Author's note: I'm making Sansa slightly older. DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

Sansa would not see him before they broke their fast the next morning.

Her royal guard had nearly doubled in size, apparently for fear she would grow cold feet and attempt to flee. Since those had been exactly her plans, she was distraught and spent more time wringing her hands in her room than preparing to meet her betrothed.

Many rumors flew about the castle on his return, some more reliable than others. Sansa heard most of all about the loss of his right hand, something she genuinely pitied him for. The loss of a swordsman's right hand was the most terrible loss a man could endure, and few deserved that fate. But she supposed he deserved it, from the tales she'd heard about his battle.

She'd been tossed into her room and told to prepare to greet him the next morning, and left alone with half a dozen guards outside of her room. No one was there to comfort her or advise her, not even her own maids. She paced the room in fright, looking for any way out, but even the windows dropped half a hundred feet into the stone courtyards below.

I am a wolf, she told herself, a brave wolf of Winterfell. But she felt more and more a little girl as she sniffed and dropped beside her bed, shaking. Marriage arrangements were already being made, she could hear the orders being thrown to servants outside of her room. They were talking about ribbons, flowers, the food, the guests, the ceremony, the septon, everything except the cringing bride and her otherwise absent husband.

Husband.

Sansa cried a little bit, then. Everything that happened to her was one more stab at her dreams, one more mockery of her childhood. Now more than ever she was a slave of the Lannisters, and the final nail in her coffin would be this marriage.

She hadn't even been able to say goodbye to Redrick before she'd been hauled away, or apologize for her helplessness. She could have been married to a young, handsome, courtly singer, had he been just a little earlier in his arrival.

"Stand aside, I am to be your queen!" exclaimed a strong young voice from the other side of the door. Sansa looked up, though she knew better than to hope. Margaery burst through the door, pink and breathless.

"Get up, Sansa, let's pick something for you to wear tomorrow morning." She threw open the closets, rummaging through the various gowns inside. "No...nothing blue, I fear. I'd say go with your colors again, I think that would be appropriate. But something light, for the morning."

"Margaery, you...I...where is he?" she asked in a low voice, not truly wanting to know. The young girl sighed through her nose before drawing out a slender, well-fitted grey dress with darker grey accents at the neck and hem. An ivory sash was tied to it, to be slung around the waist.

"He's with the Maesters, they're fixing his...well, what used to be his hand. Here, how about this, then?"

"So it's true then? His hand is gone?" she asked, taking the dress from Margaery and laying it on her bed.

"Yes, his hand is gone. Sansa...look, I know he's no Loras, and he's no Redrick, but for my sake, please try to be happy about this. Just pretend he's from the fairy tales, and pretend he loves you for now. I mean, just for now, while nothing has happened yet. I can't bear to see you so sad, so please try?" Margaery begged her, her large brown eyes wet with sadness for her friend. Sansa had stopped shaking, and tried hard to smile for Margaery. It couldn't have been a particularly pretty smile, but it was a start. Margaery beamed at her.

"Now...let's see what we can do with your hair."

Sansa sat upright in her bed, her heart teeming with fear. Already preparations had been made for her wedding, already her dress was being chosen for her. She wished her brothers were there, and her mother and father, and even Arya. She wished for Jon. She wished for anyone who would stand up for her in the midst of all these lies, the tricks and deceit of the court.

In the darkness, the light of the moon shone through her window. Ser Dontos was nowhere to be seen.

But suddenly, someone snored outside of her door, and Sansa froze. It came again, louder and more pronounced. It had been hours since midnight, but Sansa had been unable to sleep for fear of the following morning. Now she crept to the door, touching it gently. There was no sound except for heavy breathing.

Racing back to her wardrobe before she could even think, she yanked open a drawer and withdrew a small bag of gold dragons. She tucked it into a pocket of her nightslip, and that was all. Tying back her hair, she ran back to the door and listened again. The soft snoring continued, and she slowly pulled open the heavy door.

Three guards lay slumped and asleep against the walls, leaning on their spears or braced against the wall. She crept forward, praying that they wouldn't wake, and made sure to shut the door behind her. Then, turning, she began to move quickly towards the stairs, tracing in her mind the fastest route to the stables.

She padded down the stairs, moving quickly but quietly. The idea to find Redrick passed through her mind briefly, but she dismissed it. If she escaped, he would know where to find her, and he would come. She did not need him to help her, or hinder her. The servants were all asleep, so close to dawn, and she moved through the halls completely alone.

Down the stairs, across the great hall, down more stairs, then through the kitchen and out the back door, that will lead me straight to the stables, and I can steal a horse and run away! She began to run for the kitchen, her flame of hope rising and rising until it nearly suffocated her. Breathless, she imagined seeing Robb again, being beside him and under his protection. Together they would find Arya, and return to the fortress of the North that they called their home.

Bran, Rickon, Arya, Robb, Jon, mother...the names of her family rang in her ears. Their faces burst into her mind. Everything was so close, so close, if only she could get away from the lies and death at court.

She burst through the kitchen doors like a sparrow in full flight for liberty. But she had taken no more than three steps when she saw someone sitting directly in her path, blocking the exit on a wooden chair.

It was Jaime Lannister.

He looked different than how she remembered him. His hair was still golden, but it was cropped short, all of the curls gone. His face was more hollow, nearly gaunt, and his green eyes glowed with something dark in them. A light shadow of black and gold brushed his cheeks and mouth, and his was taking swigs from an unmarked bottle. It smelled stronger than spiced wine, stronger than beer. Sansa would have wrinkled her nose if she could move.

His eyes studied her as she stood frozen before him. She had been stared at before by men, she had felt Joffrey's eyes crawling beneath her silks before, but this was something different. He registered every part of her separately, her long hair, her wide blue eyes, her thin arms, budding breasts, slender hips, the recently chewed fingernails, the muscles of her calves. His gaze was indifferent, scathing. It was somehow worse than Joffrey's.

"Sansa Stark. How romantic, we meet here," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm and liquor. "And where are you off to? Fancy a stroll in the stables not quite before dawn? Feeling peckish, looking for a sip of wine? You can have some of mine, if you like. It seems we're about to share from the same cup anyways."

"Ser Jaime, how glad I am to see you've returned safely," she said quickly, never failing in her courtesies. All the same, she judged the gaps on either side of him, how much of the bottle was empty, and which hand he had lost. His right hand was gone, a bandage wrapped over the wrist, but he was still quick with his arms, she assumed. It might be safer to run to his left. His dark laugh drew her attention back to him.

"Oh, I'm sure, my little lady. And how very little you are. Tell me, how old are you?" he asked her, and she hated the sound of his voice. Drawing herself up, she responded with as much pride and dignity as any Stark would have.

"Old enough, ser," she snarled. Jaime Lannister sighed and put down the bottle. He rose, much steadier on his feet than she had hoped him to be.

"So very young, I can tell. I cannot lie to those sweet eyes, I am just mildly disappointed to find my wife to be even younger than Joffrey's. That's fairly horrifying, little wolf." Sansa all but bared her teeth at him, her mouth in a mocking imitation of a smile.

"Do not call me your wife, ser, we have yet to be married." She moved slowly to her right, towards his left side, but he caught her subtle motion and mirrored it casually in his own. He laughed at her, then. He laughed at her and it absolutely prickled her skin.

"Planning to run away? My lady, don't presume that because I've lost a hand I've lost anything else. I can catch you, I will catch you, and it's quite unseemly for a lady to be dragged back to her own bed, don't you think?" He came towards her, and just like that her fight was gone. She took the arm he offered her. Graciously, he offered her his left arm. His light tunic was short-sleeved, and she could see the bulge of muscles and the twisting veins that ran from shoulder to knuckles. She shuddered, imagining his powerful hands locked around the hilt of a sword, driving it into her brother.

But he had been right. She was not stronger than him, and if his lean frame and prowess in battle told her anything, it was that he was certainly faster than she.

"Unseemly for me or you, Ser Jaime? I can't imagine it chivalrous to drag a lady anywhere," she said icily, her hand light as a feather on his arm as he escorted her back up the stairs. She blushed as she imagined how she must look; her auburn hair was tangled and pulled back, her night shift only to her knees.

"You're right, of course. A lady must not be dragged. But I could carry you quite easily, and that would suit well enough." He fell silent, and Sansa wondered if he was as treacherous and underhanded as his sister and his nephew. He did not seem quite so lecherous, anyhow. Any glances she received were very tame, not the least bit like Joffrey's.

"Please, Ser Jaime," she whispered, her voice hardly there. But his head turned towards her slightly, and she felt brave enough to continue. "Please let me go. I want to go home, I just want to go home, I'll do anything! I'll renounce my claim, I'll convince Robb to...to...stop the war, I'll do anything!" She stuttered and fell silent; she had nothing to offer him. But he stopped suddenly and released her hand, turning towards her.

"Stay here, Sansa. Behave yourself. Do what you're told. You're going to go home, but I'm going to take you there. If you go riding out yourself, then you're like to get killed, raped, robbed, or anything of the sort. Even if not, my father will have a price on your head and soldiers at your feet, so you will probably be captured and it will be all the worse for you here. If I go with you now, then I am a traitor too. So just wait, please. I will take you home, with an army all around you."

Sansa stood quietly for a moment, staring into his startlingly beautiful green eyes. He was handsome, even as gaunt as he was now, and he seemed kind enough, though his words were quick and hurtful, but she knew better than to listen to a Lannister. She turned from him coldly, walking back up the stairs ahead of him.

"Ser Jaime, a long time ago I trusted a Lannister. He handed me my father's head, and I've yet to trust one since."

Sansa dressed herself carefully, wearing the slim dress that Margaery had helped her to pick out. It was a lovely dress, falling lightly to her feet and decorated at the ends of the sleeves with stones of onyx. Her necklace was onyx too, set in a delicate silver design. The sash flowed like water from her waist, and her hair was loose down her back. She looked for all the world a maiden of Winterfell.

This time is was Ser Meryn who came to escort her, and she liked him considerably less than she liked Ser Loras. But she was grateful for that; if she saw Ser Loras today, she feared she might cry. Though he had beaten her before, when Joffrey still planned to marry her, he ignored her wholly now, something else she appreciated.

The gathering was rather small and personal in the Morning Hall, where everyone had gathered to break their fast together. On the table was bread and honeycomb, fresh fruits, bowls of cream, bacon, eggs, potatoes chopped and fried, and all manner of dishes. She approached the table and was handed to the announcer.

"Lady Sansa of House Stark," he called loudly, and everyone looked up. She could see Cersei Lannister, Joffrey and Margaery, The Hound, Lord Tywin and Lord Tyrell, Margaery's cousins Elinor, Alla and Megga, Ser Loras, the Redwyne twins, Petyr Littlefinger, Margaery's grandmother the Thorny Queen, Tyrion Lannister, and several others who she did not recognize. And, of course, in the middle seat of the table sat Jaime Lannister, with one empty seat at his left.

She approached him gingerly, her eyes still cautious. He had stared at her merely a few hours before, but now she found he could not look at her. She curtseyed in front of him though, and said what was to be expected of a bride-to-be upon greeting her betrothed.

"My Lord Lannister, how good it is to see you alive and well again. I do so look forward to the joyful union of our Houses." He still didn't look at her, but rose and took her hand nonetheless. Bowing, she felt the barest hint of his breath on her knuckles. He couldn't even bring himself to kiss her hand. When he rose, his eyes were like emerald ice and his tone was as cold and formal as ever she'd heard.

"Whatever you feel, my lady, I feel all the more," he said slowly and clearly. Sansa flushed a little in embarrassment, because the implication behind the words was not very kind. But he seemed to regret his ungentlemanly insinuations and touched her arm gently. "Have a seat, my lady."

"Oh, Sansa! Have you decided on how many children you'd like?" burst Leonette, Garlan Tyrell's young wife. Sansa couldn't help but gasp at the sudden question, and couldn't seem to find a proper answer for it. It was something she of course had not thought of, and had tried very hard to avoid thinking of. But her lordly husband-to-be took a long swig of wine and answered for her.

"Lady Leonette, I think that will entirely depend on the finer points of our wedding night," he said, as if he could not stop himself. The men coughed loudly into their napkins while the ladies covered their mouths and tittered. Sansa blushed deeply yet again, and turned away from him to whoever sat on her left. To her utter humiliation, it was Ser Loras, the handsomest knight of the Kingsguard and, truly, of the entire kingdom. With nowhere to safely look, she instead looked straight down at her plate. She could have cried, if she was not a brave wolf.

"I'm sorry," murmured a low voice to her right. It was so quiet that Sansa was not entirely sure that she had heard it. She looked up slowly, to see him turned slightly towards her, his catlike eyes gentle for once. "I didn't mean that. To hurt your feelings, I mean."

She stared at him now, hurt and angry and weary of the endless torment that was the Lannisters. He very well might have meant it, but she valued the apologies of the lions quite little. She stood, her anger breaking over her in hard waves, her eyes never leaving Jaime's.

"My lords and ladies, excuse me, I find myself not very hungry this morning."

With that, she turned coldly and walked back to her room.

"Sansa! Sansa, wait!" called a voice behind her, but once she heard it, she ground her teeth, grabbed her skirts, and began to run.

The blood pounded in her head as she sprinted down the long hall and up the spiraling marble stairs, knocking maids and servants over in her frantic need to reach her room unattended. Her breath caught in her throat, her legs burned, but still she ran, until she was nearly to her door. Just a little closer, and-

A hard jerk, and she was hauled backwards by her own sash. The fine white silk tore, and the breath was knocked from her as she fell to the ground. A hard hand pulled her to her feet, and she was reminded how much stronger Jaime Lannister was than she. And now when she met his eyes, they were hard and angry and cold. His expression frightened her, but she did not cry. She had been beaten before, it would be no different if he struck her.

"When I call you, you come to me," he snarled, his deep voice terrifying in a way Joffrey's had never been. His left hand was cripplingly strong on her arm; she winced and tried to pull away, but she could not escape his iron grasp. "I have not been blessed with patience, my little wife, and I can't abide chasing you all over the castle."

"Let go of me!" she gasped, but he just shook her, hard. Outraged and indignant, before she could stop herself her free hand flew up and slapped him.

For half a second she was sure he was going to kill her.

Fire and rage flooded his eyes, and she knew how people slayed by Jaime Lannister felt in their last seconds. But then, all of a sudden, it was gone and he had released her. She did not stumble, she did not grasp and rub her painfully throbbing arm. She stepped back and held her head proud.

"I am not your dog, Ser. You may one day be my husband, but you do not presume to command me." That said, she turned and walked stiffly into her room, taking care to shut the door quietly behind her.

She waited until she heard him walk away.

Then, and only then, did she dare to shiver and cry.