"My lord, the lady Sansa Stark." The slender, young guard didn't meet Tywin's eyes, but rather stared at a point below his face, possibly at the brilliant, golden lion which fastened his cloak at the base of his neck.
"Yes," Tywin said with a short, clipped wave of his hand, motioning forth. "Let the lady in."
When she stepped through his door, the usually stern man felt as if he had stepped into a different time, or a different realm. He couldn't—nor wanted to—put his finger on just who her silent, fiery demeanor reminded him of. He fancied himself actually enjoying what was going to happen for a split second, then, mentally admonished himself and pointed to the chair in front of him. "Sit."
"My lord," Sansa curtsied, her cheeks slightly pink as she sat down in the seat before his writing desk, her movements somehow far too graceful for a girl of six and ten.
"How have you faired my lady? Wine?"
Sansa shook her head, a sudden fear filling her Tully blue eyes. Her mother's eyes. In a second the fear was gone. Or had he simply imagined it? Her gaze had turned to blue steel.
"No thank you—my Lord. You are kind for offering."
He made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and filled her cup halfway anyway, filling his to the brim and managing not to spill a drop as he brought it to his lips. He drank slowly, assuring himself that the wine would better settle his stomach after Cersei's dreadfully heavy, fattening dinner.
"I'm not sure what your idea of kindness is at present time, but I can assure you that there is no need for that in this room." And with that he set the cup down, the sound loud and echoing in the ensuing silence. Her cheeks flushed even darker, if possible, and he secretly enjoyed the sight of her becoming so flustered.
"I have not called you here to reprimand you or give you bad news, my lady. On the contrary."
Her eyes found his again, and the striking similarity she had at that moment with her late mother struck him breathless. Or was it because a secret part of him had only seen one other person look at him so intensely and she had been the love of his life, the mother of his children—oh, Seven hells. He needed to tread very careful. Back then it had been grass green eyes that had stared at him lovingly, possessively, needing and wanting; now they were a different pair of eyes, yet the striking intensity had the same effect on him. The green had merely been replaced by a deep ocean blue with flecks of slate grey that made her eyes come alive. Chips of ice in her Tully eyes, he reflected, being reminded of Eddard Stark for what seemed like the millionth time in the past few years.
"My lord—Lord Lannister," she said, suddenly more adamant, her hands clasping in her lap. Her eyes looked as if they might brim over with tears, but she wrinkled her nose, feigning more allergies or perhaps a cold, as she had been doing for months now, and sucking in air very quickly and letting it out again to push right into her (Tywin was certain) very winning monologue. "I have been as good a wife as I could to Lord Tyrion. I have tried to—"
Tywin held up a hand and she stopped suddenly. That shiver of power went down his spine, leaving a soothing tingle in its wake, as it always did when he realized how much he could control without even uttering a single word.
"I am not interested in your love affair with my son, your former lord husband," he said firmly. "Or its lack thereof," he added as an afterthought, his voice somewhat lighter.
She flushed scarlet now, and the Lord of the Rock was amused and delighted to find out Sansa's face was nearly the same shade as her hair in certain places now. "My lord, forgive me."
Tywin waved her away dismissively. "There is nothing to forgive. I am well aware of my son's inability to plant a babe in your womb."
"It isn't—" She stopped talking when he glared at her, before continuing.
"I have a different arrangement for you in mind, Lady Stark. You must understand that securing the North is a very important responsibility that this kingdom has, and the Wall that comes with it."
Sansa's eyes widened, as if suddenly remembering something she had not thought about in a very long time. Her melancholic spell lasted for no more than two seconds before her eyes turned that same steely blue he had observed before. Tywin wondered if this related to a reflex she had…a way to block out the pain, some sort of coping mechanism. A sicker, more twisted part of him wondered if that was why Joffrey punished her and treated her the way he did. Did his grandson enjoy watching that vivacious, cerulean pair of eyes darken and cool into a harsh winter steel blue? Did he enjoy watching her as she closed herself off from the world and sought solace elsewhere, perhaps in a memory, or in the far recesses of her mind where no boy king had tampered with her innocence and childhood yet?
"I have already annulled your marriage to my son. The examination inside your chambers from three days ago administered by the seven septas was for all purposes," he swallowed, his pulse quickening at having to talk about such a thing, "a way to ensure that you are…unspoiled." The word sounded dirty in his mouth, and he saw how her brow creased when he said it, as if she too thought it a harsh approximation of a woman's virtue and value.
"I am untouched, my lord." There was a quiet turmoil inside her heart, he knew, and the proof was the dark storm brewing in those perfect eyes. Sansa was probably wondering what was to become of her; the fresh, sunny girl from the North who had fallen into deepest of depressions as she was passed from lion to lion. Deep down, Tywin doubted his plan would ever even work, but he had to do something. He was not a completely heartless man; the girl had suffered enough at the hands of Joffrey during their short engagement, sometimes even after being passed to his uncle Tyrion in marriage. Sometimes he would catch the quick shifting of her sleeves in court, but before he could dissect the reason behind the purple blemishes on the inside of her wrist, she would quickly tuck the material back into place, ever so gracefully and without a second glance to her surroundings. Tywin had observed the girl for a long time, and knew that for all the talk that went around, Sansa Stark was not an unintelligent person.
"I know," he said. "I have found a different arrangement for you—a more suitable husband. One who can protect you as well as," he paused, "ensure the future of your bloodline—the heirs of house Stark. Winterfell will always need a Stark to rule in it. However, seeing as you are the last known living member of your bloodline, you realize I had to consider multiple proposals from various prominent, and might I add extremely wealthy families. I was able to find the perfect match for you closer to home, however."
Her face paled suddenly, a complete reversal of what had happened before, and Tywin considered for a moment that the poor, frail girl might faint. He didn't have too much experience with tortured, depressed pubescent girls. Still, the eldest Stark girl did not speak, only bit that plump, rosy bottom lip and stared at him, as if afraid of what he might say next.
Tywin stared at her lips, mesmerized with the natural, childish tick—she probably didn't even realize she was doing it!—and felt suddenly very sick to his stomach. He shouldn't be thinking like this. He shouldn't be wondering what she would do if he were to suddenly stand up and reach over, brush his thumb over her jaw and grasp her chin, lean down for a kiss. He shouldn't be wondering what it would feel like, just once more, to sweep his lips over those of a maiden's; pure, untouched, innocent, perfect and waiting to be devoured—and Tywin Lannister had to consciously stop the brusque growl that was about to pour out of his throat. What had this girl done to him?! He glared at Sansa Stark, suddenly lost in translation, trying to remember where he had left off in his impressive, demanding explanation.
"My other son, Jaime Lannister, may—"
"No, please," she gasped, and then covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide and frightened for a moment, a blue eyed, fiery vixen. He reminded himself that her sigil was a wolf, but she reminded him of so many things, so many aspects of nature, so many facets of time, of his past, and of his heart—Tywin leaned back in his chair, his head swarming with nonsense and regarded the girl with sudden clarity in his mind.
"What do you object to, girl?" Tywin saw her bristle at being called that. "Is it the name or the match? Or his hand?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but the edge in it made her shiver and he allowed himself the smallest fragment of pleasure in the fact that he had her where he wanted her.
"I would rather not—Tyrion has told me how much he loves his older brother. It might be seen as an affront of sorts, and such is neither appropriate nor wanted within family relations." She paused and a sad smile sprung forth on Sansa's face, robbing Tywin of breath. "I would rather not be the cause of more familial discord, my lord. Not in my old family, nor my new one." She slowly raised her eyes to meet his. Tywin already knew the chips of ice and steel would be there before she had even graced him with her gaze.
"Then you leave me no other choice," he said. "Lancel Lannister."
She didn't even speak, just shook her head vehemently, the tears gleaming in her eyes threatening to soon burst over. "Please, I will do as is asked, I will provide Tyrion with an heir; it is not too late to cancel the annulment, is it not?! My lord, I beg of you—"
"There will be no begging here in this chamber," Tywin said icily, his eyes boring into hers, daring her to look away. "If you will not have Lancel, then I am afraid you are quite nearly out of options." Another pause, for he delighted in watching the Stark girl squirm. "Your last option is me."