"Then you leave me no other choice. Lancel Lannister." It sounded like he was appealing to her better senses rather than directly commanding her, and it gave Sansa the courage to push further with her plans and shake her head. "Please, I will do as is asked, I will provide Tyrion with an heir," she rambled desperately, not wanting to be given back to Joffrey and Cersei. "It is not too late to cancel the annulment, is it not?! My lord," she gasped softly, her eyes pleading intently now, "I beg of you—"
"There will be no begging here in this chamber," he interrupted with a tone of severe determination, his eyes a chilled shade of green as he stared her down. "If you will not have Lancel, then I am afraid you are quite nearly out of options." He paused then, and Sansa waited for the inevitable; he would return her to being a lady in waiting at Cersei's court, and then Joffrey would be free to do as he pleased, find her in the night perhaps, and—Tywin continued suddenly, breaking her out of dark, unpleasant thoughts. "Your last option is me."
The gravity in his voice was barely detectable, yet she noted it all the same. If Sansa had thought the man capable of the least amount of sympathy, she could have sworn that the frozen white gold flecks in his light green eyes melted into something alive and warm for a moment before he caught himself and cleared his voice. The small amount of compassion she might have imagined was gone, replaced by the majestic, shrewd glare of Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King.
"There is no getting past this matter. I should probably attempt to be more straightforward with you, Lady Stark." It wasn't the first time during their conversation that he had addressed her as such, and she bristled at the outdated, traitorous name. Yet a tingling began within her all the same...The invisible wolf inside of her growled, the remnants of a long lost companion killed too soon, and Sansa soon found the back of her neck heating as both her voice and courage returned to her in a rush.
"Please, I ask of you only this—do be frank with me, my lord," she said quietly. Sansa was sure he would find her defiant and rebellious for speaking out of turn, and unpleasantly so, certainly nothing befitting a future lady of house Lannister. That could only help increase her chances of not being married to a Lannister sometime in the immediate future. "I have been lied to enough, by many a lion." His gaze hardened at that, and she felt around for some leverage, hoping he wouldn't leave her for dead at the hands of Joffrey if she pushed him just a bit more. "Some lions never have much guidance, if my lord permits me to say. Every lion cub needs a good, strong mother to grow into a strong, able ruler. A true lion." Tywin's jaw was indeed flexed, but he didn't look particularly murderous as she frightfully had expected. He looked, if anything, completely bemused, and a little bit ashamed, all underlying the fiery anger that radiated off of him in tangible waves.
"I have been franker with you than current protocols of etiquette allow, my lord," she hesitated for only a second, "as I believe honesty to be a very important thing in a prospective wife. So please, afford me this honor of hearing only truth from your words."
"Are you calling me a liar?" he spat, suddenly towering above her. His face was a mask of pale shadows and sharp edges, the candlelight in the room making his whiskers and eyelashes shine like newly spun golden thread.
Sansa suddenly wondered just how old he was, and then there was a feeling of dread collecting deep in the pit of her stomach. If she married a Lannister, any Lannister, she would end up needing to consummate the marriage. Not many people would afford her the respect and care of waiting for her and allowing her to retain her innocence until ready, as her previous husband Tyrion had. Sansa wondered for a moment how she was going to get out of this mess, out of this situation—with him, the father of a pair of inbreeding snakes who had birthed her torturer, had twisted her life and ripped her family apart…Murdered her loved ones.
A sense of panic suddenly replaced that intense dread, and Sansa found herself becoming short of breath. Darkness seized her, dragging her under its heavy current and soothing her woes for a short while.
When she came to, after what seemed like only moments, she was lying in her bed. Sansa could see Maester Pycelle and an apprentice by her side. A cool compress on her forehead was trickling water into her hair as they spoke in hushed voices, too low for her to hear. Sansa blinked until her vision came into focus, and tried sitting up on her elbows.
"Here," said the apprentice, rushing to sit on the bed next to her, cradling the back of her head in one hand as he pushed a small vial filled with white liquid to her face.
"No," she murmured brokenly, "don't."
Panic rose up inside of her, bubbling to the surface in a cold sweat that broke out on her back as he pressed the glass to her lips. Sansa tried to draw in a deep breath—prepared to scream, prepared to kick, they were going to kill her, just like her father, and she needed to get away— but then held her breath suddenly as Tywin Lannister came into view.
He was a Lannister, he was one of them, and yet…
And yet Sansa couldn't find it within herself to think that he wanted to hurt her. What would he have to gain from that?
"How do you feel?" he asked her, his voice crisp and curt as always.
"Better, my lord…But I do not need milk of the poppy. Please order the Maester away…" Sansa didn't know what else to say. The man's face gave nothing away, so she couldn't tell whether she had said the wrong thing. Before she could open her mouth to say something else in order to save face, Tywin had ordered both the Maester and apprentice out of the room.
The man was silent in his movements, crossing the room to reach the bed, and lifting his hand to her. Sansa looked down, confused, then realized he was holding a cup to her.
"Water," the Hand of the King said, and his tone implied that should she dare question him or his motives, he would employ the same maneuvers he did when ruling in place of Joffrey, and not be forgiving in the slightest.
Sansa took the cup with shaking hands, thanked him, and took three small sips to appease him.
"Maester Pycelle says your moon's blood is nearly upon you." Hearing the man speak of her private matters so openly made Sansa inwardly cringe. "That is why you fainted. Nothing more." His voice was softer as he added, "You are perfectly healthy, Lady Stark."
Sansa did not know what to say. She had to say something, so she cleared her throat and went with what seemed safest.
"To hear that is a relief indeed. Thank you, my lord."
He was clenching his jaw and studying her, his lips a tight line, and Sansa couldn't tell if he was upset with her or not.
"You will rest for the remainder of the week. You will consider my offer, and I will summon you when I hear you are no longer indisposed." His gaze hardened, and Sansa felt a shiver go down her spine at the intimidating look he was giving her. "And you will have an answer for me, Lady Stark."
"My lord," Sansa tried, "I do not mean to offend…" Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as the breath shuddered in and out of her body, then opened them to find him still staring at her intently. "What if I decline, my lord?"
It had certainly been the wrong thing to say. How could she have been so stupid?
Tywin Lannister was looking at her as if she were an insect, and Sansa trembled in fear of his impending wrath.
"Push up your sleeves, my lady." It was said in the same tone she heard him use on those who were not welcome to dispute him, commanding and accepting no argument. Sansa peered into his face fearfully, her breath quickening once again.
"My lord, please—"
"Push. Up. Your. Sleeves." The Hand's tone was unforgiving, his jaw was clenched, and Sansa complied immediately, fearing the worst; that Tywin was worse than Joffrey, or Cersei, or Jaime—worse than any of the Lannisters—and that the last shred of kindness she had seen from a lion was whilst she had been married to Tyrion.
Sansa bit her lip in shame as she waited for his eyes to flicker over the bruises covering her wrists and forearms, many faded to yellow and light blue, others a fresh magenta.
"Is this what you want out of life, my lady?" Sansa stiffened, not quite believing her ears. Her eyes found his and she saw a flicker of pity in Tywin's green ones. Or was it disgust? "You would rather remain at court. The toy of a boy who will soon put you in an early grave." His voice changed now, and it sounded almost as if he were accusing her. "And what of the North? And Winterfell? You would see it fall into the hands of someone with not a single drop of Stark blood. Yet what are your words, Lady Stark?"
"Winter is coming."
"Yes," he said. "And what of your mother's words? Or did you forget those in the time you pretended to be a Lannister?"
Her heart nearly stopped at his words, but she forced her tongue to work, not wanting to risk displeasing him.
"Family. Duty. Honor," Sansa breathed.
Lord Tywin's lip twitched, but whether he was hiding a smirk or a grimace, Sansa could not tell.
"Family. Duty. Honor." His gaze intensified, became darker as he watched her. "You are the last living Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North. Your first born son will hold Winterfell as Warden of the North, under the realm of Joffrey or any sons that may come out of his and the Tyrell girl's marriage." Tywin cleared his throat before continuing. "It should be our first born son. You would be wise not to spurn my offer, Lady Stark. You are not held in much favor throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and have not been for many years. This is perhaps your only chance of reclaiming the honor of your family, of House Stark." Then his eyes were cold, so cold Sansa shivered, knowing he was right, knowing she was out of options. "If you say no, you will be ripped apart at court until Joffrey tires of you. Any children you gave him would be lucky to die before they made it out of the cradle or even womb. Joffrey will never legitimize any of them. If you are smart enough to survive the King, you will probably be married to a lesser lord of no real importance. You will have no claim to Winterfell, as a lesser lord could never hold a title so great as Warden of the North…or Lord of Winterfell. And neither could his children, regardless of their mother's blood. You will lose everything."
