Writer's Notes: I've first written this last October 2014 when I was a bit bitter over Tywin's death. (I know he's going to join the fallen but I miss seeing Charles Dance all commanding on the show) I put it up online for a while but the motivation got stunted after another while.
The wait though for the last season of Game of Thrones is proving to be really long for me. So I resorted to rewatching the series recently and that compelled me to take a look at the forgotten drafts I have. And so I found this story and decided to work on it again.
Thanks for giving it a try and please do relay your thoughts to me! :)
Sansa worries the sleeves of her gown. She looks down at Joffrey holding court after the long battle of Blackwater. Dread settles in the pit of her stomach as the King's lord grandfather is announced. She watches the white destrier trot into the hall, mounted by no other than the head of House Lannister.
A mighty host stormed Stannis's army and destroyed it, they say. A force led by the Warden of the West in his dark crimson armor and golden cape. The Red Keep has been thrumming with stories of the battle. How the 'traitor's' fleet was saturated in wild fire. The flames as green and as sinister as the eyes of the Lannisters that cast them. How the bay then bled red in the light of dawn when the Savior of the City stood in victory.
Sansa releases a deep breath. Blue eyes fixated on the new Hand of the King. No longer just the Shield of Lannisport but the Shield of King's Landing as well.
The great warhorse is urged towards the exit by its rider.
Her heart gets stuck in her throat.
Lord Tywin pins her in place with his piercing gaze.
"It's beautiful, m'lady!", her handmaid gushes, in her arms lies a vivid blue gown - truly captivating in its rich color.
Sansa's lips part in awe. She reaches for the gown, nearly bewildered of receiving such a gift. She feels the soft velvet underneath her fingertips, slightly warmed from the setting sun. A light sweet scent permeates the dress. The details on it are elaborate roses and twining vines in a deeper blue hue. She's made speechless by Lady Margaery's present. It's been so long since she encountered genuine kindness.
"You must wear it when you sup with them tonight, m'lady. It would please the Que—Lady Margaery."
The smile on Sansa's lips drops. She is delighted that she's no longer betrothed to Joffrey. But she is aware that she's still subject to the Lannisters' mercy.
She would be married off sooner rather than later.
Of that she is certain.
The only question is to whom.
Ser Loras is beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
Sansa has never seen eyes like molten gold before. When he escorted her from her chambers to the dining room, the walk seemed pluck straight out of one of her daydreams. The corners of his eyes wrinkle when he smiles. He talks and walks with nothing but grace.
And whenever he spares her a glance, her heart flutters like a falling feather.
"I would love to stroll the gardens with you, Sansa.", Lady Olenna reaches for her hand across the table and smiles at her with motherly warmth. "This city stinks! Really an awful place for a blooming flower like you."
"Grandmother!" Lady Margaery admonishes playfully, a small smile etched on her heart-shaped face. "The gown is lovely on you, Sansa. Truly."
Sansa looks down at the blue dress. She is indeed in love with it. She's sick of the pale rose colors Cersei clothes her in. She's sick of anything the Lannisters has pretended to give her out of the goodness of their hearts.
"I can never thank you enough. It's beautiful. And..." She wavers for a second and three sets of amber eyes wait patiently for her to continue. "And it reminds me of my mother."
"It's nothing, sweetling.", Lady Olenna says with a wave of her hand before taking a sip on her wine. "You are more than welcome." Her eyes shift to Ser Loras. And the Knight of Flowers nearly scrambles on his chair.
"Would you wish to retire, my Lady?", he asks Sansa, exuding every ounce of charm he could muster.
She blushes like any maiden would have and accepts his offered hand.
Not long after Ser Loras has delivered her back to her chambers, Sansa shares delightful tales with her handmaid.
"I'm gladden to hear you so happy, m'lady. He'll possibly kiss you soon!", Brella concludes, knowingly smiling.
Sansa's face heats up at the picture created in her head.
A loud knock on the door disrupts the bit of merry Sansa's experiencing. Her maid promptly runs over to answer the door.
Whatever joy that fills her slips away when Sansa sees a Lannister guard on the other side of the threshold.
The red cloak escorts Sansa to the Tower of the Hand.
"Lord Tywin has requested for your presence."
She suppresses a shudder as they reach the foot of the stairwell. The steps are taunting her with their number and the sconces lining the wall fail to ease the darkness that creep into the tower.
"This way, my lady.", the guard says, already six paces ahead of her.
She takes a step and swallows the nostalgia seeping into her being. She remembers when she used to reside there with her Lord father and younger sister. Her heart aches. Her chest is assaulted by phantom pains. She keeps her eyes downcast, imagining banters with Arya and her father's half-hearted reprimands. She hears haunting laughter and the start of tears stings her eyes.
How could they leave her all alone in such a dismal place?
She steels herself as she climbs, dons on the invisible mask she has made for the people of the Capital.
The climb takes a lot shorter than she would have liked. And the guard with her doesn't waste time on announcing her arrival.
She lets go of the tight hold she has on her skirts as the door to the audience chamber opens for her.
Upon stepping into the room, her eyes find the gold-plated round window first. She has liked the view from it and the intimacy it provided when she first saw it. The rugs and wall hangings seem to be the same. It only feels like yesterday when she had called that very chamber her new home. Now the sight of the tower alone creates more and more bitterness in her heart.
"Lady Sansa." The Hand of the King's greeting cuts through the air and space in between them.
With one deep breath, she allows herself to look at the Lord Hand.
"You asked for me, my Lord."
At first she thinks she would stutter, for she doesn't expect Lord Tywin to be casually leaning on his large desk - eyeing her with nothing but calculation.
His stare lingers and pins her in place more than it did back in the Great Hall when he was appointed as Hand for the third time in his life. He proceeds to take long strides toward the rectangular table at the center of the chamber.
"Have a seat.", he says and pulls an ornate chair for her use.
"Thank you, my Lord."
Her knees are trembling.
In her mind, she begs the gods to bless her with grace and allow her to reach the offered seat without embarrassing herself. She eventually manages and once her eyes settle again on the pale green ones of Lord Tywin, she's nothing but grateful to be seated as his scrutiny resumes. Her legs would have buckled if she's left standing. Lord Tywin seats himself at the head of the table, reaches for two silver cups. Muted light catches on the gold ring on his little finger. She wets her dry lips as he pours wine in solemn silence.
"I take it you've had your dinner."
Sansa cannot help it but to feel a lot more like a child in his presence. He's so different up close. More intimidating much to her discomfort. Sweat beads at the back of her neck. Her hair is a burden piled on top of her head with its intricate twists. Goosebumps has erupted on her bare arms and she realizes how Lady Margaery's dress exposes her skin a bit too much.
"Yes, my Lord.", she answers and sees the narrowing of Lord Tywin's eyes at her words. Her answer has been found lacking. "I've dined with Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna early in the evening.", she blurts out, compelled by his commanding stature. But she has omitted Ser Loras's name successfully amidst her panic.
She catches a glint in his eyes and the slight turning of his lips downwards. He's displeased. And she's at a loss on what she should do to appease him. Proper curtsies work on the Queen. Broken cries work on the boy King.
But she doesn't know Lord Tywin.
"The Tyrells...", he drawls and tips his cup of wine to his lips. "And what do they want?"
"P-Pardon, my Lord?"
Sansa doesn't understand what he means. The Tyrells have been nothing but kind and warm to her since their arrival. They are a breath of life for her in that traitorous capital.
Lord Tywin slips the untouched silver cup closer to her on the polished table.
"You will tell me what they have discussed with you." The authority in the timbre of his voice strikes fear in her heart.
Her hands close around the cool cup. She looks down at the the deep red liquid inside it, and sees her reflection distorted by the little ripples her shaking palms are causing on its surface.
"They..." She bites on her lower lip, distracts herself with the momentary pain. "They've talked to me about the various flowers in Highgarden, My Lord. They said they are a sight to behold and that I s-should—" She only means to pause, but ends up stopping completely like her tongue has been cut out.
Lord Tywin continues on her behalf.
"That you should visit their fragrant gardens and marry into their family."
Sansa holds the lord's hardening glare. She knows what it looks like—the daughter of the traitor seeking for a chance of escape, plotting with potential allies.
"I declined, my Lord.", she spits out with more spite than intended. "I'm forever grateful to the Queen and still disheartened of being set aside by my beloved King."
For agonizingly slow seconds, the Lord Hand studies the authenticity of her confession.
"Of course you did."
His eyes cease boring holes on her pallid face. His stare drops, spares a quick look over at her heaving chest and shaking shoulders. The tight bodice is cut a little low on her bosom. She spent long minutes trying to cover it up or pull it higher. But her handmaids had reassured her that the gown is nothing but perfectly tailored to accentuate her still developing body. Sansa has taken a liking to Lady Margaery's wardrobe the moment she laid eyes on the young woman. The style is new and definitely emboldened. And by wearing the next Queen's present, she has felt more of a woman grown.
But she regrets that now.
Now that Lord Lannister has no doubt taken notice of her attire.
"Are you cold, my Lady?"
Involuntarily, she shivers. Not from his words. But from the distinct lowering of his voice.
"N-No, my Lord."
Without warning, the back of his fingers brushes the skin of her wrist. A split second contact. A split second where in her heart stutters. Despite his cold demeanor, he's surprisingly warm. And when he cuts off the contact, his heat stays.
Lord Tywin rises from his seat and towers over her. Helplessly, she looks up at him. Her hands clammy around the metallic cup.
"Tully blue." He declares, sharp gaze flicking on her gown again. "The dress matches the shade of your eyes."
"Thank you, my Lord.", she winces at the manner her words are spoken, too practiced and devoid of sincerity. "It's a gift from Lady Margaery."
She watches him walk back to his desk to fetch a cloak hanging over the back of his highchair. He's broad-shouldered and slender.
Grandfather, Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella call him. Grandfather. She expects someone ravaged by the years on him.
But Lord Tywin walks back to her with the air of superiority reserved to a king.
He stands tall. The several age lines on his face fail to weaken his features. They only make him look colder and invulnerable.
Like he is carved from marble.
A terrifying sort of beauty. But beauty all the same.
Little dove, his daughter calls the Stark girl. A little bird. Pure and stupid. Unable to fly. Locked in a cage. Only capable of singing songs and perfoming curtsies.
Tywin drapes his cloak over his arm.
The girl is watching him with her eyes like sapphires. He can feel her frightened but curious stare right on his back.
When he turns to her, she stiffens on her seat. Back straightening to a painful line. Her candle-like fingers wriggling like snakes on her lap.
A lost wolf pup.
The lone wolf dies without its pack.
And her situation's even more dreary with her surrounded by his pride.
She weaves lies of her loyalty, speaks them over and over until they sound like irrevocable truths. She wears an armor of courtesy.
Sansa Stark is afraid but she's undeniably learning.
And she is smart in that regard.
Tywin stands next to the girl. She masks her anxiety by gulping the wine he had long provided.
"I believe it's late.", he says and she stands without prompting. Head lowered but eyes alert. "I will call for you again, Lady Sansa."
He unravels the cloak. And in the next heartbeat, he cages her in his arms and drapes the cloth over her small form. A tinge of satisfaction brews within him as she is covered by the fabric.
His hands brush over her bare shoulders lightly.
And a gasp escapes her bitten lips.
It's difficult not to take notice. Difficult. Especially when a blush spreads up from the dip of her bosom to the curve of her neck, the blush matching the thick auburn hair framing her face. Her pulse is visible on that exquisite slope. Galloping and clueless. Her scent's intoxicating. Sweet like white flowers in the summer. The stirring in his breeches catches him off guard.
His jaw tightens. He drops his arms to his sides. Irritated by the unwanted interest that has arisen in his body.
"Sleep well, Lord Tywin.", she bids, more breathier than intended.
Sansa rushes down the steps of the Tower of the Hand, rushes down the guarded halls of the Red Keep.
She rushes to the privacy of her chambers, tries to outrun her racing heart.
Standing there in the Hand of the King's audience chamber... Standing in that proximity with Lord Lannister nearly rob her of all her wit.
His presence was all consuming. She doesn't think she can bear another meeting with him.
Sansa makes it to her chambers. She catches her breath and clutches the cloak tight around her body, suddenly feeling cold.
On the looking glass, she finally sees that Lord Tywin has cloaked her in Lannister gold.