion, make it seem as if his input is not valuable in front of his father, for the sake of winning a staring match.

Lady Stark.

For a moment, she hears her old friend, her good-brother, and her former husband. The title does not belong to her in this life, though the meaning is not lost on her. “Your friendship is just as dear to the North, Lord Tyrion.” And perhaps it’s bold of her to talk so plainly of her home, of her family’s people, but she is here, and there is no one else right now. Her father is needed elsewhere.

“My brother is skilled with a sword, my lords, it’s true. But five against one is a lot for most soldiers. At least that’s my understanding. These men...they were not very organized. Their armor was old...damaged. Nothing at all like the grand Lannister armies.”

t y w i n: 

I saw them quite clearly when my siblings and I were attacked . If she was one of his children he would scoff. Of course she saw them clearly. Does she think him an imbecile? His jaw ticks and he breathes slowly. He cannot afford to put this child in her place, and she knows it. In fact, if what she is saying is true, and he knows it is, he owes Sansa a war’s worth of debt.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling. He isn’t in the habit of being in others’ debt. 

He allows Tyrion’s interruption as it buys him time to compose himself and reorganize his strategy for this meeting. Sansa Stark is clearly not someone to underestimate. He hasn’t quite treated her as a child, but he has yet to correct his expectations for her. That will need to change. 

She talks to Tyrion as she would talk to any lord. She doesn’t tremble at the sight of his horrific face, she doesn’t stare at his stilted limbs. She treats him as though she respects him, and while Tywin does not respect the little monster, he does respect her ability to feign such a thing. It is a skill he has never been able to bring himself to cultivate. 

When she refocuses on the important topic, Tywin’s gaze sharpen. Untrained men in old armor, attacking his closest allies aside the Baratheons, an alliance he has never felt incredibly confidant in. If it came down to a war between the Starks and Lannisters, Robert would side with Ned, of that, Tywin has no doubt. That is a war that would ravage the realm. 

“You seem to have—”

The doors burst open again and Tywin’s frustration boils over. He slams his hands against his desk and stands, ready to execute this intruder, but—

“They’ve arrested them, Tywin,” Kevan says, breath heaving. “Both of them. Cersei and Jaime.”

His children, Joanna’s children . Were he alone, he might have gasped. He allows himself instead one moment, a single moment, to bow his head, and let the pain wash over him. 

“Why.” He says, voice hoarse. Everything is falling to pieces and he doesn’t understand why. 

“They are saying—“ Kevan’s eyes dart to the girl, and Tywin waves a hand. She has given him a singular opportunity with the information she has brought him. He wants to see how she takes this. 

“They are saying the children are…” Kevan falters again, and Tywin’s stomach clenches, though he does not give any indication. Kevan does not falter . 

“Kevan.” He is certain his voice sounds as flat and unforgiving as it had through this entire conversation, to everyone but Kevan. There is real, sincere fear in his brother’s eyes. 

“...are his, Tywin. They are saying the children are his.”

There is a pain in his chest so intense that he thinks for a second that his heart is bursting the way that his father’s had. It would not be so unthinkable with the week he has had. He has to swallow down a scream, or maybe a sob.

His children.

“You will excuse us, Lady Sansa.”

S a n s a:

We must not have war.

If Baelish wins, they will be on a similar track to the last one. Only this time Jon Arryn is still the hand, and while Sansa knows that Varys is clever enough to make sure that anything they’ve done cannot be so easily tied back to them, they’ve rang a bell that cannot be unrung. Tyrion is already in her corner, though she never doubted for a moment that he would be. From what Jaime’s told her much of the alliance between the Wardens of the North and West are due to his ideas, his hard work.

As long as Tywin Lannister can appreciate the same, there is nothing to worry about. Her father will not wage war on a house who did not commit the crime.

Hopefully, Littlefinger takes the noose they’ve so carefully fashioned and gives enough away that it tightens to the point where there’s no escape.

The conversation hadn’t taken nearly as long as she had anticipated, but there’s also a sort of relief that they’ve managed to get through it before the next part begins. Her small disagreement of her destination with Prince Oberyn had wasted precious amount of time...but she hadn’t expected Tywin Lannister to be so...open to whatever it was that she had to say. Especially as a young lady.

The trade deals and alliance may be born from the son he openly rejects, but Tywin Lannister does not want war with the North—and the thought is comforting that at least there are those who will also see the truth in matters, and understand how to get things done. Chopping heads off may be satisfying, but will solve absolutely nothing if they mean to stand a chance after the Night King’s inevitable arrival.

She doesn’t suppose she’ll ever find out what Tywin seems to think about her, not when the door opens and Sansa doesn’t need to turn around to know. Littlefinger’s rumor has gotten to the Hand of the King, enough to warrant arrests, and now the real test begins. Her father and Jon Arryn must be confronted with the truth, and get the truth back to the King before Robert finds a chance to go down to the Black Cells himself. Before a trial is truly called.

Jaime.

She had warned him that it would get worse. Does he believe her now? Does he believe that it will get better? She just has to do this, she has to negotiate her terms with the infamous Tywin Lannister, and she must do so quickly.

She takes care to look as if she’s processing what Ser Kevan Lannister is saying, and moves slowly to take a seat on one of the many chairs situated in the solar. She does not look at Tyrion, cannot look at Tyrion. If he realizes, if it looks like she knew this was coming, there will be too much suspicion clouding their judgment.

She’s no fool either, and hopefully that will be her saving grace.

“No, Lord Lannister.” Sansa finally speaks after a moment, and she makes no effort to rise up from her chair. “Would you care to join me?” It’s phrased as a request, but she’s not really asking. Not anymore.

Now she must be the woman that everyone had taught her to be,  and all signs of any little bird are long gone.

“I’ll wait, my lord.” 

t y w i n:

The rage that roars into life within him has only touched him once before. Not even Ellyn Reyne had inspired such an all-consuming fury such as this, and he erased her name and house from the very annals of history, but for a single cautionary tale about the costs of telling him no. 

The only time he has ever felt this way, was when the maester told him to pick between the babe and Joanna. He hadn’t even known yet that his choice wouldn’t matter. Even the mighty Tywin Lannister couldn’t best the Stranger, no matter how he yearned to, still yearns to, even today. 

Sansa Stark says no, Lord Lannister, in her delicate child’s voice, with her pretty manners and her ladylike posture and he imagines a thousand ways to eviscerate her and everything and everyone she holds dear. They say Starks do not do well south of the Neck. She should’ve heeded the lessons of her predecessors. She is a little girl in the teeth of a lion which sits in a pit of vipers that are swarming over unsteady ground. 

“Get out.” 

His words are quiet but he does not need to shout. Kevan moves toward the door but Tyrion hesitates. “Father—”

“Get out.” 

Tyrion looks at the Stark girl, and back to him, before heading to the door. He hates that the girl didn’t even think to move, but he hadn’t been referring to her anyway. The door closes, and he does not look at her. He cannot look at her. 

You did this, he wants to spit. The only harbinger of this doom upon my family, the only indication that anything was about to go wrong was my son’s sudden obsession with you. You, who are too clever by half-and-again. You, who are unflappable and unrepentant in your disrespect that you couch in pretty words and socially correct overtures. You, who I was going to make my gooddaughter, the next lady of Casterly Rock, the mother of my legacy, the wife of my son. 

You did this. 

But why? And how? 

What has House Lannister ever done to you to earn this hatred? 

“I will put you under lock and key. I will shackle you to the wall and starve you of everything but water and gruel. I will hunt down your sister, and your bastard brother, and chop off your father’s head and feed it to those wolves you knew better than to bring south with you. They will be writing songs about the Starks of Winterfell that make the Rains of Castamere seem tame, if you cannot give me one good reason not to.” 

S a n s a:

No , Sansa thinks wryly. She will never have a relationship that isn’t somewhat hostile with any Lannister that isn’t her husband. If Tyrion held the same memories, she would have asked him if that was why they still got along too. Perhaps ‘former husband’ still qualifies.

She can see the way he transforms, albeit subtly, can see that the Tywin Lannister she had been previously dealing with is nothing like the man who has earned the reputation he has. The room clears, apart from Tyrion who takes his time leaving, and Sansa does not look his way, not this time. Her gaze remains solely on the Warden of the West, the man who single-handedly is financing the Crown, and waits . The disrespect, no matter how pretty, will not go unpunished, but there is no time. Momentarily, Sansa wishes that there had been a way to have a timeline, to know just how long this was going to take so that there would be no cues to make or miss.

She feels like she’s running from her own home again, through the snow and the water as the hounds chase her,  but she’s seated in an overly plush chair, in arguably what should be one of the better protected areas of the Red Keep.

The dressings of her situation may be vastly more comfortable, but the predator is the same.

There is no time, she wants to shake him. She wants to yell, and allow just a fraction of worry of what could happen should it turn out she’s made a grave miscalculation. The hysteria and emotion will do her no good here, however, not with him.

He doesn’t move to join her, and Sansa supposes she should have expected that. Instead she watches him by the door. Her guards are out there, Prince Oberyn had summoned them, and all she has to do is scream .

She is no longer accustomed to trying to have faith in people who are not herself, her family, or her husband. She’s not accustomed to wanting someone to prove her wrong. Yet as Sansa watches the man who is her good-father, she wants just for a moment...For him to see that this may be the one thing in this life that they will ever agree upon.

It’s a sweet song. And she remembers the lack of any songs or stories in King’s Landing.

There are no heroes...in life, the monsters win.

Not this time.

It’s with that stubborn determination that Sansa manages to not rise to the bait of being threatened, of having her family threatened. Her eyes flash dangerously at the mention of her father’s head—he can’t possibly know, but the words cause the hair on her arms to rise, even as she wills the rest of her body not to react.

She nods carefully, and motions once again to the chair beside her.

“Because with your help, Lord Lannister, I will save your son.”

Jaime. Jaime. Jaime. 

t y w i n:

It is only when he finishes speaking that he looks at her, and he wonders if she can see the ice her home is so famed for in his eyes. He feels it creeping over him an inch at a time, and soon his heart will be colder and more sinister than the Wall itself. This was how he felt when he took the last piece of Joanna he could ever hold in his arms, and walked into the ocean, ready to throw it into the sea. 

I cannot feel anything but hate. 

He means every word he says, about the destruction of her family, and he already has several plans of action to put it into place. But once again, she doesn’t tremble, or cry, or even clench her fists in anger. Even his son, the imp, cannot frustrate him the way this girl can. He feels that same sense of unease. 

She is truly made of ice. 

But what comes out of her mouth are not vicious retorts or words of war. She offers to save his son. His Jaime, his heir. 

But only his son. 

He straightens, and grabs two goblets and his carafe of wine. He knows enough by now not to try to call her bluff. She has come into his territory after being attacked by his men—wearing their blood, no less—and has challenged him in front of his family. A challenge he is beginning to think she has won. 

This girl is not bluffing. 

“Not my daughter?” Is all he says, as he pours her a fairly generous goblet of wine. The ice has receded, but only slightly so. He does not trust her, and he does not think she wants to be his ally, or his friend. She has another angle, he is sure. He cannot see the full picture, and he does not know why. 

Your wife, or your babe, my Lord. I cannot save them both. 

It had been a trick question then. He is almost less suspicious of her for not offering him the choice of whom to save. Is it because she knows who he would choose? Or is it because she knows who cannot be saved? 

It is not that he does not love his daughter. She is the image of his wife, his Joanna, and she is his greatest achievement in life, his queen. But she is a fool, and he has known it for years. Her only job in life was to give Robert Baratheon sons, and make him love her. She could not do the latter, and now, regardless of the fact that they are vicious, disgusting lies, after this , no one will believe she has done the former either. One way or another, she allowed herself to be put in this position, and for that, she is a fool. 

Jaime is a fool, as well, but in different ways. Jaime’s dreams of knighthood were weaponized by Aerys to punish Tywin for a crime he hadn’t committed. Jaime’s honor was held against him when he did what everyone else had waged a war to do, all because he had promised as a boy that he wouldn’t. Jaime had refused to renege on the honor everyone else had claimed he didn’t have, and that, Tywin believes, is the only foolishness that he can truly hold his son. What happened after is disappointing to Tywin, but not necessarily a sign of foolishness. Jaime’s loss of spirit, his retreat into himself as he began his many years of service to Robert—a fat, drunken, lecher who dishonored Jaime’s twin sister every day starting the very day he married her—it had not been unreasonable, nor particularly unforeseen. It hadn’t spoken to any strength of character, but Tywin is willing to be slightly more understanding of that. If he had not had a kingdom to run, he very well may have done the same thing when Joanna died. 

Jaime is a fool for believing the world is better than it is. Cersei is a fool for believing she is better than she is. One is more easily adapted than the other. Jaime has always adapted more easily than his sister. 

He does not know what is going on, but he does know that it is much more likely that Jaime can be saved, than Cersei. It has ever been so. 

“You have an idea?” He asks, this time allowing her the courtesy of a question. Of a sort. He is operating from a disadvantaged position of ignorance, with which he has no grounds to negotiate. Sansa holds peace in one hand, and war in the other, and he is at the mercy of her choice. She claims to want peace, and for now, he will accept that claim as truth. At least until the end of their conversation, and then he will draw his own conclusions. 

S a n s a:

She longs for this to be over, so that she may sneak out of this particular part of the Red Keep, and find her husband. Or at least find Varys, or a messenger, so she can know what has happened since Ser Kevan had brought the news of her husband’s arrest. Arya would not have failed in her task, not once she knew some of what was at stake should they do so. While Sansa believes that back in Winterfell her sister had accepted her choice of husband for the sake of family, now there is a deeper bond.

It is enough, Sansa finally tells herself. There is nothing more she can do apart from doing her share with Tywin.

Sansa finds it easier said than done, when all she can think about is her husband in the Black Cells.

Varys will get him out if it comes to it. There’s no need to even worry beyond that. Because it won’t come to pass.

The only movement the girl makes as she waits for Tywin Lannister to make his decision, is that she neatly crosses her ankles underneath the table. For all the subtle orders and calls she has made since entering into his rooms, she cannot force the great lord to the table to negotiate. There will be no meeting of the minds if he is not open to the idea.

When he asks after his daughter, Sansa feels no twinge of guilt. She had known the consequences that would befall Cersei if she was found guilty of her very real crimes. And Varys by now has arranged so that the proof needed to condemn the Queen has been given to the Hand and his trusted friend, her father, in order to get the truth to the King. By ensuring Jaime’s safety, she has burned every escape route for Cersei. She will not save Cersei now, and in truth, she doesn’t know how to.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how to, my Lord. Not if news has reached the King.”

There is no apology, not that anyone would think she has any reason to give one. But she won’t give her goodfather false hope, not when she has other very important priorities.

She ignores the goblet of wine. Sansa never grew any taste for it before, not really, and looking at it in the goblet here stirs too many memories of Cersei.

She also is no maester, and with the small ache behind her eyes she cannot afford to muddle her mind any more than it already is.

For once, the silence is somewhat comforting. The hostility and tension is still there, but it isn’t so aggressive now, and Sansa sits at the table and deliberates. Now that he seems willing to listen, that he’s quite literally come to the table, the hard part is over. The plan, she thinks, once put into the light where it can be seen, makes too much sense. It will tighten the very alliance that Baelish attempted to destroy today, and ensure that the King is satisfied merely because her father’s honorable name carries enough weight.

But how does she present it in such a way where it doesn’t seem too outrageous?

Or does the game no longer matter? Can the pretenses be dropped now that Tywin Lannister seems to grasp that she truly is trying to help save his son?

Given the fact that he asks her a question this time instead of just waiting for her to break the silence, Sansa takes it as the latter. He may not recognize it, and likely never will considering the lack of knowledge of what the Old Gods have done, but she is merely the wife of Jaime Lannister in this moment.

Anything else will be taken as something it’s not. She doesn’t need to outwit Tywin Lannister, she needs to get him to agree , and that’s the difference.

“I do, my lord,” Sansa answers softly, honestly, and she studies his expression for a moment. Slowly, she decides. That way when the pieces start to slide together he will be able to jump in and take over. “I think the King can be reasoned with, on Jaime’s behalf. But given the history between,” she trails off for a second, and decides she might as well continue with the blunt honesty, “the two great families,” at least she tries to make it delicate, “he will want to humiliate the Lannister House. If it were to be suggested that Jaime be removed from the Kingsguard—perhaps for something suitably insulting like dereliction of duty?—and betrothed to a family that is an ally of the King, a family he knows he can trust....”

t y w i n:

He does not know if she is telling the truth or not regarding her ability to save his daughter. Could this all be an elaborate ruse to usurp Cersei’s position as queen without making an enemy of him? It’s possible, though that is a plan much more typical of Olenna Tyrell than Ned Stark. Of course, Stark’s daughter has thus far displayed precious few shared traits in common with her father. For one, she is clever.

Either way, he finds admitting a lack of knowledge more palatable than claiming more knowledge than one has. And he has known many men whose pride has rendered them unable to claim anything less than expertise, and made fools of themselves because of it. 

His heart still pangs in his chest painfully. He is not giving up on his fool of a daughter, he will simply have to look elsewhere for a solution. 

The solution Sansa offers him to save Jaime stuns him. There is no other word for it.

Yes, yes , this could work. Jon Arryn is as averse to war as he has ever been. Tywin orchestrated and publicly claimed the murder of the crown princess and two children barely out of infancy, if that. Somehow, Arryn had negotiated Dorne down from outright war, and had still managed to put a Lannister on the throne. Surely, this situation is more malleable. 

The humiliation would be more of a deterrent if Tywin hasn’t been maneuvering toward that very outcome for two decades. There is no way for House Lannister to escape this with both their pride and their necks in tact. He will sacrifice his pride every time, and make the King pay for it later. 

He finds he is not terribly surprised at what she is implying. She is offering herself to wed a man who is accused of vile acts with his sister, treason, and is widely known as a man with no honor. She, the daughter of Ned Stark, paragon of duty and honor and truth. She is offering herself as a sacrificial lamb to a man near thrice her age, belonging to a house that may or may not have orchestrated an attack on her and her two siblings. 

Why? 

It is true, regardless of scandal, should Jaime once more be free to inherit, he would become one of the most eligible heirs of the kingdoms, and one of few options open to Sansa. But Sansa outranks his son in terms of blood nobility. Her line is older by thousands of years, she is directly connected to the Lord Paramounts of three kingdoms by blood, and is daughter to the Warden of the North, and niece to the Warden of the East. Truthfully, only Arianne Martell outranks her, and even then not in blood nobility, only in title. Sansa is arguably the closest maiden in rank to Robert Baratheon himself. And yet she is offering herself to his disgraced son. Why? Unless she is offering her sister instead?  But that seems unlikely. A long betrothal wouldn’t secure Lannister loyalty the way a quick marriage could. She is clearly the more expedient option, and his preferred choice, not that he has much of a say in this. 

Why? What does she stand to gain? 

Tyrion’s face flashes before him. He had been sitting where Sansa sits right now.  Perhaps Jaime may know Sansa better than I think. 

“You want to marry my son,” he says, only the barest hint of wonder in his voice. 

Sansa Stark very well may have saved his family over a starry-eyed girlhood crush. 

S a n s a:

She should have said more. After the fact, she remembers that she had wanted to point out that the alliance with a family who was close to the King and the Lannisters would have been more beneficial, but Sansa bites her tongue. There’s no reason to oversell it, and she knows she had once driven Jon near mad with how much she had to interrupt, or even expand upon something she had just said.

This time it feels like a kind of nervous tick. Now that the plan has been presented, Sansa knows there is not much more she can do now. Not until Tywin makes up his mind as to what he wants to do with the information Sansa’s provided for him.

For a second she debates reaching for the wine glass for a taste, but she’s not sure if that will blow any façade that she’s currently holding onto in an effort to not tap her foot in impatience.

There are no other choices, and the plan has been vetted thoroughly. Even Varys had given his own form of approval. Her goodfather will concede to her terms—demands, really—because there is no other viable option. If there is any chance to save Jaime, this is it, and it’s in a way that still leaves House Lannister intact with an heir, and a future. With the heir Tywin Lannister has always wanted, and his older son wanting it in return.

Perhaps not the lordship, Sansa isn’t entirely certain. But in his desire for marriage? Of that she can count on.

It’s the most relaxed she’s felt in the solar since she arrived. There will be no war between their families. Bran will not fall from the tower, Tyrion will not be held hostage in the next stage of the Lannister and Stark war. Her husband will not be taken hostage either, nor shall she.

The Lannisters will never pay the Freys to betray her brother, their King, and slaughter him and their mother at the Twins.

The relief is almost enough to cause Sansa to sag into her chair, but she holds off. Once Varys can agree that the plan worked on that side, and once Tywin goes to talk to King Robert...then, then she can start to feel relieved. But only after she has gone to her husband, and has seen with her own eyes that he is alive, well, and completely unharmed.

You want to marry my son.

It’s fairly obvious to her, simply because she knows that she is already married to Jaime. That he had been the husband she had chosen, all of those moons ago. What is shocking is that Tywin Lannister has surmised it so easily, so simply, only merely moments after her suggesting the plan she had so diligently pieced together. Yes, she had clearly meant that the betrothal would be between Jaime of House Lannister and herself, Sansa of House Stark. But that’s not what Tywin said. No, his declaration is of a more personal nature.

She could lie, but she’s fairly certain it’d be insulting at this point.

“Yes, my lord.” Sansa finally admits, turning in her chair so that she may see him better. “I do.”

t y w i n:

Tywin stares at the girl for an interminable length of time, before taking a long pull from his goblet. This is everything he has worked for since Cersei’s wedding. This is the culmination of years of political maneuvering, and he had nothing to do with it. Sansa Stark tripped and fell in his lap with his life’s work on a silver platter in her hands. There has to be a catch, surely. 

He thinks through it again. There is the matter of the children. It doesn’t matter whether they are Jaime’s or not—they are not— as long as he cannot prove they are Robert’s. He realizes, uncomfortably, that he is the one to set the precedent for potential threats of succession. That will not befall any Lannister child, prince or bastard. That is yet to be accounted for. And unless he can somehow protect Cersei, she will likely lose her head. The thought makes him nauseated, but it must be faced. 

But even without proof of his innocence, this may be enough. The wall may be a more popular choice after beheading, and one Ned Stark is likely to advocate for, but…

He eyes Sansa with renewed interest. He now has leverage over someone with very much sway, he is inclined to believe, over the Warden of the North. If she was able to demand a meeting with Tywin Lannister, in which she accidentally fixed all of his familial troubles spanning decades of strife and turmoil, Ned Stark doesn’t stand a chance. If Sansa Stark wants to marry his son, his son will not be taking the black.

He realizes, then, that he has just made a very powerful ally. 

The question still remains, though, why she wants so badly to marry his son. They can’t have been acquainted longer than four moons, at the most?

“Has he bedded you?” Tywin asks bluntly, not bothering to dance around it. He’s more likely to spy the truth by catching her off guard.

S a n s a:

Tywin reaches for his glass and for some reason the act of him taking a drink from his goblet feels like some sort of olive branch. Sansa reaches out to take hers carefully, and takes a small sip—nothing quite like the pull the Warden of the West takes—in solidarity of their plan. And perhaps to just wet her mouth a bit.

She would have preferred water, she thinks as she puts the goblet back down on the table.

Her goodfather will agree to the deal. Sansa can see in the lines of his face that he knows it’s the only way to save Jaime in a way that will get him everything he needs, will need to keep his family’s legacy, despite whatever will happen to Cersei.

Arya can laugh at her later, at how worried she had been every so often. And Jon...she’ll have to smooth over things with Jon and her Father later. By now, her disappearance and the fact that she never actually made it to the maester will be well known throughout the Red Keep. It doesn’t particularly matter; the adrenaline had been coursing through her veins, and only now feels like it’s slowly starting to fade.

All she needs to do is get to the Black Cells. And Tywin should be talking to...

His question causes her face to feel warm, and rather than acknowledge such a betrayal, Sansa levels the Lord Lannister with a cool look. “No, Lord Lannister.” Not in this lifetime, at least. No, her husband had wanted to remain pure for when they renewed their vows, but all of that is something she has no intention of repeating.

“Is all of this necessary, my lord? You should speak to the King quickly, before someone else can.”

t y w i n:

She too drinks from her wine glass, and something about that one action suddenly highlights to him again just how young the girl truly is. What she has done today is staggering when put into perspective. 

He does not do her the credit of acknowledging this out loud, of course. She still has time to grow into arrogance and it would not be fitting for a Lady of Casterly Rock. 

“A septa will have to verify that, you know. The king will demand it, if your father doesn’t. As it is, if they know you are here, they will likely assume I have coerced you into making this suggestion.” And not the other way around. “ It will be up to you to convince your father to agree to this match.”

This time he almost grins as that sharp tongue she had only hinted at earlier makes another appearance. Where does this boldness come from, he wonders. 

A thought occurs to him, one which throws a rather jarring wrench in their plans. “Jaime has been offered the opportunity to take off his cloak in the past and he refused. Are you sure he will agree to this plan of yours?”

Just then a knock sounds, and Tyrion pokes his head in. “Lord Varys to see you, father.”

“Yes, yes, send him in. Get Kevan and sit with us as well, Tyrion.”

They file in, eyes cautiously taking in the positively quaint scene before them. Varys seems particularly tickled . 

“My lord, in light of recent events, I believe I may have in my possession information which pertains to the safety of the realm, as it stands in relation to your children and the crimes of which they are accused.”

He doesn’t have time for this. “Speak plain, Varys, or speak to someone else.”

“I believe I have proof Jaime is innocent of the accused crimes, my lord.”

But not Cersei. 

Gods. They really aren’t Robert’s, he realizes. Those children stand in very real danger of paying the price for their mother’s stupidity. 

“Kevan, secure the children immediately. Leave the capital if you are able, refuse entry to any non-Lannister entity with an armed guard if you cannot leave.”

His brother bows and leaves, Tyrion still gaping. 

“Varys, I would ask you to share this information with Robert. I am going to speak with him now. Tyrion, you will escort the lady Sansa with her guards to the Black Cells. She needs to discuss things with her betrothed.”

S a n s a:

A septa will have to verify that. Sansa remains silent, does not trust herself to speak as she stares at him with narrowed eyes. She had never needed to in her last life. Not that Ramsay Bolton would have cared, as long as he got his legitimate claim to Winterfell. To the North. And Jaime hadn’t cared, not in that way, and certainly not enough to prevent him from marrying her the first time.

If it’s simply because she negotiated for it...wanted it...

Perhaps it would have been more believable that it was simply because Jaime was a knight if she wasn’t actively planning his dismissal from such an honor amongst knights.

She thinks her husband might be relieved this time.

When Tyrion knocks, and appears, and says Varys’ name Sansa thinks she might faint. It’s good news, it must be good news. She cannot faint, not now, not when the truly difficult part is over. She also cannot look at Varys, not when she knows all she’ll be searching for is a secret message that he cannot afford to give her right now. Sansa doesn’t want to know what could happen if Tywin discovers that the plan was hatched and then executed by the two people in the room who have given him the most information since the day had started.

It’s not such a far leap for a man so cunning.

So she sits with as much interest as anyone else. But there is proof, and it will get to the King and that will be more than enough. And this time she can bring certain news that Tywin took extra precautions to get the children out of King’s Landing safely.

“We will go now, my lord.” Sansa speaks softly as she stands. This time he is afforded a small, but proper, dip of a curtsy in respect. Perhaps it will smooth over some ruffled feathers, though she does not doubt that saving his son should be more than enough.

Though, the fact that he still questions whether or not his son will agree to the terms leads Sansa to believe that the infamous Tywin Lannister is not as perceptive as he believes.

“Lord Tyrion,” Sansa greets again, once they are out in the halls and heading in the direction of the Black Cells. She doesn’t say anything at first, but does slow her pace so he may keep up, despite how much she would like to run . In the silence, she can hear all of the unasked questions, and possibly even hear his mind at work.

She turns her head to give him a smile.

“If there’s something you would like to say to me, Lord Tyrion, you might well get on with it.”

t y r i o n:

He had once called Lady Sansa formidable , but as he steps back into the room, as his father begins to speak, he notices the two goblets of wine, and the way Sansa sits demurely, right where she had been when his father had dismissed he and his uncle from the room. 

Formidable may not be strong enough for Sansa Stark. 

“Father, Lord Varys,” he says with a bow and a lack of words to address... any of this. It’s an unusual feeling for him, to be honest, but he feels panic tight in his throat. The children are not Jaime’s. I know they are not Jaime’s. And no matter whose they are, they are innocent. Once he might’ve believed it, once, he knows, it might’ve even been true. But something happened, even before Joffrey’s birth, maybe before Cersei’s wedding? And since, Jaime has not been able to look in her direction without… slipping away inside. Tyrion would bet that beside him, Cersei is the only other person who can see the tiny, burning kernel of hate in his eyes when he does that. 

He wonders if Sansa would be able to see it, and then wonders why he believes wholeheartedly that she absolutely can. 

What else can Sansa see when she looks at the Lannisters, he wonders? 

He sucks on his cheek and looks up at her. She doesn’t appear ruffled, exactly, but she does look… eager? Rushed? 

I’m wedded to my one true love. 

“Bold of you to assume I have any idea what to say, Lady Sansa. Or perhaps I should say sister?” he japes wryly. But actually… he looks up at her again. It can’t be, can it? Jaime would never be so stupid. 

That’s a lie, actually. He would be so stupid, but if he were to be stupid about it, he would be stupid through and through. He would’ve been caught long before now. There’s no way his brother married the child-aged daughter of a Lord Paramount, particularly the lord paramount of the territory which he had worked so hard to secure an alliance with. Even if it was Tyrion who had hammered out the details, the idea had always been Jaime’s. The motivation had been Jaime’s, the impetus Jaime’s. He wouldn’t risk that, would he? 

Then again, Tyrion had never gotten a straight answer about what had inspired the trade deal with the North in the first place. But that doesn’t make any sense. Jaime hadn’t even met Sansa when they’d begun working on drafts. Could it all be a happy coincidence? 

“Lady Sansa…” He begins, feeling uncomfortably nervous. “...are you… married to my brother already?”

It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. 

I’m wedded to my one true love. 

S a n s a:

It’s worked. It has to have. Tywin Lannister has agreed—perhaps even in spite of everything he thinks that has gone down between his son and herself—and Varys would not have suggested getting the evidence to the king if the king were not in a position to hear it.

Jaime will be released from the Black Cells as soon as Tywin Lannister, Jon Arryn, and her father secure the new deal in place. In truth, she’s not sure if her father’s understanding will only come once he speaks to his daughter about the impending betrothal, or if he will understand what it all means and agree to it beforehand.

Childhood memories of her father are hazy at best, and none of them really center around his duties as a lord. She remembers sayings, how he ruled honorably...but Ned Stark had kept much of the politics away from his children, his daughters especially, until he died.

Until she watched his head fall from his shoulders. The threat from Tywin Lannister still rings in her ears, but it won’t come to that. Not now when he’s come to realize that she has not only prevented a war with her house, but an opportunity to save his son and secure stronger alliances at the same time.

It is unlike her former husband to remain silent for so long, and unlike with Baelish where she had longed for peace and quiet, here she wishes her soon to be goodbrother once more would say something .

She had hoped for an ally while making her demands, but she supposes she wasn’t too terribly surprised when Tywin had dismissed them all.

“Perhaps the problem is that you have too much you want to say, and don’t know where to start,” she offers politely, glad for at least some of the distance the guards have put between herself and Tyrion. This is not a conversation she wants to have with listening ears, and it’s not exactly a conversation she’s sure she wants to have with Tyrion either.

What will his knowing do?

Tyrion won’t turn against his brother. Of at least that, Sansa is certain.

Are...you married to my brother already?

Perhaps he already knows, and is trying to make sense of it.

She turns down the hall, still intent on making it the Black Cells sooner rather than later. She needs to see Jaime, needs to assure him that the children will be taken care of, and that the attack hadn’t been so bad. There’s no doubt that he’s heard of that by now, and she had promised that when it looked bad, when it didn’t look like it could get much worse, it would get better. She would make it so.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Lord Tyrion,” she teases gently, the absolute relief paired with the crashing from the lack of adrenaline makes her feel almost giddy. But she sobers her features as quickly as she can, though it does nothing to curb the something dancing in her eyes.

“Nearly nine moons ago, my Lord. And eight years from now.”

t y r i o n:

I was right, is his first thought. His second is mathematics. Nine moons ago Sansa had been in Winterfell, and Jaime had been in King’s Landing, and they had not even yet met. 

His third thought is… well, really not a thought at all. His brain actually seems to stutter to a halt, just like his legs. 

He tries to speak, but no, no, his throat is not on board for speaking yet. In fact, his mind is still stuck several seconds in the past. 

“I’m...sorry?” 

Sansa is smiling, not with her mouth maybe, but she is , and Tyrion thinks maybe it’s a jape. “The truth, Lady Sansa. You did not know Jaime nine moons ago, and…” What else can he say? Eight years from now hasn’t happened yet?

His mind, unwilling to function with reality for a moment, takes a turn toward the fantastical, as it is wont to do. What is she suggesting? Eight years from now happened nine moons ago? Like some kind of… time slip? It sounds like the stuff of legends, alongside snarks and grumpkins and the like, but his mind isn’t done with the idea quite yet. 

If Jaime was already married to Sansa, suddenly the trade agreement and the marriage alliance have happened in the correct order, rather than being reversed. Except that had happened years ago, not nine moons ago. In fact, regardless of how hard he tries to place things, nothing of note had happened nine moons ago. Even Lysa Arryn had still been alive. Jaime hadn’t seemed different, perhaps only a little more busy than normal. There had been no great change in behavior or personality, nothing to suggest—

Tyrion’s hand flies to his mouth and he scrubs his hand over it, heart suddenly aching for his brother. Gods. Gods. 

“Cersei’s wedding,” he breathes, eyes wide and locked on Sansa’s. “Not nine moons ago, seventeen years. ”

It’s not a jape at all.  

S a n s a:

It’s not fair to play these games with someone who has no idea what this world is capable of, what the Gods are capable of. But they need Tyrion’s trust, and she’d rather not cause a fracture between the brothers when it can be explained away easily enough. That is, if Tyrion’s mind is open to hearing at least some of the truth.

She knows he’s confused, can understand it. Sansa had been confused herself upon waking up in Winterfell, years in the past instead of atop a battlement in King’s Landing with Cersei Lannister enacting her final revenge, handed to her on a silver platter by the Dragon Queen.

The Dragon Queen her good brother had supported until it was too late.

Hopefully they won’t end up on such opposite sides again this time.

“No, perhaps not.” She’s doing so purposefully now, knowing that this will only confuse him more. But his mind is already working furiously to connect the pieces, and even Sansa can admit that she and Jaime have not been as careful around Tyrion, around Arya, as they should have been. It won’t take him long to at least decipher the framework of what she’s telling him, fantasy and possibilities pushed aside. “Yet, it is the truth, Tyrion.”

She continues walking. Not even helping Tyrion to understand what has happened, what this all means will deter her from getting to the Black Cells. Jaime has already been incarcerated for far longer than she would have preferred, and she’s hoping that the order for release will come from the King sooner rather than later. She’s hoping that the opportunity to humiliate the Lannister family name will be far too enticing, especially with the proof of Cersei’s treason.

Seventeen years.

Sansa knows it’s the truth, but every time she hears, every time she is reminded that her husband has been back in this world for seventeen years alone, without help, her chest constricts so painfully that she’s sure she cannot breathe.

Tully blue eyes stop dancing as she turns to look at Tyrion with all the seriousness his conclusion—his correct conclusion—demands. “Yes. For Jaime it has been that long.”

t y r i o n:

It fits. It shouldn’t, it should be absurd, it should be unreal, but it fits. And the oddest part is that the most compelling evidence isn’t what he already knows, the pieces that hadn’t fit before. It’s Sansa herself. 

“You’re… you’re not three-and-ten, then…” he says faintly, running to catch up with her. “Jaime’s married.” His mind has spurred frantically back into action, swirling with the ramifications. Perhaps it’ll all be one big jape, but if it’s not— it’s not, he knows—what does this mean? 

This changes everything. 

And Jaime. Gods, Jaime. 

Suddenly Tyrion is afraid. What could’ve happened to destroy Jaime the way he obviously had been? He can see it in Sansa’s eyes, too, when she confirms what he’s said. Fear. 

He wants to stop her, wants to demand answers, wants to know, but there’s an unrelenting worry building behind his eyes that Jaime will disappear before Tyrion can get to him, that his Jaime is gone, somehow. He picks up the pace, suddenly nearly as desperate to reach his brother as Lady— as his goodsister. 

j a i m e:

It will get better. It may not look it, but it will. 

He keeps his eyes closed so that he can pretend the blackness surrounding him is his choice. He had thought he was no stranger to captivity, but either time has dulled the agony of the experience, or the darkness just adds a layer of awful that he hadn’t had the chance to experience last time. 

His right wrist aches. 

I’ll be okay, she had said . 

He won’t think about it, can’t think about it. It was part of the plan, she planned everything. She had known it was coming, she had known she’d be safe. Jaime had armed her, and trained her specifically for that situation, and it had worked. Jon, his squire, the boy he had trained himself for hours in the yard every day, the boy closer to his son than any of his children had ever been… he had protected her. Fought off an army of men if the guards were to be believed, which of course, Jaime didn’t. Still, he knows Jon would’ve done some damage. 

He keeps his eyes closed against the dark, doesn’t think about her anymore, doesn’t think about the attack, doesn’t think about Tommen and Myrcella. Doesn’t think about bloody Ned Stark. 

He thinks about that one thought he had had when he’d had Sansa in his arms, in her beautiful gown of Winterfell gray. Before she’d whispered those words.

Do you remember when I told you things would get worse?

He hangs onto the last bit of joy he remembers feeling before the fear had set back in. He hangs onto it, and lets it grow, because Sansa promised him. 

It will get better. It may not look it, but it will. I’ll be okay. 

They can have children. 

Sansa planned everything, his family is safe, and he won’t be the Ned Stark of this lifetime. His head won’t fall on the steps of the Great Sept, his father won’t launch thousands of men into war to avenge him. The Starks and Lannisters won’t recreate the War of Five Kings. He must believe that. He must. 

They’ll have children one day. Far from now, of course, when her body is ready for it. Lots of children with red hair and green eyes and their mother’s mind and their uncle’s wit. They’ll be kind and brave and brilliant and nothing like anything the world has seen before. He’ll be there for every second, from their very first breath to his very last and they won’t ever know pain like their parents have. 

I’ll be okay, she had told him . 

I’ll be okay. 

S a n s a:

He really is too clever, more clever than anyone person has any right to be. She’s hinted at the impossible—improbable, considering Jaime, Varys and herself are back—and it has taken Tyrion little to no time to figure it out when most people wouldn’t have even considered it. When his own father, who is famed for his mind, for his politicking, had summed it up by asking whether or not his son had bedded her yet.

Sansa snorts, an old, unladylike habit that she’s apparently carried with her from the Winterfell of old, but she says nothing.

Already she’s said far too much, and in a place where such things can be easily overheard. Sansa doesn’t deny what he’s said either, which she supposes is answer enough as she continues at her brisk pace towards the Black Cells, unable or unwilling to slow down even for the sake of courtesy. The attack has slowed her down, much more than she could have anticipated, and she won’t let Jaime sit in that cell for a moment longer without knowing that he will be released.

For he will be released. She’s handed Tywin Lannister every opportunity to demand for his son’s release without starting a war. Jaime is a good match, and that will be enough for her father. It will have to be, because she imagines telling her father that she and Jaime have been married –or if any hints come about regarding Lord Lannister’s bedding question, there might still be battles yet to fight.

Tyrion says nothing more, and Sansa can’t bring herself to make small talk, not now. They must go beneath the Red Keep to where they keep those accused of high crimes. The door opens to reveal the stairwell, and even that is dark. The jailer waiting for them must be Varys’ man because she has little time to speak, can barely even manage to open her mouth before he lifts his torch and begins to lead the way down the darkened passageway.

“Stay close, my Lord,” she murmurs to Tyrion before she dismisses her guards with a soft “Wait for us here. I will be perfectly safe until we return.”

She will not have to explain the reunion to her goodbrother, not now when he has made it clear just how acquainted with the truth he is. He is right, and perhaps it will bring Jaime some comfort to know that his brother is there.

Her footsteps echo down the dark hall loudly, and Sansa’s eyes flicker between doors. There’s nothing discerning one apart from the other, and there is no time.

The jailer stands in front of one, two steps ahead of her and before she can finish her demand—“Open the door,”—he’s fumbling with the lock and offering her the torch.

Sansa takes it without hesitation and pushes her way through the door. “Jaime?”

He’s there, eyes closed with his back against the wall and a piece of her that she had hardened in order to pull this off starts to crack and fissure. “ Jaime. ”

She doesn’t remember crossing the room, doesn’t remember dropping to her knees to touch his hands, his bound wrists, anything and everything to make sure he’s truly safe, that he’s alright.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers under her breath before Tyrion can so much as make an appearance. “I’m sorry that it took so long. Tyrion’s here with me.”

j a i m e:

He knows he hasn’t been down here that long—probably just a few scant hours, though it’s felt like an eternity—but even so, the torchlight burns his eyes. By the time they’ve adjusted she’s already there beside him, and his chained hands cup her cheeks, pressing his forehead to hers. 

“Is this punishment for going south?” he murmurs wryly. “Or perhaps you like a man in chains?” That’s for her ears only. “ You could’ve just asked.” 

She mentions Tyrion and he jerks back, eyes wide. His brother looks at him as if Jaime has sprouted wings, and Jaime hardly gets a chance to open his mouth before Tyrion walks up to him and kicks him in the thigh. Hard. 

“Ow, you—”

“You’re married? And I wasn’t invited?”

“You were there, you idiot!” He yells, rubbing his leg, before he realizes what he’s said. His eyes flicker over to Sansa’s, panicked. “In spirit? You were there in spirit. Speedy thing. Could we talk about this after we talk about how long I’m to remain in these?” He asks, jiggling the chains between his hands. 

The lighthearted words are reflex, a distraction from the fear that has eclipsed him ever since he had heard word of the attack on the Stark children. He catches Sansa’s hand and squeezes it. “Jon and Arya? Tommen and Myrcella? They’re safe? Unharmed?”

S a n s a:

Her forehead rests easily against his and she takes a moment to breathe , to feel everything that she hadn’t allowed herself to since those men had attacked. Sansa turns her head after a small shaky breath, and presses a quick kiss to the palm of his hand.

Before he speaks and Sansa pulls back, cheeks more than red, and her mouth propped open as she lets out a small noise of outrage. “ Husband .”

She prays to whatever Gods are listening that Tyrion Lannister does not hear so that they can escape the many japes he no doubt would make should he have actually heard. There were many uncomfortable jokes that Sansa could, and did live with, but she’s not sure she’ll be able to bear it if the joke would be overheard by her goodfather who already believes she needs to be inspected by a Septa.

Instead Sansa finds herself smothering her laughter “I certainly hope you don’t intend on kicking me next, Lord Tyrion.” It’s not the time, and while she knows she ought to warn her husband that his clever brother has figured things out, to a point, there are other more important things to talk about first. And Jaime doesn’t give her time to consider before his attention is back on her.

Her fingers lace themselves with his and holds on tightly. He is alright, unharmed, but joking which means he’s worried, and if it wouldn’t have delayed her getting down here Sansa thinks she might have wanted to consider changing her dress.

“Safe. Jon took down five men, Arya the last. I helped as best as I could.” Her thumb strokes the backside of his hand. “Ser Kevan is escorting the children outside of King’s Landing immediately, on your father’s orders.” Sansa gives him a hint of a small smile as the flames flicker on the torch. She only moves so as to put it up in its place on the wall, so that she has the use of both hands.

“I...” She swallows and licks her lips. “I’m afraid there are some conditions to your release, Jaime.” Sansa pauses, but she swears that if he listened hard enough he would be able to hear her heart thundering in her chest. “You must be relieved of your vows to the Kingsguard, and take a Northron wife.”

j a i m e:

The relief that washes through him steals his breath for a moment, and bubbles up his throat in a low chuckle. The scandal in her face is just as amusing as it had always been. He had forgotten that. He squeezes their fingers together perhaps a bit too tightly, and notices Tyrion’s gaze follow the motion, but he can’t bring himself to pull away. He can explain later… find some excuse maybe, or just beg him for secrecy. He can’t let go, not now. 

“Good lad,” he murmurs. The rumors were true then. He spies her bedraggled appearance, some blood by her temple and the blood dotting her gown. “You had your dagger on you?” He asks, though he knows she must’ve. Just like she had promised. “You’re much better with your vows than I, my love,” he murmurs, though judging by Tyrion’s expression he had heard that too. “I’m afraid I couldn’t stay near Tommen and Myrcella.” But they are safe, they are safe. Everyone in his family is safe. For all the help he gave. 

But she’s not done, and as soon as she says conditions, his heart swoops. It’ll be the Black for him he’s sure, what other option could await him but execution? He didn’t father Cersei’s children, but he knew of her treason and didn’t come forward. It is a punishable crime, punishable by death. 

His eyes widen, and he leans back a bit to get a good look at her. There’s a smile tickling the corner of her lips, and then it hits him. 

He’s kissing her before he can think better of it, pulling her face to his with those odious chains clanking and their teeth clacking and laughter bouncing from his lips to hers. 

Years. Years of waiting, of longing for her, of imagining what their life could be together. And they’ll have it, they’ll have it. “You clever, clever thing,” he murmurs into her lips. “I love you, wife.”  

S a n s a:

Varys has done everything on his part, and Jaime is safe .  It’s not that Sansa didn’t have faith that the Master of Whispers could do it. It’s more that she had to let go of a bit of the control, and trust him with her family. With her husband, and it wasn’t—isn’t—something that comes easily. But she won’t forget this. It may have helped the Realm, and it may very well prevent Cersei and Joffrey from ever taking any power once the King died, but it stops a very personal war between the Lannisters and her family. Robb and her mother—she will see them again this time when she finally gets to leave King’s Landing. 

“He was trained well.” It does not matter that they were sellswords and not Lannister soldiers. It had been an unfair fight from the start and Jon had refused to let them do any real damage. She wants to tell him of Arya, of how she had looked like a true wolf, all of the danger and instincts she had once seen in the assassin her sister had become in their past lives. “He wouldn’t leave my side until I pressed,” her hand squeezes his, unwilling to let the contact go even though Tyrion is with them. If he can handle the idea of seventeen years, nine moons, and years from now, he can handle them holding hands. “But I may need a new dagger.”

“They’ll be safe, Jaime. Your uncle will make sure of it.” For a moment she wants to know, wants to ask what he means, if he had tried to leave them before his arrest but it no longer matters. The King had not found him first, had not had his head removed in a fit of rage. Robert Baratheon differs from his pretender son in that regard. “It’s alright. You’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”

Later, she will remind him just how seriously he has taken his vows made to her.

Sansa waits for what she’s hinting at to dawn on him carefully. Her good father’s hesitance, his question of whether his son will willingly put aside his vows, are not a concern. Not now, not when it will get him, them, out of King’s Landing. 

She doesn’t get a moment to process, not when his hands have her, and his lips claim hers in a kiss. It’s for the best, Sansa thinks as she gets caught up in his happiness, their happiness, and laughs into his mouth. It’s messy, and a bit more difficult considering the shackles around him, but it’s him. It’s them, and they’ve succeeded . “I love you,” she whispers against his lips, stealing as many small kisses as she can. 

Until she remembers they have a very active audience, and Sansa flushes. 

“Forgive us, Lord Tyrion.” She keeps the laughter from her voice. She hadn’t realized shocking her good brother would be so much fun. 

“We’re just waiting on word, Jaime. Your father has gone to the King.”

j a i m e:

“I’ll get you a thousand daggers, you and Arya both.” They had protected each other, he thinks. They had had the chance to be at each other’s back, and just as he’d always guessed, they were unstoppable. The sheer possibilities they have before them, everything they’re capable of now that their family is together, and will stay that way, is staggering. 

Once, his father would’ve been horrified to learn that Jaime considered the Starks his family, but if his father agreed to this betrothal… 

They will be married. 

He’s so relieved that he feels the strangest desire to weep, his chest lighter than it has been in decades. 

“I will be the first to congratulate you both one what is very clearly a love match—I actually feel rather mystified that I hadn’t noticed sooner—but you’re not actually betrothed, and I am perhaps the only person in Westeros that makes a better window than door, so I really cannot do all that much to keep Sansa’s father’s guards from seeing this, should they come to fetch her. Perhaps waiting for the match to be finalized might be prudent?” Tyrion suggests, eyes everywhere but on his brother and the woman he can’t seem to drag his mouth from. 

“And you’re sure he’ll remove me from the kingsguard? And not choose the Black for me?” He asks, ignoring his brother. He knows that whatever her plan was, it was executed to perfection, but she cannot control for unpredictable variables. Perhaps Robert will get it into his head that being cuckolded is a crime which cannot be pardoned with lifelong servitude let alone a match far too good for the likes of himself. 

He has to trust her. She did this all on her own, she knows what she’s doing. 

He can’t leave with her, he knows that, but when she goes and the darkness settles back in, it won’t be filled with monsters or gruesome imaginations. Just possibilities. He kisses her again, and another time, and then once more. Soon, maybe they’ll be able to take their kisses for granted. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to, but the possibility of it is nice, kissing Sansa so often that it doesn’t feel like a dream each time. 

“Keep your goodsister safe, Tyrion,” Jaime orders his brother. “Be safe, please. I’ll see you soon one way or another, and I’m guessing it would not help our cause for you to be seen down here.” One more kiss, the slightest suck on her lip, desperate for a lingering taste of her, then Jaime pulls away, thumb brushing her cheek. “Thank you, Sansa,” he breathes. She’s saved their family. 

S a n s a:

A thousand daggers. Sansa laughs gently, fondly, and her hand drags through his hair slowly. “I think Arya would somehow manage without any daggers if she had to.” She remembers her sister and Brienne sparring in the courtyard of Winterfell, how easily she had been able to manipulate and wield whatever weapon she held. Apparently that had been dormant instinct, and before she can help herself, Sansa laughs again. “I don’t think she learned to use her teeth against an enemy from you, Husband.”

She’s not sure who Arya could have learned that from, but it doesn’t matter. Her sister is the fiercest fighter she knows, and she had not hesitated to jump into the fight the moment it had broke out. 

And Jaime had given Arya her first set of tools to make sure that she could, that she would, be safe in this life. 

The last of it all, of all the careful planning she had done with Varys rests on the ability of her father, Jon Arryn, and Tywin Lannister. Jaime and Tyrion’s father is clever, and she has to believe that he will know how to present such an idea to the King in a way that will be heard, that will make sense with the backing of Robert Baratheon’s closest friends. She has handed it to him on a silver platter, all he has to do is make it palatable to the King. 

Her thumb finds his lower lip, and Sansa finds it nearly impossible to not touch him, to not touch his lips somehow, in this moment. 

We’ve been married more than most couples currently in King’s Landing, Sansa wants to interject. For Jaime, they’ve been married longer than even the King and Queen. But for the purposes of now, of everything they’ve been sent to accomplish, and what’s been accomplished today, she knows Tyrion is right. “Perhaps,” Sansa echoes, her smile only for her husband as she watched him in the dim light. “There will be time to celebrate. Even if our vows still stand.”

Their vows are until the end of their days. Cersei had not managed to stop them before, not if the Gods have deemed them appropriate for this. 

“I’m sure,” Sansa affirms. “Jon Arryn won’t want to give your father any cause for war, and my father will agree.” She doesn’t expand on how she knows, but she’s sure if her father has any doubts - which that she can’t deny - they can be easily put to rest. By her. “Varys has proof of your innocence, and the spectacle King Robert can put on with this will be enough for him.” As long as it has the support of his closest friends and advisors. 

Little does the King know that in this humiliation, it gives them exactly what they want- and what they need to keep moving forward. 

She doesn’t want to leave. Sansa knows their time is coming to a close for now, can see it in the way her husband looks at her. She feels it in the way he steals every little kiss as if he’s trying to prolong their time together. She wants to argue against reason, to tell him that Varys would have bought them some time, but she knows he’s right. She knows Tyrion is right, and they can not afford to risk all of the ground they’ve managed to gain. 

“Soon,” she promises, because one way or another it will be soon. Even if she has to fix any sort of mess Tywin Lannister should create in the slim chance he fails. Her lips are melded against his, her hands in his hair as she anchors himself to him for the last remaining moments before Jaime pushes her away. 

There’s nothing to thank her for. Not really. This had always been the plan upon her returning to the capitol, she had just momentarily forgotten who she is.

“I’ll be waiting,” she promises. “As soon as it’s announced I’ll be here.”  She leans forward to press a kiss this time to his forehead, before she can hear the echoing footsteps of the guards signaling the end of their time. With one last lingering look, Sansa allows her good brother and her father’s men to escort her away, the last time she’ll truly be separated from her husband.