Prologue

Sansa Baratheon was hurting.

After Arya's wedding feast, Joffrey had struck her again and again before taking her every which way in a busy corridor near her chambers. Through her tears and her screams, Sansa had seen servants, wedding guests and even knights passing her and Joffrey by, many of them stopping to stare, several of them laughing, but none of them doing anything to stop him. Not even the knights she had seen had tried to help her. Not even the knights. Not even the women.

When a familiar voice had roared 'what is the meaning of this?' she had cried even harder, this time in relief.

Lord Tyrion had seized the back of Joffrey's breeches, which were tangled about his knees, and had yanked him away from Sansa, tripping him up. As he ordered his personal guard to throw Robert Baratheon's heir into the black cells, Joffrey screeching all the while, Sansa had felt her knees buckling beneath her, and she had sunk to the floor, her head resting against the cold stone wall.

'Pick her up, Bronn!'

The last smells and sounds Sansa recalled as she fainted were the sweat, leather and ale of the arms that lifted her up, and Lord Tyrion's voice commanding that her children be fetched from their chambers and sent to their Stark grandparents at once.

My children are safe. My children.

When she awoke, it was morning, and she was abed in a room that she did not recognise, wearing a different change of clothes. Lord Tyrion sat watching her from a chair beside the bed, leaping to his feet as soon as her eyes opened.

'Have no fear,' he said gently, 'your old septa has seen to your injuries. It was she who changed your garb.'

Sansa tried to speak several times, but the words would not come. Even opening her mouth seemed like an unspeakable agony. Sansa looked about her.

'You are in my chambers,' Lord Tyrion said, sensing her thoughts, 'and of course you may leave whenever you desire.'

Sansa wished she could tell him that she didn't want to leave; that she only felt safe in the place that he was. He had been so kind to her, and he would very likely be punished for it. She didn't want him hurt because of her. He had been so kind to her.

She tried to speak.

'The – the Queen –'

Lord Tyrion seemed astounded that her thoughts should be with the Queen at this moment.

'The Queen, my lady?'

She tried harder.

'The Queen…Joffrey…hurt…hurt you.'

Lord Tyrion smiled at her. He was so ugly. She did not mind.

'A man who rapes his wife deserves worse than a night in the black cells,' he said, a hint of emotion creeping into his voice that he banished immediately by coughing slightly into his fist.

Sansa felt a rush of gratitude towards him, but that did not put her fears to rest. The Queen would not forget this, and neither would Joffrey.

'Hurt…you,' she repeated, looking into his mismatched eyes, trying to make him understand. He was an intelligent man. Why couldn't he understand?

The Imp looked awkwardly away from her, suddenly business-like.

'My nephew's conduct has brought disgrace upon our family. My father will agree with me, and that will be enough for my sister. If it isn't, I will bear my punishment gladly.'

Sansa began to cry again, and Lord Tyrion dried her eyes himself, with surprising gentleness. As he took her hand, she did not pull away from him.

'On my honour as a Lannister,' he murmured, 'he will not hurt you again.'

That is not a promise you can make.

Suddenly there was a storm of knocking at the door.

'Sansa?' her sister's voice called from the other side of the door, 'Sansa? Are you in there?'

Sansa's command of her speech returned instantly as she got out of bed and tried to move, almost crying out in pain.

My sister must not know of this. Not now.

Lord Tyrion was blocking her path.

'Sit down, my lady!'

As they listened to Arya trying to break the door down, Sansa addressed Lord Tyrion once more.

'My lord…does she know?'

'I do not see how that is possible.'

'Don't tell her, my lord,' she pleaded, 'Please don't tell her.'

'Come now, my lady!' Lord Tyrion responded, the look on his face implying that he thought she might be mad.

Sansa stiffened regally and drew herself up to her full height.

'It is the morning after my sister's wedding, and she clearly needs my counsel. I refuse to burden her with my troubles when she should be concentrating on her new life.'

The Imp did not look happy, but did as he was bid, opening the door as Sansa got into bed again. Arya veritably flew into the room, wearing nothing but a crumpled sleeping shift.

'Lady Lannister,' he greeted, ushering her into the room and politely averting his eyes.

'Lord Tyrion,' Arya returned politely, clearly in a state of some agitation.

'Arya!' Sansa screeched, scandalised, 'cover yourself up this instant!'

Her sister ignored her.

'Why are you in here?' Arya asked, oblivious to Lord Tyrion's discomfort.

He cleared his throat.

'Lady Baratheon was taken ill after the bedding, and my chambers were the most conveniently situated.'

There was an awkward silence, and Sansa almost laughed. She could think of no chambers in the Red Keep that were less conveniently situated.

'I will leave you,' Lord Tyrion said, bowing and closing the door behind him.

'How did you know I was here?' Sansa asked.

Arya did not reply. She was more agitated than Sansa had ever seen her. Her face was redder than a tomato, and she could not stand still for more than ten seconds together. Nor did she enquire further as to what Sansa was doing in Lord Tyrion's rooms. On a normal day, she would have asked a thousand questions and teased her endlessly.

Something has happened.

Sansa cleared her throat.

'Arya?'

'Yes?'

'You have…something to discuss with me?'

Arya was pacing and babbling, but clearly trying hard to be coherent.

'He's…he's…he has…he has…'

Sansa was bewildered, but held her tongue as her sister continued.

'He has such a beautiful…such a beautiful…'

That was one word for it Sansa had never heard before.

'He has such a beautiful…'

'What, Arya?'

'He has such a beautiful mind!' her sister blurted at speed, the words tumbling over each other.

Sansa waited for her to continue, but no continuation was forthcoming. She decided to try coaxing a response from her.

'The Kingslayer has a beautiful mind,' Sansa repeated slowly, phrasing the sentence like a statement rather than a question.

'Yes!' Arya affirmed impatiently, as she would with a child who had not being paying attention.

Sansa pressed on.

'And how did you come to this conclusion about his…mind… on your… wedding night?'

Arya's face was red again.

'We played cyvasse. A lot of cyvasse.'

Cyvasse?

'Sister…I'm sure I'm not so very old, but is that a euphemism for – '

Arya blushed to the roots of her hair.

'No! Seven hells, no! Though we did do that too, but –'

Sansa did not know how to react. The girl was quite out of countenance. She looked like she'd been concussed.

'Arya –' Sansa began.

Her sister brushed her words aside.

'It's just… the way he thinks, the way he plays; it's so…different, so…not-ordinary…'

'"Not ordinary?"'

'He's…clever.'

Sansa had heard many brides discuss their wedding nights, but 'clever' was not a word she'd heard before in relation to the occurrence. Arya was still pacing.

'And then once we stopped playing cyvasse, he…we…it felt…uh…good.'

Sansa nodded encouragingly.

'Good?'

'Yes.'

'That's a good thing, isn't it?'

Arya seemed confused.

'I think so…good…oh, seven hells, I don't know.'

Arya flung herself into bed beside Sansa and buried her face in the pillows, muttering to herself. Sansa stroked her hair soothingly.

'Arya?' she ventured quietly.

Sansa got a groan in response.

'Are you trying to tell me that you like him?'

Another groan. Sansa waited patiently.

Arya eventually flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She was doing her best not to smile. Sansa could see it, and felt envious. This was how her life was supposed to have been. She felt a rush of happiness for her sister, and a rush of pity for herself that only compounded the pain in her body.

Focus on your sister, she told herself, this is her time.

'Do you like him, sister?' Sansa asked eventually.

'No!' Arya snapped abruptly, 'he's just some old, arrogant, oathbreaking shit who thinks he's the only person on earth who knows how to hold a sword –'

Sansa's heart soared, and she almost burst into tears of joy.

Gods be good. She does like him.