Archive of Our Own ^beta

Oh silent, constant driver of mine
Wordlessly calling from the end of the line
Where even though each hour I ever loved
Must queue and dive
Still, you will not take my heart alive

In martial wind, and in clarion rain
We minced into battle, wincing in pain; 
Not meant for walking, backs bound in twine:
Not angel or devil but level in time

And I rose, to take my shape at last
From the dreams that had dogged me, through every past
When to my soul the body would say:
You may do as you like
As long as you stay"

- “You Will Not Take My Heart Alive”, Joanna Newsom

Sansa knew she should have fled. Everything had been in place for her, for days, ready to take her from the Red Keep, from Joffrey, from the Queen and to safety. She knew she should make her way to the godswood, to change her clothes, to run to the harbor and let a ship carry her far from King’s Landing, from all of the pain and humiliation that the Lannisters had caused her. She had been ready, and her Florian was waiting. She should have fled.  

But she hesitated a moment too long in the hallways of the Keep, torn between a flight for her life and running to her chambers, barricading the doors, and praying for mercy, for the bells to stop tolling, sounding their death knell endlessly in her head. The King - the King is dead! She laughed suddenly, hysterically, and was laughing still when a knight of the Kingsguard swept her up and half-carried, half-dragged her into the deep, dark dungeons below. 

**

Tywin Lannister drummed his fingers on the heavy mahogany table, regarding his son with a muted fury that shifted slightly into a calculating, piqued interest. Jaime felt, as he often did, as an insect beneath glass under the scrutiny of his father. He cradled his stump to his chest and said nothing, and the silence stretched long between them. 

“You cannot serve on the Kingsguard without a sword hand,” Tywin said finally. Jaime went cold. 

“I can,” he countered, “and I will. There’s precedent. I’ll look in the White Book and find it, if you like. Crippled or whole, a knight of the Kingsguard serves for life."

“Cersei ended that when she replaced Ser Barristan on the grounds of age. A suitable gift to the Faith will persuade the High Septon to release you from your vows. Your sister was foolish to dismiss Selmy, admittedly, but now that she has opened the gates-"

“- someone needs to close them again,” Jaime interrupted. No! everything inside him shouted. Not the Kingsguard! Not Cersei. Even though the look on her pale face in the sept was all too fresh in his mind, he could not stand the thought of not being at her side after all these years. He was nothing without her, was never whole. “I am tired of having highborn women kicking pails of shit at me, father. No one ever asked me if I wanted to be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but it seems I am. I have a duty-"

“You do.” Tywin rose to his feet, and Jaime couldn’t help but recoil slightly. He blamed it on the weakness from weeks on the road. “A duty to House Lannister. You are the heir to Casterly Rock. That is where you should be.” He paused. “And it is past time you were wed."

“No!” Jaime lurched forward, but Tywin continued as if his son’s outburst had never happened. 

“The Tyrells are now insisting that Margaery be wed to Tommen,” he mused, looking over Jaime’s shoulder to the fire burning in the grate. “I could offer you instead, but they may take offense at a crippled knight dismissed from the Kingsguard when it’s a queen’s throne they want for the girl. And marrying her to you would raise the question of finding another suitable match for Tommen… There is the Dornish princess-"

“Dorne?! Didn’t you hear me, father? I said I will not wed!” Jaime shouted, and Tywin’s pale, cold eyes slid calmly to his son’s flushed face. Jaime’s shoulders shook, his jaw clenched tight with fury, but Tywin seemed entirely unconcerned by his rage. 

“But I have a mind to marry your sister to Oberyn Martell to strengthen that alliance,” he went on, and Jaime recoiled as if he’d been slapped. Cersei?! To that vile Viper, who has more bastards than Robert Baratheon and lies with men as well as women? He felt sick, imagining the Dornishman’s hands on his sister’s smooth, pale skin, in her golden hair… Oberyn Martell would not be stupid, slovenly enough to be so drunk every time he try to lay with her. Jaime stumbled back until he was close enough to the fireplace to lean on the grate, supporting himself with his good hand as his stomach rolled. 

Tywin’s eyes found Jaime’s face; he seemed utterly unmoved. “You say that Lady Catelyn Stark held a sword to your throat and made you swear to return her daughters?” A smile began to play at the corners of his mouth, although it did not reach his eyes. “Perhaps you shall. Perhaps you shall take Sansa Stark home to Winterfell as your bride.” 

The bite of Tywin’s words at his ears were as sharp as the bite of Catelyn Stark’s sword at his heart. Sansa Stark… his head swam. “She is a traitor,” he managed, “and married to my traitorous brother. Has she not been imprisoned for regicide, father?"

Tywin scoffed. “That is your sister’s doing, and the girl is to be released. She had no part in it, of that I am certain. She is a child and a fool, although she is a pretty fool.” The older man regarded Jaime shrewdly, watching to see whether his interest would be piqued at the mention of Sansa’s beauty. It wasn’t. “As for the marriage, it will be annulled, along with your vow to the Kingsguard. Your brother did not manage to fulfill his duties in the marriage bed, it seems, and the girl remains maiden."

“She can die a maiden as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want her, and I don’t want your Rock!” 

“Yet you shall have them both all the same,” said Tywin. His voice was ice-cold and would allow no argument. “You are my son and the true heir to Casterly Rock. With the death of Catelyn Stark and that upstart pup of hers, the Stark girl is the heir to Winterfell. Your child will be heir to both, bringing the North to King’s Landing. A union too important to leave to lesser players. You are a Lannister first and foremost, Jaime, and it’s time you did your duty to your family and your House. You will wed the Stark girl, and you will take her to Casterly Rock and to Winterfell, to show the North their new Warden. And Jaime-"

Tywin stepped forward, clapping a hand on Jaime’s shoulder in a show of joviality that both knew to be a lie. 

“- you will do your duty in the marriage bed.” 

He squeezed Jaime’s shoulder, and Jaime swayed. His heart was in his stomach and his stomach was somewhere in the region of his knees; he felt sick; he could not get the imagine of dark Dornish hands on Cersei’s white skin from his mind, but now another face joined the fray, bright auburn hair and blue eyes swirling. He hardly heard the door shut as Tywin left the solar, and remained there, alone, long after his father had gone. 

**

He had been well in his cups when he showed up at Sansa Stark’s door in the dead of night. 

He hardly drank anymore, not really, only a cup or two when decorum demanded it, but he hated what it did to Cersei, and especially with the loss of his hand, he wanted his wits about him. Still, on occasion Bronn was able to get him to drink more than he wanted, or meant to, and on this particular evening he’d thrown back more goblets of wine than he’d cared to admit in a defiant attempt to keep up with the sellsword, who had passed into his service along with Tyrion's squire Podrick Payne. Somehow, the rough commoner was able to disarm Jaime, although Jaime suspected it was all a ploy to beat him handily at sword practice in the morning. Not that Bronn needed Jaime drunk or hungover to beat him - Jaime wasn’t taking to left-handed sparring as well as he would have liked. 

He hadn’t noticed where his feet were carrying him, didn’t get a chance to question his own intentions until he recognized the part of the Keep where the Stark girl kept her bedchamber. Bracing himself against the doorframe, he knocked with his good hand - loud enough to rouse the occupant of the bedchamber, but soft enough to avoid alerting the guards posted nearby. He knew well that they were Cersei’s, and even in his inebriated state he did not want her learning that he had been at the Stark girl’s door so late, and drunk. The last thing he needed was more of his twin’s wrath.  

Silence from the bedchamber. He knocked again, and finally heard a quiet rustle; the creak of wood, more rustling; soft footsteps from within. The door latch clacked, and the heavy wooden door swung open slowly to reveal a soft glow and Sansa Stark’s form, veiled in shadow and dim firelight. Her face was shadowed, the light catching her red hair in a dark blaze; she clutched a robe around her slim shoulders, barefoot - he guessed she was only in her smallclothes underneath. 

She blinked sleepily at him. “Ser Jaime."

“My lady Stark."

Her shoulders stiffened. He was proud of himself for not slurring his words, although he guessed that the stink of wine rolled off him in waves. Her face remained in shadow, the door open only a crack, but there was a brightness to her eyes. “I am a Lannister now, Ser. Am I being summoned? It’s quite late."

“No,” he said, and swayed slightly. “We’re to be married."

A pause. “As I have been told, ser.” 

“You’ll be a Lannister twice over."

Another, longer pause. “I am glad for it, ser."

He made a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “Little wolf maid like you, I doubt it."

“I am glad to serve the crown in whatever way I can, Ser. My allegiance is not to the traitors of the North.” Her voice, low and small, hinted at iron underneath. Even now, in the dead of night, barely clothed and defenseless, she was the very picture of propriety, still and courteous. He had a most curious urge to wrap his fingers around the dark flame of her hair. 

“What is the meaning of your visit, Ser? It is late, and you seem... weary. You should be to your bedchamber, my lord.” 

He laughed, low and ugly. “Maybe I would rather to yours, little wife.” 

She flinched; he could tell, even in his impaired state, that she tried not to, but her body shuddered. Moments later, her spine straightened and she lifted her chin defiantly, although her fingers gripped the door so hard her knuckles turned white. “We are not yet wed, Ser."

“We will be within a fortnight."

“Not such a long time to wait, then."

Her voice shook on the last words, cutting through the fog of drink clouding his head, and with a start he saw her as if anew. A young woman, barely older than a girl, beautiful and endangered, a child playing at a knight’s bravery. Cersei had never been so delicate, had never seemed so frightened, had never looked so young. He felt a curious rush of goodwill towards Sansa, an urge to protect that he found strange and unfamiliar. It unsettled him. 

Reaching out, he gripped her chin between the fingers of his good hand. This forced him to let go of the door frame, and he lurched forward ungracefully, bringing up his right arm to steady himself. His golden hand hit the wall with a clang; Sansa’s eyes widened just as he froze, and her arm flew up to grasp at his wrist, long fingers wrapping around his arm with a surprising strength. They both held their breaths, listening for any movement from down the corridor. What seemed like an eternity later, they exhaled. Sansa’s gaze flew to Jaime’s face. Their eyes met, their bodies still. Her skin was soft under his callused hand, the bones of her face fine and delicate. He traced his thumb lightly over the line of her jaw, running his eyes over the wispy red curls over her ear, until he noticed it. A big, ugly bruise covered most of her cheek, violet turning to yellow at the edges, bleeding into her hairline. His vision went sharp, and everything slammed into focus - the dried blood on her split lip, how ragged and broken her nails were, more bruises and scrapes over her collarbone, where her moon-white skin disappeared into her shift.  

“Sansa,” he rasped, a shock of adrenaline running through him, startling him sober. “What-"

She stepped back quickly, out of his grasp, wrapping her arms around herself once again and burying her fists in her robe, her eyes downcast. “It is nothing, Ser. It will fade before our wedding, my handmaiden has brought me a salve. I've displeased the Queen, of course, she believed me to be guilty, but she has shown me mercy in her great wisdom. I owe it all to Her Grace, Ser.” Her blue eyes flickered to his face once again, and he wasn’t too drunk to detect the double meaning in her words. 

“My sweet sister was not too pleased to receive word of our betrothal,” he admitted. ‘Not too pleased’ was putting it lightly, really - Cersei had raged and raved and thrown a crystal flagon at Jaime’s head. You should have stood up to him! he remembered her shouting, her green eyes blazing like wildfire. You should have defied him! He had wondered to himself if she planned to defy her own impending betrothal to the Dornish prince, but did not risk life and limb to give voice to his curiosity. He merely ducked the flying objects and tried to soothe her, and gave up sooner than either of them had anticipated, judging by the shocked look on his sister’s face when he stalked out of her solar.  

Now, looking at Sansa Stark’s bruised and bloodied face, it was clear that she had taken out her wrath on the Northern girl. Imprisoned in the dungeons alongside her husband, Sansa was a convenient target - after all, who could say whether the damage was done by a guard, trying to wrest the truth of the King’s murder from a suspect? 

“Her Grace has just lost her son, and my family has betrayed the Crown,” Sansa said softly. “I cannot imagine her anguish, and cannot fault her for thinking ill of me. I can only hope that she can, in time, forgive me, as my good-sister.” Jaime squinted at her, thinking that was as likely to happen as his hand growing back; he thought that the girl knew it as well. Her song was sweet, though, even as the face that gazed at him bore the worst of his twin’s temper. 

“She shall never lay a hand on you again,” Jaime heard himself saying. In truth, he had no idea how he would stop his sister from taking her vengeance, but as the words crossed his lips he knew them to be true. He had broken enough oaths in his life, and this birdlike girl in front of him did nothing to deserve Cersei’s wrath except be young, beautiful, and naive. She is but a child, he thought, taking in her narrow shoulders, her loose auburn hair. If I am to be her husband - something he still seethed at, resented his father powerfully for forcibly taking away the white cloak of the Kingsguard, all that he had worked for his whole life, his whole self - if I am to be her husband, I must protect her.

He barked a laugh at that thought. He had never protected anyone in his life but Cersei, not truly, and now he was going to protect his child bride from Cersei. It was too good, really, the irony of it all. He laughed again, and Sansa stepped forward, raising one hand in fearful warning. 

“Hush, Ser, please, the guards will hear!"

Her robe had fallen open and Jaime could see that she was indeed only in her smallclothes underneath; the dim room kept her body in shadow, but he could still see the dark marks of violence stark against her skin. He felt sick, suddenly, and lurched backwards from the door, the dimly lit bedchamber, the ember-haired girl. He felt drunk again - the world swam in front of his eyes, Cersei’s beautiful face screwed up in rage, Sansa’s bloodied lips, Bronn swinging a broadsword towards his face, the steely eyes of his father - and spun on his heel, stumbling down the hall. 

 “Goodnight, Lady Stark,” he rasped, and did not wait to see what response, if any, Sansa gave to the night air.