Warnings: Some references to Sansa's traumatic past, including past sexual assault. Some discriminatory remarks about Tyrion.
When Sansa wakes up, the sun is streaming in through the curtains, and her new husband's face is pressed against her chest. He is snoring lightly, and Sansa doesn't want to wake him, but she also doesn't want to be so close to him.
She wants the space, but she needs the time. Time to decide what face to present. She stays in bed.
Now that they're married, is she devoted to him and in love?
Devoted, yes.
In love, he would see it for a lie and doubt her.
Amenable to being in love? Possibly.
That decided, she eases out of his grasp and he grunts but then turns over and continues to sleep.
She goes to the wash basin to wipe down the insides of her thighs, blushing fiercely even though there's no one to see her, and hurriedly puts a dressing gown on. Fully dressed isn't right for an intimate breakfast between a husband and wife, but she certainly doesn't want to be naked.
Or maybe she does.
She opens the gown in front of the looking glass, touches her skin. Her smooth, unblemished skin. There are no marks, no bruises, not even light scratches from his hands. He has left her whole and, maybe, she thinks, pressing her palm to her stomach, he's given her something.
But she can't let her hopes run away with her.
She ties her robe back up again and sits at Lord Tyrion's desk. Her desk? Their desk? Joining him in his chambers, is she his guest? Are his things now hers?
None of these questions had any relevance during her time with Ramsay, and she is floundering.
She moves to the window seat and looks out at the harbor while her husband sleeps. She's done it. She successfully had sex with her husband. But that is only a first step. Because of the nature of falling pregnant, and the importance that it happen as soon as possible, she will have to lay with him every night she doesn't bleed until she's certain she's pregnant.
She glances over at the bed and can't quite help her grimace. Last night hadn't been unbearable, but she's not sure she would call it enjoyable either.
Still. Better than being dead.
Better than being Joffrey's. Or Ramsay's.
She should be celebrating her victory, but instead she futilely wishes she still had family to share her troubles, questions and triumphs with.
Her reverie is disturbed when Shae arrives with their breakfast tray. She doesn't knock, which Sansa has grown used to, but what if Sansa had still been in bed with her husband?
Servants are a bit more… omnipresent in King's Landing than Winterfell, and Sansa has grown accustomed to attendants at bath, a team to dress her for formal occasions, but here she has to draw the line. She isn't prepared for her any servant, even Shae, to have such unfettered access to her intimate, married life.
Experienced servants take no more notice of nudity than a desk or a chair, but not Shae. Her eyes flick towards the bed, to Sansa's mostly-uncovered husband, then to Sansa, and she sets the breakfast tray down with a clatter. Perhaps it's time to have another talk with Shae about handmaiden etiquette.
"Trouble sleeping?" Shae asks.
Sansa shrugs. "The sun was up."
Shae hits the metal juice pitcher against the metal tray, sloppy even for her, and the clang is enough to make Sansa wince and Lord Tyrion groan. She knocks the glasses together after she pours them and Lord Tyrion makes another noise of protest, sitting up slowly and clutching his head, and Sansa is reminded of the time the boys snuck into their father's wine cellar.
Robb, Theon, and Jon had shared a bottle amongst the three of them and had terrible headaches the next morning, complaining that the sun was too bright and any kind of noise was too loud. Their father, pitilessly, sent them to the blacksmith to fix all the damaged horseshoes.
They never snuck a drink again.
Lord Tyrion had quite a bit more than one bottle of wine last night, and perhaps a part of her wants to watch him suffer, but she remembers his kindness to her last night, and this is a simple way she can repay it, and to start her married life as she means to go on.
"Enough," Sansa says when Shae carelessly drops one of the plates. She didn't drink to excess last night and she's developing a headache. "You're dismissed."
Shae and Tyrion both give Sansa their full attention.
"I don't know what has made you so clumsy this morning, but I suggest you go sleep it off," Sansa says. "Podrick will attend us for lunch and dinner, and when you return tomorrow morning you will serve us breakfast without all this racket."
Shae's eyes darken and her lips press together briefly, but she nods. "Of course," she says and stalks out of the room.
It's odd, almost haughty behavior, even for Shae, and Sansa yet again wonders how she ended up with this woman as her handmaiden.
"Don't you think that was a bit harsh?" Tyrion asks, rubbing his eyes.
His hair is tousled and he doesn't cover his mouth as he yawns, mouth stretching wide, looking for a moment like the lion that marks all the Lannister shields and flags.
"She was bothering you," Sansa says. "And she's still learning how to be a handmaiden. I think someone sent her to me to train her, because she doesn't know much. Or as some kind of cruel joke." It could easily be either. She doesn't share her silly theory about a secret bodyguard.
She thinks he means to say something else, but in the end all he does is fetch his own dressing gown.
She averts her eyes.
He joins her at the table, moving a bit gingerly. She politely keeps her voice soft, her tone light and teasing. "In any case, I'm sure we can serve ourselves breakfast."
He rewards her efforts with a mischievous smile. "Serve ourselves? How ever will we manage?"
Sansa laughs and looks over the platter for something that looks good. Something sweet maybe. A pastry? She finds one she likes, light and flaky, and when she bites into it she finds that it's filled with raspberry jam.
"Oh," she says as the sweetness melts against her tongue. They're her favorite, because they're a breakfast food but taste like dessert and she feels the first pricklings of guilt for sending Shae away so abruptly. No one else would have bothered to bring her her favorite food the morning after her wedding. "Perhaps I was harsh."
"What?" Tyrion asks, quite preoccupied with his aching head.
"Nothing," Sansa says, and enjoys the rest of her pastry in silence.
Breakfast is civil enough, and Tyrion-she supposes he ought to be Tyrion now, even in her thoughts-departs to do… whatever it is he does all day. She has no idea what kind of responsibilities the Master of Coin holds.
He seldom had time to attend her before their wedding, whether because of those responsibilities or a disinclination to spend time with her-probably both-and hopefully that pattern will continue. She suspects their marriage will be easier on both of them the less time they spend together.
She takes the opportunity to track down Shae, who still looks upset. Sansa feels a slight pang; she isn't usually harsh, and Shae does try.
"Thank you for your thoughtfulness," she says. "With breakfast."
Shae gives her a strained smile.
"And… I want you to know that your position is secure. I can see that your efforts are sincere, and you work hard, and I am not the sort of mistress to cast someone aside over a misunderstanding. Lord Tyrion is my husband, but you are my handmaiden, and I won't forget."
"Thank you, my lady."
Sansa suspects that she's making things more complicated for them both by sometimes treating Shae more as a friend than a handmaiden, but she can't bear to give that up. The only other people with a civil word for her are Margaery, who is far too busy to entertain Sansa all day, and her husband.
She resolves to do something nice for Shae, to assure her of her place in Sansa's household and affections. She is considering what would be best when she reaches the door to her new rooms and finds Cersei waiting for her.
The Queen Mother is deeply unsettled by something. Sansa knows because, though she has the same sour expression she always has in Sansa's presence, she doesn't say anything bitter or cutting.
"The Hand has summoned you," Cersei says.
Sansa feels the bottom drop out of her stomach.
Cersei's eyes narrow, rallying a bit in the face of Sansa's discomfiture. "I'm certain he meant now."
Unable to speak, Sansa meekly follows her down the hall. Cersei escorts her personally, whether because she thinks Sansa would wander off otherwise or for some malicious Cersei reason, Sansa doesn't know and doesn't care.
What can have happened? Her entire family is already dead. She fulfilled her duty and lay with her husband last night.
She blushes, and glances quickly at Cersei to make sure she didn't notice.
So why this summons?
She longs for her knife.
They don't go to the Hand's office, but to some other room that is empty except for a long table. Lord Tywin is seated at the head, of course, and her lord husband at the foot, on a chair that is clearly specially designed for him. There's another man at the table, handsome, and wearing the uniform of a Kingsguard.
With a start, and no small degree of self-disgust, she realizes that this is Jaime Lannister. When had he returned to King's Landing?
Sansa is frozen in the doorway, trying to process what's going on, and Cersei makes a disgusted sound and pushes by her.
She reaches the chair beside Ser Jaime and drags it all the way to the empty side of the table. It scrapes loudly against the floor, and Sansa cringes through the whole journey. Cersei finishes this display by flopping gracelessly into the chair and glaring at Lord Tywin like she's daring him to reprimand her for her bad manners.
Arya used to make that face. When she was five.
Lord Tywin completely ignores this behavior, looking to Sansa instead. "Well, sit."
She considers her options. It's a large table, but each person is occupying one side and situated as far from the others as possible while still arguably seated at the table. It does not suggest an obvious place for a fifth person.
She settles for the chair closest to Tyrion, putting her on the same side as Ser Jaime. Not her first choice, but Cersei is hardly better, and she doesn't want to make a spectacle of herself trying to drag one of these heavy chairs. If only her husband and father by law weren't seated so far apart.
No one moves. No one speaks. Her breathing sounds loud in her own ears.
Desperate for something to occupy her attention, Sansa studies the odd tablecloth. This doesn't look like a ceremonial room, and there's no food, so she's not sure what it's doing here. It also has a very impractical design; it doesn't lie flat, so it wouldn't be easy to rest anything on it.
And it's stained.
Sansa has a sudden, mortifying suspicion. She sneaks a look at the other occupants of the room.
Lord Tywin is watching her, and not subtly.
Through a monumental effort of will, Sansa does not gasp or run from the room. She could have had a bedding ceremony, she reminds herself. This is much better. Interested parties get their proof, and she isn't forced to put on a show for the whole court.
She's fairly certain her entire face is bright red, though.
She forces herself to look at Tyrion, who fortunately is not looking at her. He's watching his father, looking tense and unhappy.
Like Sansa's embarrassment is a cue, Lord Tywin clears his throat, and everyone remembers that they have to breathe.
"It seems that someone in this family understands their duty," Lord Tywin says.
Cersei snorts loudly.
"You will be married soon enough."
"I will not."
They glare at each other.
Sansa desperately wants to be somewhere else. At least Ser Jaime looks as uncomfortable as she does; her husband is completely at ease, maybe even amused.
Cersei is the first to break eye contact, but she does not look subdued.
Lord Tywin ignores her, turning to Tyrion instead. "And you managed to bed her after all. Surprisingly."
And Sansa is bright red again.
Tyrion makes some kind of garbled noise, and she can tell just from the look on his face that he's going to say something rude. She kicks him under the table, smiling warmly in the face of his shocked reproach. She takes his hand.
"We're eager to welcome our first son," she says.
Ser Jaime is staring at her, and she barely resists the urge to kick him, too.
"Naturally," Lord Tywin says, "considering he will be Lord of Casterly Rock."
Ser Jaime's mouth drops open, and Cersei stops her aggressive sulking long enough to stare at Lord Tywin.
It's Tyrion who finds his voice first. "What?"
He sounds as utterly shocked as his brother and sister look. That can't be right; Ser Jaime can't sire children, Cersei is a woman, so who but Tyrion would inherit the family estate?
But that isn't what Lord Tywin said. The child will inherit, not Tyrion.
It's what Sansa wants, but she's troubled by the undercurrents here that she doesn't understand.
"Not me?" Ser Jaime asks, after a prolonged silence.
"You are Captain of the Kingsguard, and bound by your oaths," Lord Tywin says.
"Yes, but-"
"Or would you have them call you Oathbreaker?"
The silence descends again, and Ser Jaime bows his head and clenches his fists.
Behind his back, and occasionally to his face, Ser Jaime is well-known as Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, for his actions against the Mad King. If Sansa knows that, Lord Tywin certainly does, so that question was cruel indeed.
"You have been most adamant in your loyalty to your position," Lord Tywin says pleasantly.
Ser Jaime doesn't respond, but Cersei does.
"You would let that-" she waves a hand in Tyrion's direction, not bothering to look at him, "thing, rule our home?"
Tyrion closes his mouth so tightly she can hear his teeth grinding, and Sansa gives his hand a small squeeze.
He looks as surprised as when she kicked him.
"You aren't listening," Lord Tywin says, voice rich with contempt for Cersei's incomprehension. "He will do no such thing. If he can produce a healthy son, the son will inherit, and Tyrion will act as co-regent with Lord Kevan."
He puts a peculiar inflection on "healthy", gaze practically boring holes in Tyrion's head, and it takes Sansa a moment to work out what he's alluding to. She's immediately filled with indignation.
Tyrion might not be, as he so self-deprecatingly put it, the husband of her dreams, but he's a good, decent man, and not a… a thing, or, or inadequate as an heir. He's reportedly quite clever, and he fought bravely during the siege, and he left the post of Hand without dying, which even her brilliant father hadn't managed. She opens her mouth to protest, but Tyrion grips her hand so firmly she squeaks instead.
When she meets his eyes, he shakes his head subtly, but seems touched by her defense.
Lord Tywin either doesn't notice this exchange, pretends not to notice, or just doesn't care. He surveys his three (four?) children, nods in satisfaction at finding them sullen and subdued, and dismisses them.
Tyrion stumbles back to their chambers in a daze, with her awkwardly trailing along, and he predictably opts to settle his nerves with a glass or three of wine.
Well, she's not going to just sit here watching him drink himself into a stupor.
"Is it really that surprising?" she asks.
He drains the whole glass before he answers. "Yes."
In the face of his conviction, she can't bring herself to present her reasoning. He knows his family far better than she does, of course. All she knows is that they're treacherous snakes.
Not exactly a point in their favor.
"Oh," she says lamely, and retreats to the godswood. It's still morning; if she lets him drink himself unconscious now then, in her admittedly limited experience, he should be… functional… by nightfall.
Sansa has been married for three days and two nights when she receives an invitation to walk with Lady Margaery in the gardens. She has not been outside except to visit the godswood, and today is a beautiful day so she's glad of the invitation.
She puts on one of her lighter dresses and has Shae style her hair like Margaery's, and they go together to the gardens.
"Lady Lannister!" Margaery greets, a twinkle in her eye as she pulls Sansa close to kiss first one cheek then the other. "That has quite a lovely ring to it, don't you think? Lady Lannister."
"Marriage has been quite agreeable," Sansa stutters out, overwhelmed, as usual, by Margaery's exuberance. "I do enjoy being Lady Lannister."
"Agreeable?" Margaery asks, smile turning sly. "What kind of things are you finding so," Margaery pauses dramatically, "enjoyable?"
Sansa blushes at the implication and Margaery claps her hands together, delighted, before hooking arms with Sansa.
"You're married now, my dear," Margaery tells her. "It's only right that a married woman gains certain experiences an unmarried woman wouldn't."
"But we're not supposed to talk about it!" Sansa hisses, looking around to make sure they're the only ones nearby. They left Shae with Margaery's handmaidens at the gazebo, and the gardens appear to be empty where they are, but she knows that there is always someone watching and listening. It's the nature of King's Landing.
"Of course we are," Margaery says, "How else will I know what to expect on my wedding night if other women don't tell me what theirs was like?"
It's a good point, but Sansa doesn't know if she can talk about hers. It's private. "I thought that's what mothers were for."
"Yes," Margaery says, smile dimming slightly, "but my mother isn't alive anymore, and I'm afraid my grandmother can be a little too frank for my ears sometimes."
Sansa can understand that, but still. "I'm not sure what you can learn from me that will help you with Joffrey. He -" she weighs her words carefully, aware that anyone could be listening, and that Margaery is marrying him and may not see him the way Sansa does. "You should insist on a bedding. Or have someone insist on your behalf. Perhaps,," Sansa blushes here, "suggest to Joffrey that a king would be gentle with his wife in front of an audience, would be kind to her so that the people might speak of what a great king he is."
It's not a ploy that would've worked on Ramsay, not that Sansa understood then what she was getting into or how to play the game, but with Joffrey she thinks it could. And she thinks Margaery could pull it off.
Margaery looks sad as she pulls Sansa in for a hug. "Wise words. I thank you for them." Her hug lingers, as does her silence, but she breaks them both together when they continue to walk and she says, "Do you regret not having a bedding? They are a tradition."
"My parents didn't have a bedding," Sansa answers. "My mother didn't want one, and my father said it would be a shame to have to break someone's nose on his wedding night." Sansa smiles at the memory, a story she heard dozens of times growing up. She'd always imagined that her husband would be strong like her father, that he too would step in and protect her.
In some ways, her husband is like that.
In other ways, he is not.
"Lord Tyrion didn't threaten anyone, but he did keep a bedding from taking place. A public one," Sansa's quick to add. "We still," she waves a hand, "you know."
"Did you?" Margaery's smile returns. "Was it enjoyable?"
"It didn't hurt," Sansa says which is the truth and all she can offer. "Everyone always says the first time hurts, but it didn't. Lord Tyrion was very kind."
"I should hope so," Margaery says. "I suppose those are all the details I'm going to get from you. Perhaps I should have insisted on that bedding."
Sansa shakes her head. "I don't see what all the fuss is about."
"There must be some fuss or men wouldn't be so eager to have it," Margaery points out.
Sansa shrugs. "Maybe it will get better."
"Oh?" The gleam is back in Margaery's eyes. "You intend to bed him again?"
"He's my husband," Sansa says, blushing, because Margaery has a way of talking that makes things sound indecent. "And we need a child."
"Ah. All business. Maybe that will change with time as well."
"I wouldn't count on it," Sansa says.
After her talk with Margaery, Sansa gives Shae the afternoon off and goes to the godswood. Now that she's married, it's the only place she can go to be alone.
Sansa isn't sure if she's angry or relieved that, in a world where guests can be slaughtered at a wedding and a promise of mercy and leniency is met with a beheading, there is such persistent belief in the sanctity of the godswood.
She kneels before the heart tree, the wrinkled face looking older than usual today. She grew out of the habit of praying in her old life, convinced that the gods weren't listening or didn't exist, but now her faith is budding again. She has been transported to another time, and maybe the gods set all those trials before her to prepare her for the life she has now.
Maybe they can be trusted after all.
She lingers longer than she has since her arrival in the capital, enjoying the peace she has while she's here, but as the sun reaches for the the edge of the water, she forces herself to stand. She doesn't want to be out alone in the dark.
There is no Hound to rescue her again if she finds herself in trouble.
Right on cue, she hears the crack of a branch being broken. She spins around, but sees no one.
She is certain someone is out there, watching her.
Do they mean her harm?
She picks up her skirts and hurries down the path towards the castle. If she can get to the main path there may still be people walking around, someone to see -
A man bursts through the shrubbery and Sansa leaps back, wishing for her knife, or a very large stick.
"I'm not here to hurt you," the man says.
Sansa doesn't believe that for a second, but then she takes a closer look at him. She knows him. He's a round man, in both body and face, and with twigs and leaves caught up in his hair he doesn't look as intimidating as she first feared.
"Ser Dontos?" She asks. "Ser Dontos Hollard?"
He looks surprised, then pleased. "Yes, my lady. I didn't think you'd remember me."
How could she not when the necklace he gave her would cause her so much trouble? The necklace he is going to give her, she realizes suddenly, and now she doesn't know what she should do.
Refuse the necklace for no apparent reason? What if he gets upset? How much did he know of the plan? Is it better to take the necklace and toss it into the ocean? Bury it in the godswood?
She must take the necklace. Refusing would look strange, would draw Lord Baelish's attention, something she desperately wants to avoid. She can decide how to dispose of it later. So long as she doesn't wear it to the wedding-
She freezes.
Joffrey's wedding.
She'd forgotten how soon it was, and how horrible. She'll need a plan.
But first -
Ser Dontos is staring at her, necklace outstretched, and she's missed his entire speech. At least she knows what she's supposed to say.
"It would be an honor to wear it," Sansa says.
"Thank you, my lady," Ser Dontos simpers. He gives every appearance of sincerity, even though she knows his whole story is a lie.
She wants to tell him that she didn't spare his life for him to try and cause her so much pain, that Lord Baelish isn't someone to be trusted.
But Lord Baelish's advice about drunks and fools was sound, despite the source. She can tell Ser Dontos nothing she doesn't want to risk being told to someone else, so she voices none of her recriminations.