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Negotiations were in progress and Tywin Lannister knew better than to let a crucial trade-piece out of his sight. In the capital, there were far too many opportunities for a girl to slip away and become someone else's pawn - the old lion simply would not allow that to happen.
Hence, on a bright and sunny morning, rather unremarkable from any other, Lady Sansa was marched into the large formal solar within the Tower of the Hand; a tiny wide-eyed figure dwarfed by the Lannister guards surrounding her. She stood bewildered and more than a little frightened. No longer would she be permitted to flutter about unattended; bleating for the attention of the King or Queen Regent. Her station no longer bona fide.
She was little more than scullery maid as far as Tywin was concerned, and if the North wanted to waste their potential for gain on one worthless child, then who was he to correct their idiocy.
With a lazy flick of his fingers, the soldiers followed the unsaid order of their liege and made their way out of the room, soft clinks and metal tapping upon metal as they went.
Those sounds were innocuous, Sansa thought. It was the deep thud of the door closing behind them that was ominous, final. Gooseflesh raced the length of her arms, up her neck, and seemingly tipped her face upward with its wave - to look upon him.
The Hand of the King was a tall man; not overly thin, and broad at the shoulders. Sansa discerned that he was surely taller than her father - inwardly cringing at the horrible jape ringing through her mind in Joffrey's voice: More than a head taller, now. She shook off the disgust and took in Lord Tywin once more. He was bald, but she thought it suited him, and he had thick lines of whiskers running the height and most of the length of his jawline.
A mane for a lion. She smiled a little at that, then made it vanish just as quickly.
The look he wore on his face was anything but pleasant. His brows sunk low over his eyes, and his mouth held no trace of mirth. It was different seeing Lord Tywin up close. At a distance he merely looked serious, but at only a pace away Sansa saw deep creases at the sides of his mouth and across his forehead. She had seen the same type of lines etched in the faces of others, but only as a sign of anger.
Lord Tywin was grim, of that there was no doubt. Even his eyes, so green and shimmering in the light of the large fire, were as cold as the gold he was known for.
Sansa didn't know if it was a trick of her imagination, but felt an icy shiver run the up her spine.
He did not seem to notice her discomfort, or rather he did not care. Instead, Lord Tywin offered another flick of his fingers, this time toward the large fireplace in the room. Without much thought, Sansa followed the gesture as she had seen the soldiers do and stepped in the direction of the hearth. It must have been the proper endeavour as Lord Tywin accompanied behind her.
There, laid out like the bounty it was, were only the finest of materials and numerous spools of thread with accompanying needles of gold at varying lengths. The girl's mouth opened as she took in the supplies, then, turning back to face him, her voice and words both absent, she snapped her maw closed and blinked.
It was like he could read her thoughts. From what she had seen of the man, Lord Tywin always seemed to know what people were thinking, and though he had not addressed her exclusively, even in that room, Sansa never really understood just how uncanny it could be.
"I had a wife, and I have a daughter," he said, flat and unwelcoming. Yet he raised a brow as though to call her simpleminded.
Sansa startled at the motion and fumbled to apologize for insulting the man. Already.
"I-I… A-apologies, my lord. Thank you… Your generosity… is most k-kind, and-"
His eyes narrowed and Sansa recoiled minutely, trying to understand what she had said or done to offend the Hand. Again.
Tywin looked down his nose at the child, through half-lidded eyes and arrogantly drawled, "Keep your simpering to yourself, girl. In fact, don't employ it at all within these walls."
Sansa's mouth had full-run, and even though she spoke out of concern, not curiosity, it all came out like an accusation. Peevish and sullen. "But... Why?"
The old lion hardly had patience for his own children. Her pointless question made him clench his jaw and grind his teeth. It also reiterated that he possessed even less tolerance for the children of others.
A noticeable shadow passed over Lord Tywin's features, and it was as though the whole room tinted grey. The crush of tension made Sansa feel altogether inadequate. Not simply the way she was normally made to feel in King's Landing, but as though the very air she breathed was only allowed because they shared it. And even then, it was an ill-gotten favour.
"Because it is a waste," his voice was so low it landed like rocks at her feet, "...of your effort and of my time." He leaned down a fraction and was pleased to see her lean away that same amount. "The only people who demand such conversation are people you can be sure do not matter."
At that, his glare traveled from her eyes to the hem of her skirts and back again, slow and deliberate, his sneer deepening on the journey. Before she could be offended or afraid, Lord Tywin flicked his fingers once again. This time it was a move so subtle, so sly, Sansa was unsure it happened at all. When he straightened to full height a moment later, their conversation at an obvious end, she knew her eyes had not deceived her.
Without a word, wearing the most serious and lady-like face she could muster, Sansa dipped her knees and her head, taking her leave, and quietly walked away. When he was satisfied there would be no more fuss or further frivolous discussion, Tywin went about his day.
In settling with her needles and thread, Sansa spared a look under her lashes to Lord Tywin. He was powerful... No. No, he was incredibly daunting. He was the Hand of the King - of more than one king - and he had given her a glimpse of how he worked, of how he was made up on the inside.
Whether he had meant to show her that part of himself would remain unknown, but she was not so dull-witted as to misunderstand the significance. Her septa had instilled in her that courtesy was a lady's armour, but Lord Tywin easily debunked that fallacy and taught her something entirely new: that courtesy is only effective on those who seek it.
Sansa Stark had been thoroughly educated in the span of a heartbeat and a handful of words; a true lesson in this very real world of men… and monsters. One of knowing when to be silent, and one of listening to the unspoken.
Albeit, aptitude and practice, of any skill, will always be two completely separate matters.
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Their companionship was an odd one. It took nothing for Sansa to understand that plainly.
When the Hand held council, she would sit and wait in a guarded antechamber. When the Hand had business elsewhere in the castle or outside its walls in the city of King's Landing, Sansa would follow him like a tiny auburn-topped shadow and wait silently while he concluded his dealings.
She could not help but notice the way people of every rank and description cowered away from the man as he walked, eyes averted and heads bowed down - as though giving Lord Tywin their eyes would also give him their soul. It was more than a fearful reaction, she noticed. It was more so a mixture of both fear and reverence, accompanied by a strange sort of hopefulness.
And that was the entirety of it: when Lord Tywin opened his hand to you, there was equal chance he would strike you down with it as to help you up.
She also saw the way people looked at her, and her exclusively, with looks that ranged from pity to annoyance. The ones she hated most were those who gawked mockingly, as though she were a dog nipping at the haunch of a lion.
The last thing she wanted was to be someone else's pet. It was the way Joffrey summoned her in front of the court, the way he still summoned her when they were alone: a finger pointed at his feet and a sharp whistle she knew meant to stand where he had pointed. Only now, instead of at court, her company was requested in the evening, after she had eaten at his table as an honoured prisoner. After being sent back to her rooms…
She shuddered out of her thoughts, hissing softly then shifting, sitting up straighter, making room between her back and the chair.
Coaxing her lungs to take air more slowly, Sansa relaxed again and cast a tentative glance around the room she was openly tucked away in.
Of everything - of the perpetual waiting, of the unsaid opinions, of the foul episodes that became most of her nights - what Sansa found she liked most, that she had come to enjoy, was the quiet of Lord Tywin's solar. It was large in both breadth and height, and there was enough distance from the hearth to the desk that light noises were lost in the air between and did not bother her. Even when Lord Tywin hosted company inside the room, conversation was as easily ignored as she herself.
The room had become her haven; a place where she could lose herself in the details of the craft in her hands or the bright images and stories in her mind. She could think and reminisce without smothering under the weight of scrutiny.
In the course of a given day, sunlight could be seen stretching in progressively longer, blazing lines from the windows behind Lord Tywin toward her cozy island of furniture. By the time the bright slashes made it close to her, she knew her time with the Hand was almost at an end for that day.
That time of day, Sansa was coming to dread. It was a time of day that meant she was no longer the shadow of a god, mostly unnoticed and always left alone. It was the time of day that once more distinguished her as the scapegoat for every treason the King felt the North had incurred.
She shifted again. Hissed again, but this time not so quietly. Lord Tywin's head snapped up and his eyes flicked directly at her. He knew exactly where his irritation was rooted. Sansa braced herself for his ire, immediately felt sick in her belly. She had seen the tide in him change more than once, and sometimes those frightening waves lapped a bit at her feet.
Her thoughts were broken off, interrupted, and flitted to nothing as those late-day beams of light begin to shine. They were cut through by the brisk tread of the Queen Regent. And although the pattern against her eyelids was jarring, from black to bright over and over again, the fact that her day would be prolonged was rather a relief.
Settling back into the rhythm of her needlework, Sansa let her mind wander as it was prone to do, but all too soon she was brought back by the gradual raising of voices - Lord Tywin's being heard first.
"I will not have you side with your son and his stupidity when I bring this matter before council. If you insist on being there, you will make yourself useful."
Cersei blinked slowly. With her face twisted in utter contempt, she turned her head to look at the pathetic cause of such an uproar.
"Don't look to her for answers," Tywin scoffed.
The Queen Regent snapped her focus back to her father, disgusted he even think such a thing. She sneered, "Is it wise to discuss matters of the Crown with a traitor in the room?"
Tywin looked at his daughter levelly. There was pause and what could pass for consideration in the eyes of the old lion, before he spoke to her - rather slowly. "And whom will she tell, Cersei? You?" He watched; counting the emotions baldly coursing through his daughter's countenance, waiting for it to end with what looked like sobriety, but was more likely defeat. He did not care which; it simply meant she was listening. "By the time this exchange is made, any information discussed in this room will be negligible." The lion panned his gaze, hard and sharp like the end of a blade, past his daughter to his charge, and spoke at the volume for the girl's benefit, "And if she has designs to speak of it before hand, her tongue will be tacked to the wall."
Sansa made a whimpering noise in her throat, not daring to meet his stare - she knew the Hand was looking at her, just as she knew he was speaking the truth. She then made a harsher sound - choking on a yelp - when the needle in her fingers slipped a stitch and pierced the pad of her thumb.
The fabric was a deep crimson. It hid her fault.
The golden needle had embedded deep. It hid the thrum of her other pain.
"Do you understand your own duty, Cersei?"
The Queen Regent nodded at her father. Keeping his eye, showing she was invested in his wishes.
The token did not prevent Tywin's look of disappointment or the statement to match. "No. Tell me, in words, your intent. That is how bonds and alliances begin. Did you learn nothing from me?"
"I learned, Father." Her words were gritty and strained in her subdued fury. "And I will help to ensure Joff sees the gain and potential of trading Jaime for Lady Sansa."
"Good. Leave me." Lord Tywin waved a curt dismissal at his daughter, glaring sharply as she left - watching for a sign in her posture that would give him insight.
There was nothing to see once Cersei crossed the visual path of his guest. His pet. The little wolf brought to heel. It was quite the jape in conversations intentionally outside his hearing. There she was, prim and out of place in her gaudy northern gown, covered from wrists to chin, juddering in a none too subtle way - squirming in her seat like a dolt about to soil themselves.
His blood burned with pent up resentment.
The resonating thunk of the outer door caused Sansa to startle, jostling her shoulders - she sucked in a quick breath and set to make herself inert once again.
She did not notice that keen green eyes held her firm beneath their lofty survey. Though she jumped in alarm at the clear, menacing voice that cut through the buffering gap and speared her with an icy terror.
"Continue to fidget in that chair, Lady Sansa, and I will bind you to it."
How a threat could be so casually made, like calling for wine, she would never know. Yet it wasn't enough to stop her discomfort, to cease her twitching effort to find a way to sit that didn't make it hurt. And by the time Lord Tywin's agitated stare turned into a furious rage - standing to make true on his promise - she was weeping fat tears and stuttering fearful apologies. Silently cursing her body's refusal to force itself still.
Lord Tywin's approach was like a storm - you knew it would be brutal, but there was no indication of exactly when the first strike would come.
"I'm s-sorry! M-my Lord!" She wailed, then saw in her mind, her tongue being tacked to the wall and bawled all the harder. Joffrey was cruel, but this man petrified her.
He stopped a pace away from her. And, without so much as a hint of compassion, inspected her. Eyes roved, lips thinned, and she waited for Lord Tywin to lash out - perhaps with his fists, or perhaps with the strength of his guards...
She kept crying, it could not be stopped - hot tears in thick lines down her cheeks - and Lord Tywin did not care. She was weak and of no threat - a pup in the teeth of a lion - and Lord Tywin did not care.
Heartbeats may well have been hours. Sansa had begun to pray for this man to act, to show her in truth what she would endure. It never came. And that, that kind of secret furor scared her more than anything. Of all the moments lived in King's Landing, this was the one that defined for Sansa her worth. Truly. She was nothing to his man, nothing at all. She may as well have been a sack of coins, cold and lifeless, something to be traded. But even then, she thought - no, she knew, she knew! - her worth in the calculating eyes of this awful man would be of the lowest copper.
"Stand up."
She could do nothing else but keep his eye as best she could through her tears and obey the Hand of the King - every time she blinked she saw her blood spilling. Using only the strength of her legs, not wanting to move her arms and back any more than she had to, Sansa shook and swayed and bit at her bottom lip as she rose. But even the subtlest of jolts were part and parcel of Sansa's prior agony, and she whimpered, pathetic and long, at the wellspring of hurt.
The sound infuriated him, a red-hot burn that started in the pit of his belly. It was a simple instruction, and the stupid bitch keened like his was beating the skin from her. The thought snapped rabidly in his mind, prodding, and teasing the worst part of him. The dark place inside that was encouraging him to act, to do just that: teach this little cunt what honest pain really was.
Ladies could be made to suffer just as much as the rest, in different ways, more ways, better ways, and the notion was not one to worry his conscience. Not even remotely.
His lids grew heavy at the thought of that suffering, watching her drown in her own despair became something of a bore. Although as she turned at the waist to set her sewing to the side, her body jostled. There was no scream from the girl. No scream, just a wet face streaked with tears and snot and etched in a type of misery that caused the blood to drain from it.
This was of interest. Tywin narrowed his eyes and noticed that the riot of hair she left untended had moved across her shoulders, exposing her nape. He never mentioned Lady Sansa's utter lack of sense when she walked into his solar dressed for winter on this, the hottest of days. But neither did he question it.
It was a hunch that had him step closer, her shoulder and arm near to brushing the long line of tiny gold buttons that marched from hem to collar on his doublet. It was his ire that had him growl near to her ear when her eyes grew wider and continued leaking. That same hunch had his left hand raised, palm out, in front of her, a gesture of entreaty - more so a silent action telling her to submit and cease wriggling.
Her mouth sagged, puffing out a rapid percussion of moist air and squeaky mewls onto his forearm. Sansa begged her body for peace, and waited for Lord Tywin. Waited. She was expecting the lion to grip and shake her viciously, very much like a cat with its unlucky prey - an act to snap the poor thing's neck… or merely to toy with it. In contrary, she felt the lightest touch on her hair. Not on her skin, nothing to make the hurt worse; it was as though Lord Tywin was moving each strand of errant hair individually, cautiously.
Whatever his intention, Lady Sansa lost her fight to remain steady. She trembled under the Hand's mindful treatment, bowing her head to help show him what he was sure to find.
One more tress of auburn swept aside and he could finally see the reason…
Finally understand...
There, down the span of her nape, to the gap of the ridiculously high collar of her gown, where it had come away from her neck, lay something amongst the flush that had ascended her skin along with her fear. Piqued, Tywin flicked her hair further along, studying the tendril of red that had caught his attention.
He did not have to examine it closely to identify a fresh angry welt. It was raised above the blush and deeper in colour, an ugly contrast to the girl's pale complexion.
Untangling his fingers from her locks, the old lion stepped away. There was no dawn of empathy in the man, there would be no explanation; he merely left her, head slumped down, pitifully sniffling into her chest.
She heard the door unlatch. The fingers that naught but heartbeats before tended her, opened the latch with the same amount of care. She heard Lord Tywin speak. The voice that naught but heartbeats before spat at her in spite, carried the words with the same amount of cold.
"Summon Lady Sansa's handmaids," he ordered.
The door shut after that one command, then the cadence of steps became first louder than fainter as she assumed Lord Tywin walked past her and further on to his desk.
Sansa did not dare move a muscle more than the shivers she could not control. Her sobbing breaths had evened some, and she could only imagine what her face looked like: eyes bloodshot and swollen, nose red and overflowing. Long strings of viscous mucus hung down and clung to the front of her pretty wool dress that was far too warm, but covered all the right places, sticking to the slightly disheveled fabric.
Yet she remained static.
It was primarily survival at that point: she was staid, and remained unharmed. Her mortification a paltry tax, considering.
After what felt like days, there was a light sound - the servant's door - and the airy footfalls inherent to the help of any keep.
Sansa felt the warmth of being flanked on either side, but refused to move until she was told to do so.
"Turn her," Lord Tywin instructed disinterestedly, much the same way he would refer to anything unimportant, and continued, "Loosen her gown. Expose her back to me."
At that, the older of the two maids hesitated, then strayed toward stupidity. "H-here, m'lord?"
The old lion did not speak a word, though his jaw flexed and eyes narrowed at the servant thinking to question him. From the look she returned and the way she quickly set about her task, he had been clear in his unspoken instruction - one that told the maid she would pay dearly for ineptitude, and more for insubordination.
The women worked wordlessly, expressionlessly, and in tandem. When Sansa raised her head and exposed what would usually garner low hums and noises of judgment from those who tended her, she was answered with absolute silence.
They spared her bedragglement not even a second glance in their work to undo the lacing and layering holding the wool garment in place. But moments later, in a slick step while the maid was directly in front of her, the younger woman, shorter than Sansa by at least a hand, softened her eyes at her charge and hastily produced a square of fabric - hurriedly wiping and scrubbing away the muck from her nose and any traces of tears.
The work was efficient, and in minutes the women had opened her gown, pulled it as far down as it was wont to go at the back, and gathered all the material to the front - in Lady Sansa's arms - to spare the girl a shred of modesty.
"Leave, and pack your lady's room." Lord Tywin sounded closer. Sansa flinched at the clip of his tone, then fought to breathe levelly.
The women left, and again she and Lord Tywin were alone.
"When did this happen?" There was no difference in the way the Hand addressed her and her handmaids, it was all harsh and accusatory.
The girl had begun to turn toward him as propriety demanded; reflexively Tywin's hand came up as a signal for her to stop. His voice hardened with an air of authority, "No don't..." He cleared his throat lightly. "There is no need to turn around, my lady, simply answer what I've asked you."
Wide eyed and obedient, she turned her back to him fully. "Last evening," she said at just above a whisper. Her voice rough and hazy from the torment she wore. "I don't know the hour, my lord. I was roused from sleep."
She heard a soft grunt from behind her, but made no move to turn or to talk.
Sansa had lived many humiliations, most all of them public and vicious, yet it was in the privacy of a room in the company of only one man, she felt most embarrassed - most ashamed for the state she'd been tortured into. The fact that she was no longer desirable as a wife, to anyone, was something she kept tucked well beneath her grief and her fear. But under the scrutiny of the Hand of the King it was a crushing reality that made her heart ache.
"How thoroughly have you been lashed, my lady?"
This time it was more an effort not to twist and look - Lord Tywin did not sound as he should have, his severe tone had vanished. Though Lady Sansa quickly got over her perplexity, preferring not to encourage the man's ire.
Sansa could not think of the right words to politely describe that of which he was inquiring; deciding instead to move her hand behind her - motioning from where she felt her gown still covered her, lower down her back and over her backside to finally, with a bend of her knees, indicate with a stretch of her arm that fresh wheals and old scars marked her to her calves.
Soft steps gained volume, then Sansa was looking at the back of Lord Tywin's doublet. He walked to the door, and she took in the inanity around her, unknowing how exactly he wanted her to proceed. She couldn't very well stand there, partly dressed, for the rest of the evening.
But she would if the Hand told her to. Sansa winced at that truth.
He stepped just without, but door did not close completely, and Sansa stood shivering, listening to Lord Tywin command those standing outside the room.
"Ready a suite here in the Tower, somewhere above mine."
There was a muffled voice, that of a man, and Sansa could only assume it was the sound of affirmation.
"There will be guard detail at every entry - red cloaks only - on full rotation, even if the rooms are unoccupied, understand?" Again there was a noise of agreement. "And find suitable women to be in the Stark girl's service - need I tell you to look outside those of the Keep and Crown? Good. You. Summon Pycelle to these chambers and tell him to treat the girl."
Confusion. It was the easiest word Sansa could conjure how best to describe the way she felt. The man who had confronted her with a rage so absolute she expected the ending of her life; that same man was now working to ensure her safety.
From condemner to saviour.
Sansa used the heel of her palm to stubbornly dash away the pools in her eyes. A preemptive measure to forestall tears - more tears! - these ones gathering to mourn her ready conviction of knowing the good from the bad; knowing who had virtue inside them despite the unpleasantness outside. For Lord Tywin wore both equally, hid both equally, and he had, in the span of less than one afternoon, perforated every shred of armour she had.
He didn't want her courtesy, he didn't want her tears, he didn't want her fear, he didn't want her to pay her brother's debt...
In a city that perpetually wanted something from her, to take and take and take, Sansa knew then that the most dangerous of men was the one who had no blatant want of her at all.
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