Warnings: Revelations of infidelity. References to Sansa's traumatic past. Very dubiously consensual sex. Still two people who are making the best choices available to them in a bad situation, but the situation is worse than they thought and "best" choice is not the same as a good choice.

Sansa tries not to hustle the maester's apprentice down the hall too obviously. It was very kind of him to offer to carry her books to her chambers, quite in excess of his duties, but she thinks it would have taken her less time on her own, even if she had to make two trips.

Reading has never been a favorite pastime of Sansa's, except for the tales of noble knights and fair maidens, and those have long been set aside. She was surprised to learn that many of the ladies in King's Landing can't read at all, but in the North, where husbands are forever riding off to deal with early snows or wolves or wildlings or whatever else threatens, wives are too often left in charge of the household to neglect such an essential skill.

So she learned, but certainly she's never shown any interest in the dense historical tomes the boy is currently carrying. But her life, unbelievably, has fallen into a safe, comfortable pattern.

Lord Tyrion has continued to be kind beyond expectation, and his attentions are never painful. In return she's been as diligent in her wifely duties as any man could expect, and really, the process is perhaps not quite as distasteful as she'd first thought. Not that she's ventured to kiss him so boldly again; fortunately, he was distracted by other things and seems to have forgotten that incident, for which she is intensely grateful.

Adding to her almost-happiness is, perhaps unsurprisingly, Queen Margaery. The Queen has been pale and unwell these last few weeks, only to be expected given her marriage to Joffrey, but today the whole palace is afire with the rumor that she is with child.

For her sake, Sansa hopes that she truly did conceive at the bedding ceremony, and the rampant speculation into her private mistreatment is only speculation.

This leads to the third, much more surprising source of her good mood: Joffrey himself. Or, more properly, Lord Tywin.

Queen Margaery must have rushed to him with the news the moment she even suspected, and Lord Tywin suggested-strongly-that the King find somewhere else to direct his attention while his wife carries out her particular duties.

Joffrey didn't like that at all, and threw an epic fit.

Sansa missed the whole thing, but she heard from a very reliable source, no less than Lord Varys himself, that the King was ultimately sent to bed without supper, with his mother banished also to ensure that he stayed there.

Checking that the lad is looking elsewhere, Sansa indulges in a shiver of pure delight, something she hasn't felt in longer than she cares to remember. Lord Tywin is very clever, accustomed to being obeyed, and, perhaps most importantly, not blind to his grandson's many, many faults.

If the Queen is to carry a child to term, the King will have to be watched constantly, and strictly controlled, and by all appearances Lord Tywin is prepared to make that happen.

And with Joffrey locked in his rooms like a naughty child, Sansa is free to move about the palace without fear of harassment, instead of hiding in the grounds all day like she usually does. Oh, things have been better, certainly, since her marriage, but Joffrey is the King, and he still finds opportunities for smaller torments. Most aren't even worth bothering her husband about; it's not that he thinks she's a liar, she reflects, or that he likes Joffrey, which he doesn't, but he just doesn't seem to understand how fixated Joffrey is on her.

Plus, he has an irritating habit of either smoothly defusing the situation or making it ten times worse, and she can never tell in advance which it's going to be.

The point is, Joffrey is occupied, Lord Tywin is potentially in the mood to look toward the future, and this is her chance to move forward with her tentative plans to leave King's Landing at last. No one's said anything, but she's quietly abandoned the thought of going to Casterly Rock; there's Ser Jaime to consider, as well as the oft-times baffling hostility between her husband and his father, and it's not like she has the faintest interest in that place anyway.

But while she might have managed to amuse Lord Tywin with her impulsiveness in the past, all that got her was pulled into his schemes for his children, very much on the outside and ignorant of his actual intentions. She needs to make him understand the significance of an alliance with the North, through her, preferably in a way that makes him think it's his idea.

Her father had always been adamant that the North was critical to the stability of the realm, but never said more on the subject than how beneficial his close relationship with King Robert was to all concerned. Which is totally inapplicable to her situation and not at all helpful.

Hence, the books. She can hardly go about asking for advice on how to make a bid for control of the North, and she knows that she isn't subtle enough to get information without giving the game away.

Her husband is an expert in this area, judging by how she misses at least a third of all his conversation, closer to half if Lord Varys or Ser Jaime are nearby. Unfortunately, his expertise is unavailable to her in this instance.

There are whole hours where she forgets that she is married to a Lannister, and how inconvenient that is when plotting against the Lannisters.

But it doesn't matter, she reminds herself firmly. She isn't, perhaps, clever in the traditional sense, but she isn't nearly as foolish or ignorant as her husband thinks she is, and she'll find the evidence she needs to show Lord Tywin that a North united under his control, through Sansa, is more useful to him than a fractured and squabbling mess.

The poor boy tries to courteously open the door for her, but his arms are full and all he manages is to half-fall and step on her foot.

She gives him a conspiratorial smile. "I won't tell anyone if you won't," she says, getting the door for him and waving him through.

He stops suddenly, and she walks right into his back.

"What are you-"

He's not a very tall lad, and a bit on the skinny side, so she doesn't even have the extra second of leaning around him before she sees it.

Or rather, them.

Her husband-that lying, cheating, useless, idiot, good-for-nothing Lannister-is in bed, their bed, with another woman.

And because she's Sansa Stark, it's not just any random woman, either.

It's Shae.

For a very long, very painful moment, the only sound in the room is several heavy tomes hitting the floor.

"Sansa-" Tyrion-Lord Tyrion-says.

She's wants to take one of those books and beat his head in with it. She wants to smash the wine pitcher and stab him with the pieces, there's just never a knife around when you need one, then strangle them both with the sheets...

She does none of those things, of course.

Fists clenched, jaw so tight she has an instant headache, she spins and stalks out of the room.

Ser Jaime finds her on one of the walkways overlooking the sea. She didn't want to pollute her sanctuary with her current troubles, and if she did run into Joffrey she could always throw the both of them into the sea and be done with it.

The hours of solitude have done nothing to cool her temper. Desperately wishing she'd paid more attention to Arya's scandalous interest in foul language, she has to settle for glaring at him.

He opens his mouth, undoubtedly about to make some smug Jaime Lannister comment.

She's looking forward to ripping his other hand off and feeding it to him the second he does.

He closes it without saying anything, showing much more sense than she'd ever credited him with, and offers her his arm.

Her breath comes out in a long hiss between her clenched teeth.

He takes a small step back, and then just starts walking. Desperately wanting to do something childish, Sansa forces herself to fall into step behind him.

Just to make this day as painful as possible, Ser Jaime takes her back to the same room Lord Tywin offered her a home in Casterly Rock in exchange for her son.

If she were in the mood to be mollified, she would be pleased to see that Cersei is apparently still attending the King and isn't here. As it is, she can only assume that the beastly woman is scheming with Joffrey to find the most humiliating way to rub today's revelations in her face.

Lord Tywin and Lord Tyrion are glowering at each other, obviously at the tail end of an argument, and she hopes Lord Tywin was vicious. She knows he can be, and is furious with herself for previous attempts to deflect some of the worst of it from her lord husband.

"Ah, Lady Sansa," Lord Tywin says, stepping around Lord Tyrion like he's beneath his notice. "Please, sit down."

Sansa bares her teeth in what hopefully will be taken as a smile, and sits as far from her previous seat as possible. She hides her clenched fists in her lap.

Ser Jaime disappears for a moment, then comes back with the maester's apprentice.

Sansa isn't feeling too charitable towards him, either. Obviously he hadn't wasted any time in informing the entire castle.

She makes a careful note of his face. It's unlikely in the extreme that she'll have attention to spare from her own miserable situation to spread that misery around, but if the opportunity arises, she wants to make sure it's directed at the right people.

Lord Tywin directs him to stand on the empty side of the table, and waits patiently as Ser Jaime takes his seat. Sansa hadn't thought through the seating arrangements beyond 'away from Lord Tyrion', and is not pleased to find herself between Ser Jaime and Lord Tywin.

She's so busy being annoyed that she doesn't immediately notice that Lord Tywin is trying to glare Lord Tyrion into a seat. He eventually succeeds, and turns a surprisingly pleasant smile on the maester's apprentice.

"Now, what's your name, boy?"

"Gifford, m'lord Hand. Ser."

"Please, there's no need for such formality. 'My lord' will be sufficient, Gifford."

"Uh, yes, m'lord."

"I understand you have some news to share."

Despite herself, Sansa is fascinated by this interaction. She doesn't think she's ever seen Lord Tywin act so friendly, even-or especially-with his own family, and he has to be furious. The whole sequence of events is highly embarrassing for him, as it shows his son in an unflattering light and suggests that he, as the one who brokered the marriage, doesn't take his obligations seriously.

And the boy obviously realizes that something is amiss, because he's sweating as much as Ser Dontos when Joffrey ordered him killed.

Yes, Ser Dontos, another faithless degenerate.

Sansa is forced to consider the possibility that, rather than her possessing colossally bad luck in suitors, perhaps her father and brothers are the only honorable men in Westeros.

By the time she tunes back into the conversation, the boy is whimpering and Lord Tywin is wielding a smile like a bared sword.

"So who is this woman, then?"

"I'm afraid I don't know her, m'lord."

"But you'd recognize her if you saw her again?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly looking at her face, was I?" He makes a crude gesture over his chest.

There's another point against all men, Sansa thinks.

Lord Tywin doesn't look any more impressed than she is. "Was that a no?"

"Uh, maybe if she was naked?"

There's a long silence, where Lord Tywin lets him consider what a stupid answer that was, and then he glances away.

Ser Jaime almost knocks his chair over, monstrous thing that it is, as he leaps up to escort the boy out.

She follows his progress out, knowing that her own disapproval is unlikely to register in the face of Lord Tywin's, but not particularly caring. She accidentally catches sight of Lord Tyrion, who is looking… frightened.

She doesn't think she's ever seen him look afraid.

Not that she particularly cares how he feels, except that she doesn't understand, and doesn't know if whatever-it-is that she's missing will come back on her.

Like the current situation.

Lord Tywin sits, and turns that pleasant smile on Sansa. Her spine crawls; his face may be arranged in a smile, but his eyes are cold and calculating.

"Lady Sansa. Daughter. I must apologize for my son's deplorable behavior. He has disrespected you, and dishonored his House."

He pauses, and Sansa realizes some response is expected of her. "Thank you, my lord. Father."

For a wild moment she thinks he's about to offer to punish Lord Tyrion on her behalf, and she isn't sure she has it in her to refuse his offer.

"I'm afraid I must add to your distress and ask you a difficult question. Did you recognize the girl?"

Sansa looks at this smiling man, handsome for all he's old enough to be her grandfather, and remembers that this is Tywin Lannister, the man who fought a war against her family. Her father spoke of his ruthlessness, on the battlefield and in his personal life.

Would such a man hesitate to do any number of nasty things to an upstart handmaiden with no family, no money, and no name?

Sansa has been so busy being furious with Tyr-Lord Tyrion for dishonoring their vows and putting all her hopes for their future in jeopardy that she hadn't had time to be properly angry about Shae yet. Sansa hadn't had the chance to give those attention avoiding lessons she mentioned, and she well knows how little power a woman can have, she'd seen the fight, she should have done more to help Shae, the woman has been by her side for months-

She stops, feeling sick. Shae has been with her for months. How soon did she appear after Lord Tyrion's arrival in King's Landing? Weeks? Days? Sansa had always suspected that Shae had another life before becoming a handmaiden, being so ignorant and unsuited for the task…

She glances at Lord Tyrion again. He still looks frightened, and rather desperate.

But he wouldn't-she wouldn't-this whole time!?

"I know this is upsetting," Lord Tywin says, as the silence stretches.

Sansa doesn't know anything for certain, and gods know, she's misjudged a person's character before. But she has to consider the worst possible scenario, that Lord Tyrion and Shae had been lovers before and throughout her marriage, laughing at poor, stupid Sansa who doesn't have a clue.

She catches herself grinding her teeth and makes herself stop.

Lord Tyrion, she would happily throw him on his father's mercy and watch him try and tapdance his way out of trouble. He would, too, the-the Lannister! But Shae-however bitter those memories might be now, she stood up for Sansa when no one else would, was ready to lie to Cersei for her, protected her during the Siege, threatened Lord Baelish.

It's a debt, and one Sansa does not care to bear any longer.

"I'm sorry, father," she says, looking Lord Tywin straight in the eye, "but I'm afraid I didn't see."

Lord Tyrion chokes, and why that utterly useless excuse for a man would choose now to forget all his supposed courtly skills she just can't imagine. She keeps her eyes on the real power in the room.

One, elegant eyebrow slowly goes up. "Indeed?"

"I was distraught, father," she improvises. "I couldn't see much through the tears."

Lord Tyrion makes another noise, and she hopes that he actually has some honor buried deep somewhere so he can feel the sting of that.

"Yes, I'm sure," Lord Tywin says, and she thinks he's trying to sound comforting, but it doesn't come naturally to him. "Just, try to think. It could be important. This woman could be pregnant."

It takes conscious effort to keep from throwing up. It's not that she hadn't realized that Lord Tyrion was mocking her attempts to fulfill their marital duty, but she hadn't thought…

Gods.

She manages what must be a truly ghastly smile. "Worry not, my-father. Should the need arise, I can write my brother on the wall. I'm sure he will have ample guidance on the raising of bastards."

"Bastards won't inherit anything from me," he says, steel creeping into his tone.

"Of course not, father. I have not forgotten my marital responsibilities." She pauses long enough for them both to hear how she doesn't say 'unlike some other people'. "This woman, whoever she is, cannot change that."

"Oh?"

"How many women are there in the palace? In King's Landing? Can I banish them all? Of course not. It is a waste of time and effort best put towards more productive pursuits."

"That… is a very practical way of looking at the matter."

Sansa wants to laugh, bitterly, but she seems to be winning so she bites her tongue instead. "I understand what is at stake here, father, and I won't be distracted by… inconsequential details."

"Hmm." Lord Tywin is silent for a small eternity, but finally he relaxes against his chair. Minutely. "Very well. Should you-remember-any details, don't hesitate to come to me."

"Of course, father."

It's a dismissal at last, and only the discipline learned in her imprisonment at Winterfell keeps her from bolting for the door. With Lord Tywin, everything matters, and ladies and future mothers of heirs do not bolt.

Of course, then she realizes that Lord Tyrion is rising to join her.

Her hands tremble, but she keeps them in front of her where Lord Tywin can't see.

Ser Jaime opens the door for them-he must have returned at some point, and remained by the door and out of the line of fire. That's two sensible acts in one day. She'll have to start checking him for magical influence soon.

"I thought all the Starks were dead," he says, and the world falls back into its usual pattern.

"What," she says, clipped, increasing her speed.

He easily matches her near-run with his long legs. "Your brother on the wall. I thought you were out of brothers."

He won't be fathering heirs if she unmans him, she thinks. He's got that shiny sword and a missing sword hand, she's sure she can figure it out. Pointy end goes in the other person, Arya says.

"Half-brother," she snarls. "Jon Snow, not Stark." She doesn't slam the door in his face, but only because he's marginally less stupid than he looks and his face is well back.

She looks around her chambers, ready to spit fire like a dragon from the old stories, when this intolerable day gets even better.

"I told you I'm not leaving," Shae says, angry and… in charge, in a way that Sansa has never heard her before.

Shae emerges from behind a wall, and stops when she sees Sansa.

The look she gives her is… slightly ashamed, but not especially apologetic, and underneath that is… not smugness, exactly, she saw plenty of that with Ramsay, but… a certain womanly confidence, and Sansa is sure that her earlier speculations on the worst case scenario were spot-on.

The door crashes open, and she sees Lord Tyrion there, panting. He must have run trying to keep up with her and Ser Jaime. He freezes when he sees the two women standing there.

"Leave us," Sansa says.

Lord Tyrion makes an abortive motion towards the door.

"Not you," she says.

Shae doesn't move.

"Fine, don't leave." Sansa steps around Shae, careful not to touch her-she's afraid what she might do-and walks up to the bed. It's still a mess. She starts violently yanking at her dress.

"What-what are you doing?" Lord Tyrion asks.

"It's night!" Sansa says, aware that she sounds a little hysterical, but her coping abilities are not infinite. "Have I magically got with child since this morning? Are we no longer married? Nothing has changed!" She screams the last part, and she can't seem to get her dress undone even though it's just a few clips, and she starts to cry.

She doesn't want Shae to hear her complete disgrace, and bites her lip until it bleeds, trying to recall all the many, much more difficult circumstances she has endured.

The door opens, and Ser Jaime puts his head in.

"Do you have something else to say?" she shouts, obscurely grateful for something she can be openly angry about and to distract her from her tears. "Want to gloat over my dead sister, as well?"

"I could use some assistance," he says. "There's some… clothes, that need… sewing. Somewhere else." He looks at Shae pointedly.

Apparently she's willing to disrespect Sansa-well, that was self-evident-but not a knight and heir to House Lannister, and she leaves.

Sansa is grateful, she supposes. She's not sure she could actually go through with this with Shae just standing there watching.

"I'm sorry about Jaime," Lord Tyrion says, when it's obvious she's not going to break the silence.

That's what he's sorry about?

"I think he was trying to be helpful, in his special Jaime way."

"Helpful?"

"You already dislike him anyway, and I believe he thought that if you could be angry at him, you might be less angry at me."

She turns around, giving him a good view of her tear and blood-stained face, and he visibly flinches. "Oh, I don't think that's going to happen," she says.

He can't hold her eyes, and looks at the floor instead. "I-I suppose not. Which, it's only right that you be angry, I-"

Suddenly, she doesn't want to hear it. "Nevermind. It's done. Come here and-and help me with my dress. Please."

"You-you were serious about that?"

"Of course!"

He approaches, slowly, and unclasps her dress. It takes approximately two seconds, of course, and she deeply regrets her clumsiness, because it reminds her of the other time he undressed her, fumbling with her stays, and she flirted and felt bold and powerful, that he wanted her.

He and Shae probably laughed about it later. Sansa can't even undress herself, just an ignorant child, a stupid little girl.

She's not bleeding, she's not bruised, but somehow this breaks through all her self-imposed restraints and she starts to cry in earnest.

He immediately takes her hands off her. "We really don't have to do this right now-"

"Will it be different tomorrow?" she chokes out.

"I-I suppose not…"

She shrugs out of her dress and underdress, and stretches herself out on her belly on the bed.

Nothing happens for a while.

She sniffles and props herself up on her elbows. "Well, get on with it."

He hasn't even taken his clothes off yet. He's just standing there looking ill. "This isn't exactly…" he trails off.

Sansa sits up a little, self-consciously covering herself with her hands. She almost misses Ramsay, everything was so simple then.

She immediately feels ill herself, and resolves to never think that ever again.

"I can be quieter," she says, and sniffs again, trying to get some control over her tears. Ramsay had enjoyed her crying when he touched her, but once he was done, she had to be, too.

"That is absolutely not what I meant."

Obviously he found her body… inadequate, in some manner, since he was taking his pleasure elsewhere. "I could…" Her imagination fails her. "Do… something?" A good start would probably be to stop shielding her body from his eyes, and she makes herself put her hands down.

She can't read his expression at all. "No, that's… not necessary. I'll… manage. Go ahead and lie down."

Of course. Why bother wasting his time, when he has so many interesting, competent women to choose from instead? It's not like she particularly wanted his touch, not before this incident and certainly not now, but… she meant her vows, and fully intended to be loyal to him, and he had never even considered it. Didn't care, thought her beneath his notice.

He touches her thigh, and she fights not to tense up, knowing it will only hurt more.

He's not Joffrey, she reminds herself, over and over. He's not Ramsay.

It takes forever, and she's cried herself out and just wants to go to sleep by the time he finally finishes. She's not sure why he chose now to drag this out, whether it's to remind her of how completely unattractive she is to him or some other reason, but she hopes this isn't the start of a new pattern.

Her pillow smells like Shae.

Winter is coming. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell.

When she wakes the next morning, her mind is a little clearer.

Lord Tyrion is sitting at the breakfast table, fully dressed, looking like he's on his way to the executioner's block. No, that's not fair; her father faced such a thing with grace and dignity. He's certainly unhappy, though.

As he should be.

She begins to sit up, remembers she's naked, and stops. She doesn't want him looking at her.

He seems to read her thoughts and turns his back, apparently engrossed in the view from the window.

She quickly shrugs into her clothes. Fortunately the dress is a simple one.

She's just doing up the last clasp when Shae comes in with the breakfast tray.

Sansa freezes. The truly surreal thing is that this morning is exactly like every other morning of her married life, and she'd just utterly failed to understand what was going on right in front of her nose.

Lord Tyrion looks horribly uncomfortable, and she can't even enjoy it because she feels the same.

She wants to order Shae out, but that's hardly going to change anything that really matters, and there's always the possibility that Shae will simply disregard her orders. Sansa doesn't have any real power here, not in any way that matters.

She can't stay here.

"My lord husband," she says. "If I might beg a favor?"

"That-that's really not necessary, Sansa, you can just ask."

She meets his eyes and slowly, deliberately, curtsies.

He looks away first. "Yes, my lady?"

"I have been a considerable burden on you, my lord husband."

A clever man, he looks extremely wary. Shae looks annoyed every time she says the word husband.

Good. She intends to remind both of them, as often as possible, of his marital obligations. She's going to have to take a much more active role in her pursuit of a son than she anticipated.

But there are some things she is just not willing to endure, not if she has any other choice.

"Perhaps it would be more convenient for you if I were to sleep elsewhere," Sansa continues, still in the most formal tones she can manage. "I know you have considerable… business… to conduct."

"Are you sure you want to discuss this now?" Lord Tyrion asks.

Both Sansa and Shae give him identical, cool looks.

He looks miserable. She hopes he stays that way. "Well. Alright then." He coughs. "It's-it's actually the custom in the South, for spouses to have rooms of their own, but my father wanted me here to-you don't care about that, nevermind-and there simply isn't space in this part of the castle."

So. She's been slighted from the very beginning, and she hadn't even known it. "I'm sure the rooms I stayed in before would be perfectly adequate," she says.

"I-I suppose, but… They're all the way on the other side of the Keep, and somewhat… inconvenient."

"I hardly see that I will have much occasion to spend time here, my lord."

"Er. Quite." He sighs. "If-if that's what you want, Sa-my lady, then I'll see to it."

"Thank you, my lord husband." As if he cared one bit what she wanted.

It isn't easy.

Sansa concedes the field to Shae, retreating from her own married quarters, and finds herself without a handmaiden. The girl hadn't offered, which at least spared Sansa the effort of deciding what she would do if she had.

After the first day of fending for herself, she ventures down to the servant's domain to inquire about a replacement handmaiden, or at least a maid.

Someone elderly, married, and ideally unable to speak Common.

What she finds is a seething hub of gossip.

It's one thing to know, intellectually, that the whole palace knows she's been thrown over for a foreign commoner, but quite another to be inundated with questions and theories, each ruder and more appalling than the last.

There's the group that thinks she must be awful in bed, that she can't even keep the interest of a dwarf (though not in such polite terms).

There's another group, mostly women, who think she should sneak into his chambers and unman him, nevermind how obviously counterproductive that would be.

What sends her fleeing back to her rooms, though, is that whatever camp they're in, the consensus is that everyone knew he was running around behind her back, and could she really have been surprised by this?

Curled up on her bed, clutching a pillow to her, Sansa can admit, to herself, that she hadn't the faintest idea her husband had been unfaithful to her.

With her handmaiden.

In their bed.

She can't keep from returning to how incredibly stupid she was, how ignorant, how blind. Her anger is receding, and she wants to clutch it to her and wrap it around herself, because what's left in its wake is complete and utter humiliation.

She replays those moments she tried to make Lord Tyrion smile or laugh, to show him that she could say clever things, too, or-Gods-when she would display her body to try and entice him.

She'd thought him kind, but he couldn't even be bothered to tell her what a fool she was making of herself.

Her parents hadn't loved each other when they were first wed, but they formed an alliance as strong as that between their two Houses, always supporting each other against the world, and eventually love had blossomed.

She couldn't hope to be so fortunate as to find love, but apparently she'd been over-reaching even to hope for an alliance of sorts.

There was no we, no us. What she'd foolishly thought of as their bed was frequented by Shae and who knows how many others.

Maybe she really ought to write Jon. She knows there were times he suffered for being the Bastard of Winterfell, and her life is obviously going to be… very different from how she imagined it would be.

But she will bear this shame and humiliation just as she has all the others, and she will find some kind of equilibrium. She has no choice. So, where is she now?

Lord Tywin has to know about Shae, Ser Jaime had escorted her from the room personally, but he hasn't said or done anything.

Probably, Sansa reminds herself, because he has far more important things to concern himself with.

As does she. She has repaid her debt, and will not waste any more of her attention on Shae. She doesn't deserve it, and Sansa has too many problems of her own.

Her plan to convince Lord Tywin that she is so devoted to Lord Tyrion that she will support him fully at Winterfell is obviously useless now. She's not sure she can manage the necessary show, and there's no way he'd believe her anyway.

At least he won't have cause to inquire into her devotion to her marital obligations.

With her rooms on the other side of the castle from Lord Tyrion's, she has to make the long walk alone to her bed every night. Servants, highborn, maesters; sometimes it feels like the whole castle turns out to witness her walk of shame.

She tries to remind herself that at least she isn't bleeding and hurting, at least Ramsay isn't at her elbow, but it's not as comforting as it should be.

She will endure. She must endure.

Winter is coming, and there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.