Warnings: Some references to Sansa's traumatic past, and other people getting married who don't especially want to marry each other.

Joffrey's wedding is just as Sansa remembered, but they have the pleasure of Lord Varys's company as they make their way from the Sept to the feast. She hadn't realized how close Lord Varys and Tyrion were, but they appear to be friends. Or, as close to friends as anyone gets in King's Landing.

"A lovely ceremony," Lord Varys says, falling into step with them.

"Weddings are all the same," Tyrion says.

"Did you enjoy it, my dear?" Varys asks Sansa.

"I hope Queen Margaery can be as happy in her marriage as I am in mine," Sansa answers. "There was something strange to me, though."

"Oh?" Varys leans closer and Sansa thinks there's truth to the stories they tell about how Lord Varys has no interest in women or titles or land, that the only thing that interests him is secrets.

"Where was Lord Baelish? I thought every lord and lady in the city would be in attendance."

"He is in the Vale," Varys tells her. "The Eyrie, to be exact, preparing for his own wedding."

"No wedding should be more important than the King's," Sansa says.

"I hear his betrothed can be quite...demanding," Varys says. "No offense to your ladyship, of course. I do believe she is a relative of yours."

"Aunt on my mother's side," Sansa says. She remembers how hard Lady Arryn gripped her hands, how crazed her eyes were when she tried to throw Sansa through the Moon Door. "We're not very close."

"It's a good match," Tyrion says. "Or, it will be if it keeps that man and his scheming far from here."

"You don't think it's an odd match?" Sansa asks. "Everyone always told me how he was in love with my mother. And now he's marrying her sister."

"Perhaps they look alike," Tyrion says. "I don't quite remember. When I was in the Eyrie, Lady Arryn tried to have me killed."

"Some men," Varys says, ignoring Tyrion, "latch onto the second best thing when they cannot have what their heart truly desires."

"But," Sansa allows confusion to color her words. "If he is marrying my aunt because he couldn't marry my mother, then that necklace -" she looks at Tyrion "-that wasn't a gift given out of kindness."

Tyrion takes her hand.

"And I wore it!" Sansa says. She half-heartedly tries to pull her hand away. "My lord, if I'd known-"

"You didn't," Tyrion says, holding her hand tighter. "The necklace has been taken care of, and if Petyr Baelish knows what's good for him he'll stay in the Eyrie with his wife. Maybe the brat will push him out the Moon Door."

This is not a topic Sansa wants to dwell on and she's grateful when they reach the gardens, because it's the perfect opportunity to change the subject.

"Look at the rose bushes behind the royal table," she says, pointing with her free hand. "Such a beautiful flower. It's the perfect sigil for Queen Margaery."

"She's a stag now," Tyrion reminds her. "Or is it stag again, since she was previously married to Renly?"

"The flowers are pretty," Sansa says firmly.

"I think this is my cue to join the lesser lords and ladies," Lord Varys says. "Enjoy the feast."

"There is little hope of that," Tyrion says, quiet enough for only the three of them to catch. "Unless of course the wine is flowing."

Sansa gives him a disapproving look, which he ignores, and he escorts her to their table. It's up on the dais with the royal table, but not as high, and gives the illusion of privacy. If only Sansa could believe that they would be left on their own.

"This is a pleasant surprise," Tyrion says, when they reach their table to see Ser Jaime already there.

"I'm not a member of the royal family so I'm not allowed up there," Ser Jaime says. "I was hoping to spend the day far away from the circus but, well, I'm a proper Lannister again, so here I am."

"Good," Tyrion says, ushering Sansa into the seat between Ser Jaime and himself. "My wife will have someone to talk to now when I'm too drunk to speak."

Lovely, Sansa thinks. She hasn't spoken to Ser Jaime since the night she fled to the godswood, and she can't imagine what they'll have to talk about during the feast.

"You're never too drunk to speak," Ser Jaime says. "You just grow looser with your tongue. Something we should probably avoid today."

Tyrion rolls his eyes and pours himself a glass of wine. "Our King is going to be too distracted by his bride to bother with us."

"Not possible," Sansa says. She takes the decanter and offers it to Jaime. "Would you like some wine, ser?"

"Oh, call him Jaime," Tyrion says. "He's your brother by law now, and if you two are going to conspire against me you might as well be on familiar terms."

Sansa is not going to call him Jaime.

"I would love a glass of wine," Ser Jaime says. "Would you like me to call you Sansa?"

She doesn't spill a drop as she pours him a glass. "We're family now."

She pours one for herself as well and takes a healthy swallow, bracing herself against the taste. "Like I said, in my experience, King Joffrey is never too distracted for his favorite subjects. And while we're on this subject." She sets the decanter down and fixes Tyrion with her full attention. "When he does turn to us, if it is me he addresses, let him."

"My lady -"

Sansa doesn't have the luxury of letting him protect her today. She must keep Tyrion from Joffrey's notice. If, by some chance, Lord Baelish has formed a new plan to kill Joffrey, she will not let Tyrion be part of it. "I would rather him humiliate me than you."

"We've both had practice with it," Tyrion points out.

"Yes, but I know how to hold my tongue," she says. "You would provoke him on his wedding day, in front of a crowd so large he would have to retaliate."

"The girl has a point," Ser Jaime says.

"The lady," Sansa tells him, "is your sister by law. And is often right."

She takes a prim sip of her wine and lets the men gawk.

Sansa had somehow forgotten how awful the wedding feast was. True, there was no end of horrors after she was "rescued" from King's Landing, and it's not so surprising they eclipsed this one in her mind. But when Joffrey calls for his entertainment and the dwarfs run out in their costumes, she goes stiff in her chair.

She's about to rewitness the mockery of her brother's death.

This time around, she lets her gaze wander as the lewd show is performed. The people in the crowd have smiles frozen on their faces, like they know they're supposed to be amused, like they have to find this entertaining but don't.

The only people who are outright laughing are Joffrey and Cersei, and Sansa thinks it says all that needs to be said about the two of them that they find it funny.

Queen Margaery looks queasy, smiling only when Joffrey turns to her to see how she's enjoying it. Sansa looks away before Joffrey can make eye contact with her.

Next to her, Tyrion bids Podrick to pay the dwarves well when this is over, and Sansa feels a blinding flash of hate that her husband could be enjoying this, but when she looks over he has a smile on his face she can now recognize as not being genuine.

It isn't the smile he gives her when she ventures a joke or the smile he gives Podrick when the squire does something silly. This is his court smile. His lying smile.

He doesn't find it funny at all. She wonders what else she's thought he's enjoyed that he actually didn't.

The dwarf with the wolf's head begins to do something she can't even look at and she drops her gaze to the table, eyes burning. Her brother shouldn't be disrespected this way.

But then she realizes something.

This is more than a just a cruel joke to Joffrey. It's a celebration. A victory dance.

He is so blind.

Stannis was beaten at the Blackwater, but he wasn't defeated.

Her brother was murdered at Moat Cailin, but the North hasn't been subdued.

It could come together around Robb's death or her father's death. It could come together around the notion that the North should be free from the South. It could come together around Stannis.

The war is not over and the kingdoms, the King, will never be safe until the war is ended and North and South are reunited again.

And she's the key to the North.

It cannot be brought back into the fold without her.

Forget Casterly Rock, she could go home.

"Lady Sansa, did my performance bore you?"

Sansa's jerked from her thoughts by Joffrey's voice. Stupid to get distracted, stupid to not pay attention.

She raises her gaze to her tormenter and forces a smile to her lips. "I apologize, my lord. I fear that my constitution is too weak to find humor here. I lived through the siege on our city, like most everyone here, and we heard the fighting as the usurper tried to sack our city. I heard the stories of what would happen to us if he succeeded, and I heard the soldiers fighting bravely to protect us. Soldiers led by you, your Grace." She looks away for a moment before meeting his gaze again. "I apologize for finding the stories of bravery and valor better than this mockery of what was a great victory for our city."

The garden is silent after she speaks, and she wonders if she said too much. Too great a victory against Joffrey only means he will come back harder against her.

"A mockery of us?" He scoffs. "You stupid girl. It's a mockery of Stannis. And Renly. And that traitor you call brother."

All eyes swing back to her. She should duck her head and let his attention go elsewhere. The Stark blood that still flows through her veins keeps her head held high.

"He is not who I call brother," she says. She reaches out to clasp Jaime's shoulder. "It is Ser Jaime I now call brother. And your mother, Lady Cersei, who I call sister."

Cersei looks like she's swallowed a lemon. Whole.

Joffrey doesn't look much better. "You -"

"Oh look!" Queen Margaery exclaims, leaping to her feet. "Pie!"

Joffrey's attention is diverted and Sansa is allowed to relax in her seat.

"If you want to run away to the godswood, I would be honored to escort you before it's my turn to be called out by the King," Ser Jaime says.

Sansa doesn't dignify that with a response.

"That's what you call holding your tongue?" Tyrion asks from her other side.

She doesn't appreciate either of them judging her. She stood up to the King without causing an incident or suffering too much humiliation. This is a victory.

She pushes Tyrion's wine glass closer to him. "I thought you were drinking until you couldn't speak?"

"Right," Tyrion says. "Yes."

He picks up his wine glass and neither of them disturb her for the rest of the wedding.

By the time they're preparing for Cersei's wedding, Sansa thinks she'll be glad if she never has to go to a wedding again in her life. Her fingers hurt from all the sewing she's done, and she's actually tired of getting dressed up.

"I could have an illness," Sansa says. A look of pain flashes across Tyrion's face and she remembers that she had been sick. Quite gravely in fact. "Um, you could be sick?"

"Sansa," Tyrion says, his voice heavy. "There is something I must tell you."

"It was a joke," she says. "In poor taste. I shouldn't have made it. I'm excited for your sister's wedding. I'm sure she'll be beautiful. It -"

"Sansa," Tyrion says again.

He approaches and motions for her to sit on their bed. She's already in her gown for the wedding, a dark blue with silver embroidery throughout it. It's a dress of the Northern fashion, but she is beginning to dream of going back to Winterfell and those dreams have found their way into her clothing.

She sits, and he comes to stand next to her, more serious than she has ever seen him.

He fusses with his sleeves instead of talking, and she wants to still his hands, because he's going to muss his outfit, but she doesn't know what's wrong, doesn't know how far she's allowed to reach.

"It's about the necklace Lord Baelish gave you," Tyrion says. "Was it a gift directly from him?"

She assumed he'd thrown it away and forgotten about it Did he find the poison? Does he suspect her of plotting murder? She should've tossed it in the ocean. She got too confident, overreached.

"No," she says. "A man approached me in the godswood. He said he was a knight but he stunk of wine." She doesn't have to fake the way her nose wrinkles. "He gave it to me. I asked him who I was to him to deserve such a gift, but he told me he was a messenger. From Lord Baelish."

"I see," Tyrion says. "Lord Baelish is not a good man. Is this news to you?"

Hardly, she thinks but she says, "He was...overly affectionate at times, but my mother always said he was like family. They grew up together. She thought they were like brother and sister. He thought…" Sansa trails off.

"Yes," Tyrion says. He clears his throat. "I have been suspicious of him for some time. Lord Varys has been as well. I brought the necklace to him as a trusted friend to see what he thought."

"Do you think he stole it?" Sansa asks. If they discovered anything then she must be innocent of what they've found. "I - it doesn't seem likely. It was a cheap thing." She blushes. "That's a terrible thing to say. But it's true."

"It's okay," Tyrion assures her. "And you're right. It was cheap. We broke one of the stones." He pauses. "We found a powder in them. No, not just a powder." Tyrion grips her hands tightly. "Sansa, there was poison in that necklace."

Sansa lets her eyes go wide. "Poison? But - you said Lord Baelish liked me. Why would he want me dead?"

"I don't know what he was thinking," Tyrion says. "If we can find the knight who gave you the necklace maybe we could have proof against him, but I doubt we will. What's important, is that you're alive. The poison was a nasty one, and we think because the stones were cheap and you wore the necklace around your neck some of the poison got into you. Not enough to kill you, but," here he takes a deep breath, "do you remember when you were sick?"

When she first came here? The time sickness? They think the necklace caused that? She didn't have the necklace then. But they don't know that. And they can't prove it unless they find Ser Dontos or Lord Baelish confesses. Neither of those scenarios are likely.

"A bit," she says. "I remember how weak I was when I woke up. Someone wanted me dead?"

"We're not sure," Tyrion admits. "What's important is that you're alive. And that you continue to tell me when you receive gifts. Especially gifts from strangers."

"Of course," she says.

She never thought the discovery of the poison would lead them to think she was the intended recipient, but it's better than being in prison for treason. A small lie between her and her husband should be okay.

She continues to sit, hands limp in his for a while longer. "Poison?" She finally asks.

"Poison," he confirms. "But you are safe now. You don't - do you remember anything about this knight who gave you the necklace?"

Does she dare lie? No, if they do find him, it's too easy to prove that Sansa should have known him. They'll be suspicious. "His name is Ser Dontos Hollard," she says.

Tyrion looks surprised.

"I saved his life," Sansa says. "On Joffrey's nameday. Joffrey was going to drown him in wine. I convinced him to name Ser Dontos a fool. Do you think he gave me the necklace out of revenge? I tried to help him."

"I'm sure he didn't know," Tyrion comforts. "He is a drunk and a fool, I'm sure all it took was a promise of power or gold for him to make a delivery for the future Lord of the Vale." Tyrion pauses, one hand dropping to his side, the other covering his mouth. "Gods be damned."

"Tyrion?" Sansa asks. He's made a jump she didn't follow, and if she's going to keep the lies straight, she needs to know. "Husband?"

"The maester. When you were sick. Jon Arryn."

She still doesn't understand.

"Jon Arryn was the former Hand of the King," Tyrion reminds her.

"My uncle," she says. "My father took his position."

"After he died a mysterious death. And who married his widow? Who profited the most from his death? Who used the same poison to harm you?"

"Lord Baelish," she answers. "So he did want me dead."

"Or your husband," Tyrion says. "You were engaged to Ser Loras then, I believe. Why would he - nevermind. You don't need to worry about this. I will take care of it. I promise."

"Take care of it?" she asks.

"Lord Baelish will not harm you," he promises. "If he did have a hand in the death of Jon Arryn and your sickness then my father will ensure he never steps foot in the capital again unless it's for his execution."

Sansa doesn't trust herself to summon up a convincing show of concern over killing the man who brought her so much misery so instead she leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she says.

He touches his cheek and looks at her in wonderment. She thinks it's the first time she's kissed him. He's kissed her plenty, but she knows it's not the wife's place to be active or forward in the bedroom. But...maybe he would like it if she kissed him more?

She leans forward again but he presses two fingers to her lips to stop her.

"My sister's wedding," he says, voice hoarse. "We're going to be late, and I need to speak with Lord Varys."

"You two are quite close," Sansa says as they make their way to the steps of the castle where a carriage will bring them to the Sept.

"He is a man with knowledge, and I am a man who can do things with that knowledge. We make a good team."

"Maybe he can sit with us at the feast," Sansa says. "Friends are hard to come by in the capital. They should be treasured."

"Indeed they should."

They agree on the way to the wedding to put their conversation behind them as much as possible and try to enjoy the day.

"My sister is getting married and is finally going to be as miserable as she deserves," Tyrion says as they take their place at the Sept. "It would be strange if I wasn't smiling."

"Ser Loras will make a fine husband," Sansa says. She is happy with the one she has, but she can't understand how anyone could be miserable marrying him. Of course, what she believes Cersei deserves isn't something she can say out loud. "He's strong and very handsome."

"Pretty is the word you're looking for," Tyrion tells her.

Sansa ignores him in favor of looking at Ser Loras, almost regal in his wedding outfit. He's in a fine green coat, gold embroidery making the stems for beautiful flowers that decorate the garment. It's fitting for the Knight of the Flowers.

"I wonder if all men in Highgarden are as fashionable as Ser Loras."

"There would be no Highgarden if all the men were as fashionable as Ser Loras."

Next to them, Jaime laughs. "You should be glad you married my brother, Lady Sansa. I fear the bride is going to be outshone by the groom. A capital crime in my opinion."

"I'm sure Lady Cersei will look beautiful," Sansa says because as much as she hates the woman, she has to admit that she is very pretty. And, because she fears she might have said too much about Ser Loras she adds, "I am glad I married your brother. He is the best husband I could have."

Especially since her other prospects were Joffrey and Ramsay.

He protects her, is gentle with her, engages her in conversation. He might even be kind.

The ceremony is torturous. While Sansa hadn't been happy to be marrying Tyrion, she knew he was her best option, had smiled during the ceremony. Cersei makes no such attempt. She practically stalks down the aisle, and when Ser Loras sees the anger in her eyes, the smile falls off his face.

It doesn't return.

The vows are short, clipped, and Sansa isn't the only one uncomfortable by the time they're over.

It's a smaller ceremony than even Sansa and Tyrion's had been and the feast smaller still. Sansa gets her wish for Lord Varys to join them at their table. Ser Jaime is also seated with them which she had expected. Lady Brienne is with them which she had not.

"Lady Brienne, good to see you again," Sansa says.

"Lady Lannister."

The name looks like it was difficult for Brienne to say, but Sansa accepts it as the peace offering she's sure it was meant to be. Brienne is in her men's garb for this event, but Sansa notices that it is much finer than what she wore to dinner.

"You look very nice," Sansa says.

To her amusement, Lady Brienne blushes. "I was sworn to Lord Renly, former husband to Queen Margaery. When she discovered I had nothing appropriate to wear to her brother's wedding, she saw that I was fitted for these."

"Our Queen has good taste," Sansa says.

She notices Tyrion and Lord Varys speaking in whispers and wonders if it's about the necklace. Would they dare to speak of such things at the wedding?

Podrick pours them all wine, and Sansa watches, curious, as Lord Varys waves him off.

"Not a vice of mine," he says to the stares he gets.

"I'll have mine and his," Tyrion says.

Sansa is still too pleased by his concern over her health and possible poisoning to scold him for it.

"Because his vices are many," Ser Jaime says, playfully nudging his brother. "Though, I suppose a few less now that you're married." He looks over at Sansa. "Or perhaps more. Lady Sansa, how many years are you exactly?"

"You don't have to answer that," Lady Brienne says. "And Ser Jaime should apologize for being a -"

"Being a what?" Ser Jaime challenges, laughing when Brienne glances at Sansa and then keeps her mouth shut. "Good thing you're here to police our language and etiquette, Lady Sansa. If you weren't, this table might sound more like one found at a tavern in Flea Bottom."

"You frequent many taverns in Flea Bottom?" Lord Varys asks.

Jaime grins and takes a drink of his wine. The smile slips off his face when he looks up at the newlywed table and sees Cersei knock back another glass of wine. "It's a good thing women don't have the same problem as men with overconsumption of alcohol on their wedding nights."

"Brother," Tyrion warns. "There are ladies at the table."

Sansa glances up at where Ser Loras and Cersei are dining, separate from the rest of the crowd. Cersei is knocking back wine like she hopes she can drown herself before the meal is through, and Sansa wonders if she's really so unhappy.

She spares a glance at Ser Jaime. He looks as unhappy as Cersei now that there are no eyes on him, and Sansa is reminded of a nasty rumor she heard going around the castle some time ago. About Cersei and Jaime but - no. It cannot be true. Brothers and sisters wouldn't. She and Robb wouldn't. Even she and Jon wouldn't and they're only half-siblings.

Besides, Ser Jaime has been in the King's Guard all this time, and they're sworn to celibacy.

He's not anymore, though. Maybe that will give him some comfort.

"Tyrion and I were discussing how glad we are that the wedding season is almost through," Sansa says, interrupting Ser Jaime and Tyrion's apparent decision to drink until someone stops them. "But, it might not be over as soon as we thought."

"Oh?" Lord Varys asks when no one else appears to take notice. "Who is left?"

"Ser Jaime has recently been reinstated as heir of Casterly Rock," Sansa says, and that gets everyone's attention. "Why go through the trouble of making him heir if he's not going to have an heir of his own?"

"Oh gods," Ser Jaime groans.

Sansa, a slight smile on her face, turns to Brienne. "You're a Lady of Tarth. I hear it's called the Sapphire Isle."

"Not because of sapphires," Lord Varys says. "I believe it's a reference to the water."

Jaime and Brienne are both looking too horrified to say anything. Tyrion laughs and raises his glass to them.

"To the future happy couple," Tyrion says.

"No," Jaime says.

"I would rather fall on my sword," Brienne says.

"Rather than his?" Tyrion asks, laughing.

"There are ladies present," Lord Varys reminds everyone.

"Lady Sansa is married," Ser Jaime says. "She knows quite a bit about falling on swords by now, I'd imagine. And I think Brienne would be the first to tell you she isn't a lady."

Sansa doesn't know what they're talking about. It must be crude if Lord Varys is trying to intervene on her behalf, but she's afraid she'll be laughed at if she asks them to explain.

She turns to Brienne instead. "I didn't mean any offense," she says.

"I'm sure you didn't," Brienne says. "But I had a long journey bringing him back to King's Landing. He whines worse than a baby, and his pride is pricklier than a porcupine."

"Slander," Ser Jaime says.

"Truth," Brienne counters.

Sansa likes anyone who will speak candidly to a Lannister. She moves her chair slightly closer to Brienne's.

"I rescued you from Harrenhal," Ser Jaime says.

"You left me there first."

"You were at Harrenhal?" Sansa asks.

"We were captured several times on our journey," Brienne says.

"My brave protector wasn't very good at protecting," Ser Jaime says.

"Jaime didn't know how to keep his mouth shut when it mattered. We were captured by a man named Vargo Hoat. He brought us to Roose Bolton at Harrenhal."

"First he cut off my hand," Ser Jaime points out.

"Roose Bolton?" Sansa asks, feeling faint.

She knows that Roose and Ramsay are alive and somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, but to hear him mentioned so casually is almost too much.

"You know him?" Brienne asks.

"He is not a good man," Sansa says. His son is even worse.

"He agreed to let me go," Ser Jaime says. "That makes him a good man in my book."

"My mother agreed to let you go as well," Sansa says.

A silence falls over the table, one that she caused. She knows better than to talk about her family. She wishes she could run for the godswood, but she cannot run from all of her problems.

"I apologize," Sansa says. "The Boltons - their sigil is the flayed man. Theon, he was a ward of my father's, he used to try to scare me and Arya by telling us stories where Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton's son, would chase us down with his hounds and then flay us alive."

The silence continues.

"That," Tyrion clears his throat, "I assume he accomplished his goal of scaring you?"

Sansa wishes for a cloak to pull tight around her shoulders, but it's too warm in King's Landing for heavy clothes. "Theon wasn't always kind. I don't think he liked living with us. He just pretended."

"Not much is known about the Bolton bastard," Lord Varys says. "Perhaps that should change."

"They were just stories," Sansa says.

"Stories always come from somewhere," Lord Varys says, "and it's odd that the Boltons have not chosen a new sigil. Flaying was outlawed in the North, was it not?"

"By my father," Sansa says. "But there is no one to enforce that rule now."

"With all the chaos in the North, it would be a shame for such a barbaric practice to begin again," Lord Varys tells her. "I'll see what songs the Northern birds sing."

"While I was in Harrenhal," Brienne says, "One of Roose Bolton's men threw me in a cage with a bear so his men could watch and laugh while I fought it with a wooden sword."

Sansa's eyes go wide.

"Is this really an appropriate story?" Tyrion asks.

Brienne shrugs. "We're discussing the fodder of our nightmares."

"A bear?" Sansa asks. She'd seen a bear once, far away, from the safety of a horse. And she's seen their pelts after they're dead and skinned. She doesn't think she'd want to see one up close. "Were you scared?"

"I was sure I was going to die," Brienne says.

"And then her brave knight in shining armor rescued her," Ser Jaime says.

Brienne smiles. "And then my foolish, unshaven, dirt-stained pain in the arse companion who had just deserted me returned and jumped into the pit with me."

Sansa's gaze switches to Jaime. "Did you bring your sword? Did you fight the bear?"

Brienne laughs. "He trusted no one wanted to see Tywin Lannister's oldest son mauled by a bear more than they wanted to live so he hoisted me up to be rescued and then I rescued him. We rescued each other. No debt owed."

"She has a very strict code of honor," Ser Jaime says. "It can be quite annoying."

Sansa finds herself smiling. Lady Brienne is growing on her. She would have been a useful companion in the flight from Winterfell, this woman who took on a bear with a glorified stick, wields a sword as well as any man, and walked all the way to King's Landing with Ser Jaime and managed not to kill him.

"A code of honor that he doesn't like only because it forces him to be a better man than he wants to be," Brienne says.

"I'm a grown man set in my ways," Ser Jaime says. "I don't want to change."

"And now we're back to him whining like a baby," Brienne says. "We've come full circle."

"Worse than a baby," Tyrion corrects. "Let's not make my brother out to be a better man than he is."

"Traitor," Ser Jaime says, but it's half-hearted, and the two brothers share a smile.

Sansa thinks, for the first time, that she could be happy here in the capital.

If Joffrey was gone, of course.