...

..

.

Sansa never knew if her letters were ever really sent. She had written more than a dozen - one a fortnight - and had yet to receive a reply.

Tywin informed her that correspondence in times of war was a difficult proposition on the outset. A prospect further complicated because her mother was embedded in Robb's host, and ravens would more than likely be shot down well before they made their destination. He also informed her that her letters were being routed through to the edge of the Westerlands, as close to the Riverlands as possible, in order to help alleviate the suspicion of a message coming from King's Landing.

It wasn't as though she didn't believe her husband. He was many things, but he had yet to lie to her - that she was aware of.

Regardless, there were pangs - there were always pangs - of wary apprehension in her life and in her marriage. Although, just as she had adapted to captivity after the death of her father, she was adapting to responsibility as the wife of the Hand of the King, the wife of Tywin Lannister.

However, what worries she had did not prevent her from writing. It was a small act of freedom in her daily subjection to people and events, and hospitality requiring her carefully arranged courtesies and recently acquired social eloquence.

Sansa could smile now, though at those first feasts and banquets she was mandated to attend she had been terrified. Spending most of those evenings tucked close to Tywin - being previously instructed to observe only - he would either place her snugly at his arm or just behind his arm. The latter normally in conjunction with conversing with Lord Tarly or Lord Tyrell.

If found engaged in conversation in those days - she smiled wider at the memory - she had held a look suggesting she'd been struck dumb altogether. But she watched, and inevitably learned. When Tywin would speak on her behalf, he was cleverly redirecting a question or entrenching the conversationalist in a verbal quandary.

Sansa was unable to convey intimidation through her words like her husband could, but when she coupled the confidence that the course of her marriage helped her to exude with her natural courtesy, the result was a sincerity that had the ability to disarm. Which was usually enough to allow her to steer and control any conversation.

For the first time in her life Sansa had power and it was her own. Not because she was the daughter of Eddard Stark, or the betrothed of Prince Joffrey, or the wife of Tywin Lannister, it was something she had created and cultivated herself.

She was proud of it, for the most part. Proud of herself, for the most part.

Her husband, too, was proud of her. Not that he ever said as much, nor given her any outward encouragement. Instead, he had developed a habit of engaging large groups of high lords and ladies in conversation only to exit abruptly, leaving his wife to continue in his stead.

That was his praise, she knew, and sometimes she felt awash in his version of pride and recognition. Other times though, she felt like a novelty. Something new and shiny being put on display for the appraisal and amusement of others. It struck close to what she had felt when Joffrey would single her out, but those moments were thankfully fleeting.

She pulled her focus back to the missive she was composing.

The letters to her mother - since the first one - had always opened with her feelings laid bare; the fact that she missed her and Robb immensely, that she wanted nothing more than to reunite with them, and that she loved them - that last part she repeated throughout her letters.

She had mentioned Arya the first time she wrote, told how she hoped her sister had made her way to them, but Tywin scratched it out and informed her she would have to rewrite the whole thing. Since then even the vaguest of references of her sister were eventually crossed out and left absent on the final draft.

When Sansa had asked why she wasn't allowed to mention her sister, Tywin simply told her she knew the answer. His non-question questions and his non-answer answers always saw her resorting to careful deliberation.

It was frustrating sometimes. Much like trying to find a door in the dark, fumbling until you touch upon something familiar - such as her brother and mother not actually knowing Arya was missing. Though, it did not stop her from writing about Arya in the first place. It seemed quite fitting that her rebellious little sister would be her own silent rebellion.

Her marriage was only mentioned in her first letter and what she had written her family was truthful - that her Lord husband had been generous, and that she was regarded amiably. How could she convey the greater truth in words? That her marriage was changing her in ways she had never considered as a young girl growing up in Winterfell. She was no longer that Sansa - with a head full of songs and a heart reserved for a golden prince.

But then, she thought to herself, she could not imagine the ways in which Robb and her mother had changed in the few years since their separation and through all the loss and the pressures of a war.

She sat contemplating her words, idly roaming her eyes over Tywin's desk, searching for inspiration when her focus was drawn to the edge of a parchment sticking out quite far from under a haphazardly arranged stack. She could read two visible words: young wolf.

It would be treason if she were to be caught rummaging through the communications of the King, but she couldn't live with herself if she did not at least look. Her husband wouldn't know, and he was continually prompting her to take an interest in the work that was his duty.

Sansa extracted the document as though it were the fragile petal of a dried flower and turned it upright in order to read:

Wedding organized. Festivities to last one night.

Several courses to serve - trout, northern game, and young wolf.

We thank Your Grace for helping cover the expense in trying times.

Her mouth went dry and the back of her neck felt like it was covered in needles.

She wasn't necessarily skilled in logic and deduction, but this wasn't written by someone overly clever. The implications of the letter were abundantly clear: the King was supporting a plot against her brother, against her mother, against the North.

Tywin made sure she attended gatherings of political figures, expected her to speak and relate to them. She knew her brother married a Westerland girl, breaking his oath to Lord Walder Frey.

The men she spoke with at those gathering thought it was the greatest game, trying to vex the Hand's Stark wife by speaking ill of her family. What they didn't know was she had been playing that particular game longer than the bloody war had existed. She also knew her mother's brother had been negotiated in place of Robb, his wedding upcoming at the Twins...

Sansa found herself scrambling for the nearest vessel and purging what she ate to break her fast, and what felt like every ounce of strength holding her up. Her mind sparked and popped erratically, like wet wood taking to fire. Her fingertips were cold, her feet were cold as well. She had felt this way before...

Her body was reacting to shock.

It was as though she were watching herself from somewhere above, she could see herself rinse her mouth and push away from the basin, then walk briskly to the desk and snatch up the letter that sent her reeling to begin with. There was a surprising feeling of calm covering her like the warmth of a blanket, it was chasing away the coldness that had crept in.

As Sansa exited into the large passageway beyond their apartments in the Tower of the Hand, her guard followed in a natural progression.

She knew her husband would be in one of two places, council chambers or the map room. The latter, as her husband had explained, a necessity with Stannis Baratheon still a threat. There was always case to investigate strategy and tactics. She made her way to council chambers and it wasn't until she neared the doors that she even considered Joffrey - that he may be in attendance - and what she found halting was that she cared not one whit.

Her focus was clear and she had a mission.

There was only one castle guard outside the doors to the chambers, indicating council had convened in the map room. Sansa did not even bother to ask, she simply turned abruptly and proceeded up the stairs, her guard forever in tow.

Rounding the final corner she saw two Gold Cloaks and Tywin's personal guards standing by the doors. She knew then that her assumption was correct.

Upon reaching the entrance, both the sets of guards seemed puzzled by Lady Sansa's appearance, but the Gold Cloaks moved to cover the doors out of habit.

"I need to speak with my husband, please announce me." She was polite and courteous, as expected.

It was the burliest of the two Gold Cloaks standing guard who addressed her. "Apologies m'lady, council is restricted to those already attending."

Sansa narrowed her eyes at the man, her patience was running thin and her anger was almost uncontrollable. "Do you know who my husband is, Ser?"

The man was somewhat taken aback. "Yes, Lady Lannister, of course-"

She didn't bother to be horrified or cringe at her name, she simply talked over him. "Would you care for my husband to know your name, Ser? The name of the man that kept his wife and urgent business away from him?"

She had never used her husband as a weapon, perceived or actual, and while people gave her a wide berth in general because of Tywin Lannister it was something altogether new to wield his name like a sword. Exhilarating in fact.

The burly guard and his companion exchanged looks before Sansa said in a tone of total authority, "Announce me."

The smaller Gold Cloak nodded and set to pushing the large wooden doors open, but before he could make his way inside and announce Lady Sansa as decorum stated, Sansa had already started to push past him.

It was her own guard that gripped her elbow lightly, trying the stop her from disrupting the meeting. "No my lady, please wait..."

But she shrugged out of his grasp before he could finish, far too livid and anxious to care.

Sansa shoved her way into the map room and must have looked a fright because Lord Tywin immediately stood, flashing a look of panic before settling back to severe, then flicked a glance at the men outside the door who allowed this to happen.

Her vision narrowed, her only focus was on her husband exclusively. Tywin met her halfway into the room before she choked out her words.

"You can't!" Her voice was shaking in anger, she was clutching the parchment in her fist and holding it up to him.

Tywin looked at his wife in furious confusion, until his vision settled on the nondescript seal of the letter.

It was his turn to offer words of equal temperament, only his were aimed at the men inside the room.

"Everyone out!"

He flicked a glance at Kevan, giving a silent command that his brother understood immediately. When Tywin looked back down to his wife, she was icy stiff in her own fury, something that melted as soon as the last man exited and Tywin gripped her wrist like a vice - the one that had been extended holding the parchment.

"Are you spying, girl? Is that how you honour me?" His grasp tightened. He knew it hurt her but did not care.

She pushed through it by setting her jaw and kept looking at him.

Her words were calm, measured, and spoken around the pain she was enduring. "I'm not spying, my lord. I was preparing another letter for my mother, and this," she shook her proffered hand as much as his grip would allow, "was sitting opened. I saw my brother's name... I couldn't help but read it." Her fear and sadness seeped into the last sentence. Her face followed suit, the stiffness of her features softening to worry.

"You cannot condone this, my lord. The King cannot condone this..." She was losing her fury altogether, her boldness had drained her.

His chest was tightening, he felt more than embarrassed or offended by her actions and accusations. He felt betrayed.

"And who are you to demand anything of me, girl?" It was all but snarled out at his wife. "Do you think me some old fool willingly lead by a cunt? Is that what you think of me?!" He shook the fist wrapped around her wrist as violently as he spoke his words.

His coarse language took her by surprise, her husband rarely, if ever used it. Yet Sansa would not be frightened nor cowed, not in this matter. It was too close - she was too close.

"My lord, I am your wife. I am going to be the mother of your children." She all but pleaded to the man.

She watched as Tywin dropped her wrist, stepped back and looked her up and down. Raking his view over and over, his face softening to one that looked distinctly boyish. Until he met her eyes again, then his features slowly formed an ever-deepening scowl.

It was his voice that was now shaky, but it wasn't in anger. "I thought you... I trusted you!"

She could hear the hurt in his words and it crushed her with the urge to reach for him, to touch him. It was an utter conflict of emotions within her. At the same time, her mind was trying to determine exactly why Tywin would be hurt...

Yet another door found by fumbling in the darkness.

"No..." He didn't seem to snap out of his hurt. "No!" She practically yelled the word at him, it rendered the desired effect. "I am not with child, my lord." She softened her tone, but it still projected urgency, "But I will be - and it will be our children that will carry this shame."

Tywin furrowed his brows sharply.

She knew she struck a chord with him. Specifically: putting into question his legacy.

Sansa begged her mind to comply, to calculate at a rate it had never been taxed with.

"You fought and sacrificed to win back the dignity of House Lannister, and this..." Again she shook the letter, but this time she raised it to just below his eye level in order to regain his focus and ensure his attention. "This will surely burn your efforts to the ground."

He flicked her hand out of his face and seethed, "Our name is not connected with this. I did not win back anything by being stupid, child."

Child, she had to ignore it and move on. She knew very well he slung subtle insults when he felt cornered, she had seen him do it on the rare occasion it happened. They were meant as redirection, but she knew better than to be baited. She had been taught better than that. Instead she willed her mind, with all her might, to produce the pictures needed for the story she had to tell.

"No, my lord, our name will not sign the order, you're right, but our gold will be placed in the hands of those that carry out the deed. The crown, our daughter, our grandson, will be rewarding the men engaged in this treachery." Those titles felt like blades in her mouth.

Sansa was grasping at the first things that came to her, but her husband looked engaged so she continued.

"And you know as well as I do that the entirety of Westeros recognizes that it is Tywin Lannister who rules, and has since before the rebellion." She caught her breath and added with renewed energy. "I grew up in the barbaric north and knew this!"

It wasn't a lie. She had sat silently around conversations between her father and his bannermen discussing and recounting those very details.

Tywin was listening, he was not simply humouring his wife. She could see his jaw flexing and working, his eyes never left hers. It was the thought of her father that supplied the next chapter of her tale.

"Do you not see? Guest Right is older than us all, and it's held in a higher regard than liege lords and kings on thrones."

When he narrowed his eyes slightly she knew she was skirting too close to frivolity.

Tywin spoke calm and collected then, not at his wife but to her. "Why would the crown want to continue in months of war when it can be ended in one night?"

Her mouth spoke instantly, "Anything gained easily has the highest of prices, that is what you told me."

She wanted to get on her knees and cry and wail and beg, but knew it would only eradicate her efforts.

"This, Tywin, this action," she shook the letter again, "will have the highest price of them all."

She then settled for the ugliest of honesty. "My lord, if this happens, you will persevere by reputation alone, but you will die, and whatever protection that your name offers will be buried as well." She was starting to feel defeated. "Any children you leave behind will have to answer for this, and House Lannister will have all but died with you."

She opted for a final truth to end it then, it was all she had left in her.

"You do this, Tywin, and you will forfeit the North."

She blinked slow and calm, unafraid. Sansa hated what she was about to say, hated herself for even offering it. She sounded so, so tired.

"Kill Robb Stark in battle, my lord. Allow him to die the death befitting the king they have crowned him, and you will still have a chance for the North." It was an effort for her to keep from retching. "If you support his death in this manner, my eight thousand year old name will be worthless to you."

There was nothing but silence between them. It accentuated just how heavily Sansa was breathing - as though she had been running throughout their entire conversation.

Lord Tywin stood up straighter, never taking his eyes off his wife.

Sansa could see the strategic ticking of scenario and endgame in the way his vivid green eyes would alternate focus on each one of hers. She knew he was both deep in thought and highly alert.

After what felt like hours his eyes squared on hers suddenly, no longer twitching, and she gasped inwardly.

His features did not move, did not betray one crumb of emotion before he nodded at her deep and sturdy, without taking his eyes off hers. He offered no verbal confirmation or acknowledgement, just that one nod and Sansa wasn't confident enough in herself to truly decipher it. But the solemn posture and expression he held gave her hope that her words had been absorbed and considered.

It was all she could ask for.

She had the urge to reach out to him, touch him or hold him, but refrained for fear of ruining what she had just accomplished.

It was Tywin who reached first.

He put his hand on her shoulder, not ungently, maintaining their eye contact, and drew easy circles with his thumb over her collarbone.

She knew he wanted to say something, his jaw was flexing again. Instead he used his hand to turn her toward the entrance of the room. When Tywin ushered her to the door he turned to his brother and instructed him to escort Sansa back to their apartments, and in the same breath he instructed the two soldiers standing sentry to seize Sansa's guard and take him to a cell.

Sansa immediately turned to question what was happening. She saw absolute fear blazing in the eyes of her young guard, and the stony impassiveness in her husband's.

"Wha-" She started to protest, but was swiftly turned away by Ser Kevan.

"Keep walking, my lady. Please." His voice was soft and affable, it wasn't so much a command as it was a request.

Ser Kevan kept a hand on her elbow, pointing her in the direction they needed to travel.

"But, why is-"

Turning once again, she couldn't understand why her guard was being detained. She wanted to see and, more so to know. Ser Jerrod had been her guard since her wedding day, she considered him a friend of sorts - she knew of his family, his wife and new child...

And again she was cut off by her husband's brother gently turning her back around.

"There is nothing that can be done behind you, my lady. You must go forward."

She heeded him. Ser Kevan was kindly but he was also a large man that could easily overpower her. And as she looked up at him, she noted even his expression was like the his voice and touch - gentle - a complete contrast to her husband.

As they walked, his words were sinking in. They were far more than flippant instructions. When she regarded him again he looked down at her and offered a small smile. It was genuine and spoke of understanding. Although they interacted almost daily, Sansa didn't know Lord Tywin's brother well. He was always polite and courteous, though he never offered more than the most general of conversation. She had assumed that he was of the same, albeit more quiet, mind as her husband. In the past handful of minutes however, she became keenly aware that Ser Kevan was far more than what he allowed others to interpret.

Much like herself, she supposed.

They walked in silence until they were securely inside the sitting room of her apartments. At which point she turned to Ser Kevan.

"Why?" She asked. "Why would he arrest Ser Jerrod?" It came out more high pitched and whiny than she intended, but she cared more about the answer than she did her tone.

Kevan Lannister looked at the girl in front of him, for that was what she was - a girl - and could easily recognize that she knew the answer to her own question and was seeking some sort of assurance that her assumption was incorrect.

He held a look of thoughtful knowing. "Everything has a price, my lady."

Her face looked pained as she glanced down and away from him.

Ser Kevan crouched slightly in order to look at her more directly and took each of her hands in each of his. "You knew that though." He quirked his lips slightly when she looked at him again, her eyes speaking the words her mouth refused.

She felt as though she wanted to cry, but held it at bay.

"It should be me," she whispered.

Even under his gentle stare, Sansa was under a crush of weighted emotion and had to look away again.

Kevan's features dropped, he knew exactly what she was feeling, but it had been such a long time since he'd experienced it himself.

"Lady Sansa, do you understand Tywin's message?"

Sansa took a deep breath and contemplated what had unfolded, then she took that sequence of events and perceived them as though she were her husband. Understanding made her feel physically ill. Not because comprehension in general was overwhelming, but because the death of a man could have been prevented if she weren't so impulsive, so selfish.

Hindsight was never fair, and she immediately thought of the first time this type of behaviour caused a man to lose his life - her father. Her tears could not be stopped then. She wasn't sobbing, but there were great rivers of tears making their way to the collar of her gown.

When she spoke, it was to Ser Kevans' boots. "The Hands' wife sought to control him - in front of the King's council." her voice sounded as though it had been dragged over a league of rough road. She looked up at the man in front of her. "And he would not be thought of as such. An example had to be made."

Kevan nodded and lightly squeezed the hands he was holding on to. "That's right," he said kindly.

However, he could see in her eyes that the burden was still too heavy.

"Did Tywin listen to you, my lady?"

She took a moment to ruminate, then answered honestly and quietly, "Yes, ser. He did."

Ser Kevan tilted his head ever so slightly, his look was on the edge of disbelief before he barely broadened his smile and spoke confidently. "Then, my lady, you have succeeded where kings have tried and failed." That it was a hard-learned lesson went unspoken, but was emphatically understood. He gave one more tiny squeeze to her hands before letting them go.

His smile remained in place as he nodded a bow and took his leave of her.

Sansa watched him exit and could not help but think that while he and Tywin were brothers they were also very different. She guessed that was the way of things - even in her own family. Robb was always so different from Jon... Then she hoped, hoped with the ferocity of the animal that represented her - both animals - that whatever she could impart on Tywin today would ensure that difference remained in the world.

When her handmaid entered the room Sansa asked for wine, then privacy.

The significance of what happened was heady, she needed time to digest not only the impact of finding the letter and confronting Lord Tywin, but also the ownership of one more life on her hands.

A price paid.

More blood through her fingers. Some days she felt as though she were drowning in it, all the blood. Nights were worse, that was when she could taste the copper and hear the voices of the dead.

Before her marriage she would wake up alone and shaking, screaming for her father. Now she wakes up to a warm hand settled on the center of her chest, and a calm voice pulling her out of her terror like a lifeline.

She succumbed to her grief then, the waves of sorrow crashing through the storm of herself.

Sansa wept for them all. For Ser Jerrod, for his family, for her father, for her family, for every single person dead and gone because of her. Always a heavy cost, but she clung to the knowledge that the price was for the greater good, not just for her or her own family, but for the realm. That it would alleviate an atrocious precedent.

It just made her cry all the harder.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa was still seated in front of the dwindling fire when Tywin returned to their apartments. He was exceedingly later than normal, but it was to be expected that night. She had had no appetite and lost her concept of time being so wrapped up in her thoughts. So much, she didn't hear her husband enter the room, let alone approach her.

He stopped in front of his wife, the tension still thick between them, and wanted to address the matter and be done with it, but it was Sansa who spoke first.

"My guard-"

She sounded calm, though it did not stop Tywin from putting an end to that line of conversation then and there.

"Is being replaced with one that will steer you away from stupidity."

His tone was equally calm, and it caused her guilt to double in size. But in doing so, it also sparked the kindling of anger that was tucked away in her thoughts. The one question she forced herself to dismiss, if only for the sake of her own sanity, was now in the forefront and could not be ignored.

"How long have you known?"

She was hypnotized by the guttering flames, not affording her husband even the slightest of glances, but her voice was shrewd.

Five words ensured that his expectation to put the issue to rest was shattered. He spoke annoyed as he walked away from her to sit at his desk, and said, "Many moons."

She did not know if she should be more angry at the nonchalant manner used to divulge his prior knowledge of the potential murder of her mother and brother, or the fact that he had known for that long. He had supped with her knowing it, had talked about countless other trivial matters knowing it, had bedded her knowing he was plotting the demise of her family.

A wave of shame shuddered down her.

"I hate you." It was said with the utmost sincerity. Still, she observed only the hearth.

Tywin scoffed at her, light and airy, as though his wife just made an amusing comment on the weather.

"If it pleases, my lady."

His mocking of her was enough to ignite her banked fury into a full-on rage. Sansa stood at an alarming rate and spanned the distance between the sofa and his desk in the barest of heartbeats.

She was standing in front of the large piece of furniture, gulping and heaving breaths, shaking in her hurt and anger, and he couldn't stop himself from pushing her. Couldn't stop himself from seeing exactly where her ire would lead her - them both. The corner of is mouth tilted up, his eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a sickly-sweet tone.

"Lady Lannister."

In one vicious swipe of her arm, Sansa cleared his desk of every page and parchment and, as if it were part of her furious choreography, planted both hands palm-down before settling her glare at him.

But violence was Tywin's dance. It was second nature for him and nothing to grab her wrists to pull her over his desktop; leaving her bent at the waist, toes barely finding purchase on the floor, head resting just past midway with one cheek flat against the grain of the wood. Quick as a snake, he swung both of her arms behind her back, pinning them there with only the strength of one of his hands.

He wasn't as furious as his wife but, then, his calm exterior was always part of the ploy - meant as a lull, meant as a warning, meant to frighten.

He only had to sway forward slightly and lean down at the shoulders before his mouth was next to her upturned ear.

"If you insist on acting like an animal, I will treat you as such," he rumbled low and long. "I will find you separate accommodation, remove your freedom and bed you as duty requires." He placed his lips on the shell of her ear and all but whispered, "Is that what you would prefer?"

Sansa was breathing heavily, face pulled tight in anger but she wasn't struggling.

"No." The word was more air than anything, edged in her fury, but it was the truth nonetheless.

Tywin removed his grip from her hands and let her arms fall to an almost natural palm-up position on either side of her. His hand then gently traveled up her back until it found a new home on her neck, his grasp wasn't dangerous, but it was firm.

Again he lowered his mouth to her ear, this time his voice, while stern didn't carry the same venom. "Hate me if you must; as you should." He took a deep breath before continuing. "But this," he lightly squeezed her neck for a beat, "This will get you killed."

He could see her body tense as he spoke.

"You need only speak to me, Sansa, but you will do so with respect." His voice became agitated. "You will do so with the tact befitting my wife, not some unmuzzled whelp."

"You lied to me." Sansa ground the words out, they were catching in her throat.

She could no longer find it in herself to cry and it made everything come out angry instead. She fisted her hands into the fabric at the side of her gown. She was laid out and held down on a desk - she was beginning to feel a fool.

His words were measured and heavily enunciated. "I did no such thing." It was as if she had accused him of treason.

Sansa tried to will herself to calm. "The letter-"

Tywin would have none of it, his threadbare patience was now completely gone. "That fucking letter," he hissed at volume, "had been openly sitting on this desk for over a sennight! Does that speak to you of lies and deception?!" The hand he kept on her neck was tightening in tandem with the raising of his voice. "Does it?!" He shook his hand slightly, as though to rouse her.

"N-no. It doesn't." Sansa was trying to comprehend, calculate and listen all at the same time.

His grip loosed a shade and he took a deep breath - reigning himself in.

"I didn't lay that letter at your feet because it was none of your business. If you wanted to make it, or any of them, your business you've had every opportunity for the better part of a year. The choice has always been yours, Sansa. I sit here every night and you choose everything outside joining me." He squeezed her neck a tiny amount. "I am neither your father, nor your mother, I have no bloody interest in dictating your personal routine." And added as an afterthought, "Save you giving me reason to."

She could hear his deep intakes of air, his fingers tapping a pattern on her neck before locking a slight grip again.

"You've got what you wanted, my lady," he said through clenched teeth. "This ends. Now." He leaned into her ear again. "However, in light of recent events I would strongly suggest you rethink your previous lack of interest in the affairs of the Hand of the King."

Sansa's face was softer but still twisted in turmoil, her angry eyes tried following every move her husband made.

Tywin removed his hand and stood from his chair, his voice harsh and sardonic. "Unless, of course, you feel I need even more embroidered kerchiefs."

He walked away from the desk.

She couldn't see where he had gone and took a moment to regain her bearings before attempting to straighten and stand. It was just as she was about to move to lift herself up from the expansive desktop when she felt a hand wrap itself around the back of her neck.

It was Tywin; she could smell him, hear him breathe.

He did not speak a word, simply applied a consistent pressure to her neck - holding her down.

He wasn't hurting her, but she didn't know his purpose either. When she felt his groin slowly push into her backside her stomach sank in a cold arc of fear.

Her breathing started to speed and shallow.

Tywin pushed harder into her arse, but she could tell he wasn't aroused. There was no hardness. She knew well what his erection felt like straining through his breeches, pressed against her body.

They stayed like that, frozen in their vulgar stance for several minutes. The crackling of wood in the fire, their breathing - his deep and calm, hers making an attempt to be anything but scared - were the only sounds in the room.

She couldn't see him where he stood, her head was turned to the side and pinned down. It added to the unease, the unknown. Sansa felt her husband's fingers squeeze a fraction tighter on her neck, at the same time he pushed a fraction harder into her backside, the front of her thighs picking up more hurt from the where they were pressing into the edge of the desk.

"Anger..." he said, breaking the quiet. He leaned into her even more and surprised her by softly dragging the tip of his finger over the upturned palm of her hand. "...is the first sign of defeat." His tone was completely neutral. There was nothing malicious or threatening in the way he spoke to her, and it brought Sansa to the outer rim of her discontent.

Tywin all at once let go and stepped away.

She could hear his footsteps receding, moving further and further away until the door opened then closed - ending the sound of him altogether.

It was a lesson.

This will get you killed.

Sansa turned her face, brought her arms around and rested her forehead on the sleeves of her gown, thinking, considering. Refusing to move from where she was draped, she found her continued physical and emotional discomfort were required to truly understand.

This was Tywin's way of conveying the consequences of her actions.

She had allowed her anger to control her and it made her weak and give way to her vulnerabilities. She allowed those vulnerabilities to be exploited. Sansa realized that it didn't just speak of being hauled over a desk. She was angry. She had been angry since her father followed through with the Queen's order to kill Lady, since her father was killed, since Arya was lost, since Bran and Rickon...

Even though her perpetual chirping courtesy was able to swallow and mask her fury, it didn't diminish it. No one was able to see her anger, or how it rendered her lacking. The Hound perhaps, but he never understood. No, no one recognized it except her husband.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

Through his actions, Lord Tywin was telling his wife he would not permit her to be soft. Would not tolerate her becoming what so many easily did, because weakness was easy. His abasement of her was exactly what he thought of willful helplessness. However, whether she was going to be weak or strong was her choice. Just as it was her choice to shy away from his business and remain ignorant under the guise of propriety.

Sansa no longer wanted to be weak or unaware, for no other reason than it was what people, other than Tywin, expected of her.

The more she considered the letter, the more it was understood that she could no more blame him for not being proactive than she could for him not making the choice for her. It was hers to make. He wanted her to make her own choices and her own mistakes.

There was success, though. She had managed to salvage a mistake and change his mind, change the course of yet another tragedy that was careening into the Starks. Even if he would not allow her to bask in her success, it did not negate the significance. It did not negate the fact that he respected her for it.

She managed to smile a little to herself.

Every lesson that day was born of heartache, and every lesson that day would never be forgotten.

By either of them.

...

..

.