...
..
.
It wasn't often Tywin sent for her during the day, but when he did, it was normally for her to be of company to Tommen or request her presence on behalf of Cersei. Her lord husband had refused his daughter the right to summon his wife directly; however, when Sansa's attendance was requested, Tywin would always accompany her. So when approached by a Lannister page, a boy she had not set eyes on before, Sansa took his shy, innocuous summons as a call for one of those two standards.
A pause from the seemingly endless study of books and numbers was not so much a chore. If she were in the company of Tyrion she found the task of learning tolerable; alone, and it felt insurmountable some days - much like this day.
Lady Sansa rose with a subtle stretch from the large desk she shared with her husband most evenings and walked through the blazing lines of sunlight that bathed the floor of the Hand's solar, making her way toward grand double doors and to the boy who was now flanked by her guard. Both of whom stood tall, one only as much as his young age would allow, proudly sporting the colours loyal to their liege.
The boy had a new face, but looked very much a Lannister with his golden hair and green eyes. Albeit, the green eyes looking at her presently were very nervous. Sansa knew well the overwhelming feeling of being in King's Landing for the first time - and in the general company of her husband, for that matter.
"Do you know why Lord Tywin has asked for me?" she said as she drew near the two.
The inquiry was for no other reason than to help calm the boy, to sympathize without drawing attention. The effort was for naught when the boy went wide-eyed at her question and all but panicked.
"I- I think there is corre- corres-..." The young lad swallowed a mouthful of air like he hadn't done so in a fortnight, wheezing out, "A letter... Yours... For you, I mean. Lady- My lady." Then, to finish, flushed a shade of crimson his house would surely be proud of.
Lady Sansa smiled at the page and it only seemed to make the poor boy blush hotter.
"Thank you..." Sansa waited for him to supply his name, but the page was at a total loss, and his lady mercifully let him off the hook. "...Ser." She finished, without even a hint of mocking.
From behind them, though, her guard was heard sniggering in good humour.
With a slight nod from his lady, the page at once gathered himself and knew to start walking.
They traveled quietly for the most part. Sometimes Sansa let the page lead her, sometimes she gently steered the boy down the correct hallways and corridors, all the while mulling over her letter. She had a good idea as to what it was.
A reply from her mother.
Just the thought of it made her stomach flutter and her smile widen. It had been moons, but she was patient if anything, and now she would finally have contact with her family.
Her family.
Sansa had to resist the urge to leave her escorts and start running. No, she chided herself. She had waited this long, a few more minutes were practically nothing. She honestly did not care what the letter might say or not say, as long as she was in communication with her mother and brother.
What she felt in conjunction with the absence of anyone familiar was a physical pain - one she had swallowed and endured for far too long. But to be fair, her husband was no longer such a stranger, and that certainly helped to alleviate some the loneliness that weighed down on her spirit.
There was now a cognition and routine in their relationship. Not to say it was flawless. She still stood in the path of his ire and bore witness to his brand of cruelty, but she was now far better equipped to withstand it and cope when it did occur.
It was enough that she was not so alone, so much.
When she thought of their intimacy, outside their impeccable court persona, it was she who was stained a hue of red that all but painted a picture of what her memory was conjuring. Her knowing smile only confirmed it. She liked that time with him. Tywin was neither a lord nor a lion, just as she was not a dull northerner nor a traitor's daughter. When they were laid bare to one another there was no room for titles or labels. They were merely a man and a woman, no more no less.
Even that journey, she mused to herself, the one to be comfortable with each other privately, required and extensive amount of trial and error.
Now though, in those times, Sansa witnessed heartbeats of vulnerability and moments of happiness in Tywin Lannister, and she could only assume that like her, they were glimpses of the person his life left behind. Not forgotten, no. These were parts of them that lost distance in day-to-day life, then caught up in times of enjoyment. When their hardened-selves were forced to rest, only to be once again pushed to the fore at the mention or action of reality.
Her mind wandered back to her mother.
Sansa could only assume, hope really, that Lady Catelyn would approve of the slivers of peace she had carved out in a marriage that still caused people to grimace and judge at its very mention.
Once communication was established, Sansa planned to help bring maybe not an end but perhaps an interruption to a war that had lasted into a more perilous time.
Winter is coming.
It was the truth of it. Even in King's Landing the days were cooler and the nights were stretching longer.
She knew she would never convince Robb, or the north as a whole, to swear fealty to Joffrey - nor would she want to try - even given the carefully worded suggestions and pretty gifted trinkets from her husband hoping to convince her to do just that.
She smiled again, then let it flatten.
The possibility of actually seeing her mother again was not one she dwelled on for terribly long. Sansa knew her role as the wife of the enemy would have its price, but for even the slightest bit of calm she would gladly pay it, and continue to pay it.
When she arrived at the solar behind the Throne Room and was announced, she was somewhat confused that Lord Tywin was alone. Ser Kevan was always there, a living shadow smiling kindly to her from his brother's side. Today, from what she could see, he was nowhere within. Yet his absence would not deter the giddy happiness welling inside her.
When Tywin noticed her, he stood and rounded to the large, extravagant table used as a desk in that room.
She noticed him pick up a parchment as he went and was certain it belonged to her.
His face was ever-serious, but it was also holding a scowling frown. Sansa knew then that what her mother must have wrote was either displeasing to her husband or directly slandering him. She was prepared; there were already mental contingency plans in place to placate whatever wounded pride Tywin might suffer from whatever disapproval her mother or brother may have communicated.
When she got closer she could see clearly that his eyes were agitated like he was angry, so she started the cogs and wheels turning in preparation for tending to his bruised ego. As Sansa stopped within an arms length of her husband, she reached her hand out and ran the tips of her fingers from the top of his collar to the middle of his doublet, and rested her palm there.
His eyes showed surprise at first then softened slightly in the midst of his stony expression.
It was as she had planned. It was when he raised his own hand to caress her jawline that she knew her initial tactics were successful.
Sansa smiled at him and tilted her head slightly, leaning into his touch. At the same time she moved the hand that rested on his doublet over to the letter he was holding, gently plucked it out of his grasp. She moved her face upright, out of his palm, in order to read the parchment, feeling his now empty hand travel down her neck and shoulder, further until it settled on her elbow. He cupped it as though to help prop her arm up, assisting her to read.
The smile she beamed at her serious, humourless husband would not be dimmed. The happiness she felt at finally, finally communicating with her family would not be diminished.
She read:
...
Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Hand of the King:
Rumour of massacre at The Twins of those attending the wedding of Edmure Tully Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Riverrun - Confirmed.
Ambush against the northern constituency by Lord Walder Frey of the Twins, Lord of the Crossing - Confirmed.
Secondary implementation from within the northern ranks, rumoured Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort - Unconfirmed (presumed).
Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, dead - Confirmed.
Northern military hierarchy - Both dead and captured (unconfirmed/unreliable numbers and names)
Lady Catelyn Stark, dead - Unconfirmed (presumed).
Northern army scattered, disbanded - Confirmed (varying reports).
More information to follow.
Ser Flement Brax, Commander, 2nd Lannister Mounted Company
...
Sansa's mind was surprised at how calm the rest of her was.
Until the information sunk in...
...Robb Stark, dead...
...Catelyn Stark, dead...
The words filtered through to where they were processed and understood; to the place where the impact of such things caused her throat to thicken and her muscles to shiver.
She felt her husband's hand tighten on her elbow.
Her body reacted before her mind. She was helpless to watch her arm first arc upward then - as it came down strong - her hand slap Tywin squarely in the face. She did not clip his facial hair, there was no muffled thump, there was only the sound of a palm meeting its mark.
It was a sharp pointed noise that pierced the air of the room.
Sansa wanted him to hurt too. Her husband should hurt. He should be the one to hurt most of all. She wanted the darkness that was devouring her to swallow him as well. He should be the meal this time, sating the hungry belly of emotional agony. But when she looked at him there was nothing of the smug arrogance that was supposed to be there, there was only a clenched jaw and a look of pity.
She did not want his pity! She wanted his fury! She wanted to evoke something in him that would ensure she would feel - feel anything other than squeezing hurt around her heart.
So when she struck him a second time it was with the heel of her hand. The noise that time was not one made of sharp blades but one made of blunt ends.
She did not care.
When the red began to trickle out of his mouth, she did not care.
When he made no effort to harm her in return, she did not care.
The hurt was spreading, making her fingers and toes numb. Her lips were cold and her legs started to ache, her lungs burned with every breath and her jaw was set so tight she thought it would break. The room was beginning to feel like a corset, strings being yanked and pulled from all angles, tightening and binding and suffocating...
She needed to escape.
She needed to be out of the den of lions... and stags... and thorny roses... and whispers and blood...
Tywin still held her elbow and when Sansa made to wrench herself free he held it even tighter.
There was the pain she had wanted, but that moment had already passed. Now she only wanted to leave.
She wrenched again, glad of the alternate hurt and furious at the resistance. His mouth was moving but the sound was blocked out by ringing in her ears. She wrenched a third time, and thattime she found her freedom. Not that she won it by a show of strength, she had merely been let go.
Her lord husband wore a look he had absolutely no right to - sympathy.
She wanted nothing of it. He wasn't allowed that look - not for her, not for anyone!
Sansa backed away from the man like he was a disease.
He was a disease; an infection, a plague in her life. As he attempted to reach for her she backed away even more, quicker so as not to be tainted further.
Tywin stopped trying - talking to her, reaching for her, offering her what pathetic comfort a man like him could. And when she swung around, turning her back to him, he did not stop her.
No one stopped her.
It was like she was, yet again, some plaything in these horrible games these horrible people delighted in. They all knew her secret before she did.
And so, she ran.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He saw her shoulders tense at the sound of him entering the part of the godswood she had sought refuge in, but his gait was as stunted as his body and he took comfort in knowing she would soon recognize her company.
Tyrion had envied her initially and was, perhaps, jealous of Sansa's relationship with his sire. It seemed to reaffirm the unfairness of his own life when the daughter of a traitor, the slough of the King, was better received and more trusted in his father's circle than flesh and blood.
However, when he witnessed Lord Tywin's annoyance with her as they were sat at a meal attended by family in the first few days of their marriage, it allowed assumption to swing to assertion in that she was no more an object of affection as she was a pet to train. Yet the moment Tyrion made the effort to talk to her, to reallytalk to her, he knew she was no mere pet. Not in the slightest.
Sansa was blank parchment vying for ink.
The next instance he played audience to his father publicly inflicting impatience on his new wife, he ignored the bright noise of Lord Tywin and paid particular attention to the undertones of Lady Sansa. She was patience; the epitome of sufferance in an onslaught of intolerance. In that same moment his jealousy turned to admiration, and Tyrion knew this girl would be one to ally himself with.
Over the months though, the focus of his involvement with Lady Sansa turned from one of leverage and advantage over his father to one of honest friendship. He found that his father's wife had the uncanny trait to enchant. But it was more than the simple charm possessed by most women, it was the ability to draw fascination from even the most unlikely of places. Though, what separated Sansa from everyone else was that she had no idea of - or want to misuse - her gift. Which, in and of itself was bloody charming.
And he knew, after more than a year of marriage - within those first months of her marriage, if he were to be honest with himself - that his omnipotent father was just as much smitten with his wife's charm as anyone else. Tyrion could see the way his father looked at Sansa. The brief glimpses of longing and appreciation. Looks that would be dismissed or misinterpreted by anyone else.
The way Lord Tywin sometimes looked at Lady Sansa was what Tyrion often dreamt was the way his father looked at his own mother, once. And for foolish instances he would willingly carry the guilt and shame his father heaped upon him for taking that away. But those moments were fleeting, and his like of Lady Sansa could not be tarnished.
His attention once again settled on the form he was drawing nearer to.
Even though he readied as he thought best, bringing extra kerchiefs in preparation for tears and woe, he approached this young woman, his father's little wife, with a caution reserved for battle with the unknown. As he got closer to her he could see that she was kneeling, her back in flawless posture as always, her head slightly bent, and she was looking at her hands. More precisely, a letter clutched in her fingers.
She did not speak or even acknowledge his advance, her gaze kept downward, deep in thought.
As he slowed to a stop by her side and carefully fell into a seated position beside her on the mossy ground, Tyrion could see clearly she was not crying. In fact, her face looked as though she had yet to shed any tears, and in considering her further, Tyrion could not decide if he was feeling wonderment or dread.
He spoke gently.
"Mother."
Sansa's features smoothed slightly, but she did not look at him.
"Son," she answered.
What was once a contentious name Tyrion used to rouse whatever reaction he could out of his sire's bride had become a term of endearment. More so when Sansa developed her own. It was a greeting, a plan to meet and talk, a connection. Something known and used privately between them. Depending on the inflection used, those two words could speak an entire conversation. Mostly though it spoke of the ridiculousness of it all, the understanding of it all, and of their shared defiance. The latter being something Tyrion was more than happy to instruct Sansa on how to revel in.
They sat silently together for what felt like hours taking in the calm of their surroundings, the quiet comfort of each other's presence.
In truth, Tyrion needed time to build his courage.
"I..."
He aborted his attempt at empathy. It was not what she wanted or needed. Suddenly he, the verbal tactician, was at a loss for words entirely.
She answered his fumble in a soft and tired tone, "Please don't say you're sorry."
"I won't," he sighed. "But it doesn't change the fact that I am."
There was a small gap in their conversation, enough to hear the birds in the canopy chattering amongst themselves. Sansa looked down at the loam, blinked a few times and offered a tiny smirk.
"It would imply you carry fault," she said, as smugly as her mood could afford.
Tyrion looked sidelong at the girl and spoke with a smile of his own in his voice, "And for you to evensay that means you are being influenced entirely too much by him."
Sansa lost her smirk then and whatever pitiful amount of happiness she showed only moments before.
"I am nothing like him," she seethed. Her tone was built somewhere between terrified child and grief stricken. "He murdered them."
Tyrion sat contemplating her words for quite a while before deciding what she needed to hear, what he needed to say.
"You're half right." He employed a somber tone and was completely confident Sansa would connect his reply with her statement, regardless of the amount of time that had passed.
She looked at him, turning her head only slightly toward her son.
He looked at her in return and continued, "Is that what you believe? That he murdered them?"
Tyrion watched her breathe deeply in preparation for honesty, doubly allowing her to take her time in answering.
"No." She let out a long, tired exhale. "That's not what I believe." Her voice cracked into the sadness that had been expected in her to begin with. "But he didn't save them either."
He could see her fists clench and her body tense again. The paper in her hand crackled under the stress and pressure of her fingers, and he couldn't help but make the ominous comparison to the young lady holding it.
"Did you really expect him to?" Tyrion asked.
It was an awful question regardless of the softness in which it was presented. Not in that it was asked, but because it had to be.
Yes!, her mind shrieked at her. Yes! That's what husbands do! That's what men do for their wives! ...That's what my father would have done for my mother! That's what marriage is supposed to mean! Love-
"No."
The finality in her voice made Tyrion cringe.
Sansa did accomplish something astounding though. Something Cersei cursed her openly for, something Kevan admired her openly for, and something he momentarily thought was some grand mystery until he remembered the look, and who exactly it was pertaining to, and took back any amazement he had spared. But in the end it did not mean her feat was meaningless or any less astounding.
"You changed his mind, Sansa. You altered the path of the Great Lion of Casterly Rock." He rested his hand on her forearm. "No one since my mother has been able to sway the man. But youdid."
Sansa turned her head minutely, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice was flat, and she said, "They're still dead. I changed nothing."
Tyrion squeezed her arm to gain her attention wholly.
"You're wrong and you know it." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Tell me, my lady, what were the results of your actions?"
She looked at him half annoyed, half considering his query internally.
"Removing the Crown from the plot at the Twins." Her voice was tired again, she did not care about useless information.
Tyrion took a deep breath, smiling thoughtfully at her. At the same time, he made to stand, awkwardly using her forearm as leverage. He had never been graceful when it came to the more rudimentary mechanics of anatomy.
"Yes, now." He was still grunting as he was straightening. "Who are you?"
She did not understand his game. Beyond that, she did not want to play. "Your mother," she said in agitation.
Tyrion narrowed his eyes again and, now that he was of height with the kneeling girl, he reached out and flicked a finger against her forehead. The gesture, albeit a surprise, was one of annoyance and one that told her she was thinking lazily. He leaned in, almost nose-to-no-nose, and measured each word, "Who are you?"
Sansa inhaled deeply, speaking at a whisper on the exhale, "Lady Lannister, wife of Tywin Lannister."
Tyrion stood up straight and smiled kindly before he nodded and went to leave. As he moved to work his stiff joints, he spoke again.
"Yes, Lady Lannister, and since the Crown has no ties to this abhorrent viciousness-" He turned to look at his friend then, and spoke in voice of sincere authority, "-it seems you have quite a debt to pay."
With that, Tyrion turned fully and made his way out of the godswood.
Sansa watched him leave then looked down at the parchment in her hand. She felt her body go hot. It made her queasy, wave after wave of heat cascading from the top of her head, downward. She was being showered in the prospect of vengeance, tasting blood in her mouth and feeling flesh give way under her fingers. She was vibrating in it.
But the revenge she wanted was unattainable. To be able to swing the blade herself, and by her own hand administer the justice that was desperately needed... She was not that person, and Sansa knew that well enough. However, what she was more than capable of was thought and process. And so, instead of focusing on what she wanted to do, she calculated what she could do.
In the frightening details of her considerations she found answer after answer and, in turn, she found a new blackness that smothered and numbed the hurt inside her.
It was as she basked in the freedom from her heartache, embraced the cool detachment that ended her torment, that she happened to glance at the parchment again.
Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Hand of the King...
What she read was the title of a man who was feared. A man who was passionately dispassionate. A ruthless man who approached life with cold kind of apathy.
I am nothing like him, her mind said. At the same time, the wind picked up and swirled about the godswood. A cool breeze to douse the heat of vengeance. She accepted then that she was not thatperson, a soul akin to her husband, and set about fighting the blackness back into the shadows. Sansa welcomed the hurt again and realized that it was the ache that made her feel alive and that she had to live for those who were lost. That she had to persevere for those who had been sacrificed so mercilessly.
She hated the distress in her heart, but the possibility of becoming like the man who married her was more than enough to sustain the emotional wounds and concede that those scars would always serve as reminders, but never define her.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sansa made her way slowly to their apartments in the later hours of the afternoon.
Every step she took felt wooden, and matched the way she felt inside.
When she walked through the doors of the sitting room, she could see Tywin in his place behind their desk and Lyol pouring wine. The scene was nothing unusual, save the hour in which it was taking place - Tywin not normally returning until supper. She considered whether he was waiting for her, for her benefit, then realized it did not matter. She did not care about his motive or the fact that he was there at all.
He lifted his eyes to her as if she were a thing to study, his face impassive and stern, and she was taken in a wave of absurdity - of him, of her, of everything - and it snapped every scrap of wood inside her.
She was broken.
...Robb Stark, dead...
...Catelyn Stark, dead...
All the grief and tears she thought had been orphaned and lost since reading those atrocious words had only been dammed behind now collapsed walls. The pent up emotion was flooding her, overwhelming every corner of her.
He watched her shatter in front of his eyes and was utterly powerless to stop it, or to ease it, or to do anything but bear witness to it. It was because of that he felt part of himself crumble with her.
Her world bent and she felt herself falling. She had been looking at her husband when the plummet began and could see him rising to his feet as she was sinking beneath him... But everything was slow and warping.
Tywin looked like he was running, yet his speed was nothing like a man set to rush. She realized then that her descent was equally listless. Her vision angled down as her knees came to a painful halt and she surmised she had finally hit the floor. No sooner had she accepted the jarring fall than she was rising up again. A warm hand was at the back of her knees and another one was hooked around her back, pressing her against a warmth that smelled familiar and safe.
Safe.
...Robb Stark, dead...
...Catelyn Stark, dead...
She was safe and her family were dead. All of them.
They left her all alone in a place that only wanted to see her subjected to pain and suffering and now she had nothing outside of it.
Tywin felt hands dig into his clothing where he cradled her to his chest. Her grip was impossibly tight like she was anchoring him, or herself, against any possibility of vanishing. He was mere strides from their bedchamber when she pulled even harder into him and began to wail. The roar of sorrow was made even more heartbreaking by the fact that it came from this girl. His girl. His wife.
He could feel each sob build and shiver through her. Her keening wracked her with such a physical force, Tywin had to hold on harder than he intended just to ensure she wouldn't quake out of his grasp. But Gods, it was the sound she made. It punched him in the chest every time it rocked and shuddered out of her. It was pure mourning, and he knew exactly what kind of misery that was. Just as he knew that there wasn't a fucking thing he could do for her, and that stabbed him with its own horrible agony.
Sansa was coughing and choking on waves and torrents of tears and mucus; nothing was in her control. Her muscles tensed and cramped and all she could do was bewail her grief into the space around her. The arms that carried her set her on something soft - her bed she supposed - but the excruciating sadness would not allow her to confirm anything except loss.
She heard bits and pieces of Tywin's voice from somewhere faraway summoning a maester, then Kevan, then her sobs grew larger again and were in the way. After a few moments she felt large warm circles being rubbed into her back. Her grief had made her muscles taut. So much so even where her gown touched, it hurt. Every soft contact felt as though it were made of steel and was crashing into her.
All the pain mingled together and she simply curled into herself and kept crying.
Sansa felt something brushing her face - a hand, a cloth, she couldn't tell - then heard her name, but it sounded like everything was underwater. There was a coolness at the back of her neck and her name was still floating calmly in front of her. It took everything she could scrape together inside her just to open her eyes.
When her vision cleared, Tywin came into focus.
They were in their bedchamber and they were alone - a small mercy in a riot of tragedy.
He was holding the back of her neck, propping her up, bringing a cup to her mouth.
...Robb Stark, dead...
...Catelyn Stark, dead...
She pursed her lips and tried to back away from it.
Tywin knew exactly where her thoughts were leading her. He let go of her and stepped back.
"It's not poison, Sansa," he said, firm and calm. "It is a draught to help you sleep."
His voice seemed impossibly kind, and it made her even more suspicious. Her body acted on its own and scurried further across the bed. Sansa's breathing started to falter and her tears started again, she crumpled into a heap and wept anew.
This time there was an element of fear in the look on her face, and Tywin forced himself past the anger her childishness sparked in him and came to the only conclusion presented.
She barely noticed him leave, though in the hiccoughs of her sadness she could hear talking through the open door. She recognized Ser Kevan and Tywin, there was also another man but she could not place his voice before her mind rounded back on her grief.
When Tywin returned, Sansa was where he had left her, only now she was whimpering.
His wife was no longer the strong young woman he had watched bloom, she was once again the terrified girl - a captive this time to sorrow, now pining for her mother. But hers was such a sad piteous voice it pulled and tugged at him violently. He had to make a conscious effort to breath normally.
Tywin had been holding a carafe and two cups, which he set down on the small table within the room. Sansa watched every move he made, her eyes darting from behind her tears; her stuttered breathing slowed down as she now had something else to occupy her attention.
He undid the fastenings on his doublet then walked to the side of the bed that she was closer to and held out his arm. At length he shook his hand then spoke softly.
"I cannot remove it without help."
Sansa was still sniffling, rather bewildered, but nevertheless leaned over and complied. Taking hold of the cuff of his sleeve while he pulled his arm out, she repeated the action with the other. Her husband stripped completely and changed into a bedgown.
Again he approached where she was curled up. "Come here Sansa." A wave of his fingers emphasized his request.
She still held her suspicion, but thought tiredly that he could easily rid the world of the last Stark without dressing for bed. Crawling closer, he caught her midway and lifted her to her knees in front of him. His jaw was working but she was in no mood, so she rested her forehead against his chest - the air still hitching as she breathed - and waited for him to decide what he wanted.
She did not wait long.
Tywin moved his fingers ably to loosen the lacing of the restrictive bodice of her gown, leaned down and wrapped his arms around her waist. Picking her up then setting her on her feet, he continued to remove her dress.
Sansa was in too much pain on the inside to concern herself with what happened on the outside. She considered that perhaps he wanted to take his rights as a husband, and found she did not care. Instead, she watched through wet eyes as he covered her eventual nakedness with her own bedgown, and before she could think of anything else, Tywin moved away from her toward the small table. There she observed him pour liquid into each cup before picking them both up and walking back to her.
He drank the entire contents of one cup and held out the other.
"It is not poison."
She picked up the edge of annoyance in his voice.
His wife took the offered drink and consumed it all. Tywin didn't know whether he felt foolish in that he had to resort to such measures, or uneasy in that she trusted such a display of foolishness.
No matter.
The old lion pulled back the bed coverings and silently implored his wife to take the invitation.
After she had climbed in and curled into herself facing away from him, Tywin retrieved the damp cloth before joining her. He moved closer to Sansa, then felt a pang of hesitation. He had not considered what he would do if she rejected his effort to comfort her.
Sleep, his mind concluded dryly.
Cautiously, he slid his arm under her head and curled the rest of him against her back.
She felt him move in close to her, though she was in no state to even consider a fight - not that she wanted to fight anyway. There was comfort in him, in his presence, and at least it was contrasting the hurt.
Sansa could feel Tywin's fingers moving her hair to the side - pulling a little too hard sometimes and plucking strands, her body barely acknowledged it. Though the instant he placed the cold damp cloth at the back of her neck again, she sighed at the relief. It extinguished the heat that pooled in her head from crying.
His arm came to rest around her middle.
"How did you know to do that?" She did not have to see his face to know he was frowning at her unclear question. "The cloth," she clarified. Her voice was graveled, but also that of a small child, speaking more into the bed linen than anything. She just did not have the want or power for more.
His muscles stiffen where he was leaning against her. "My wi-" He shifted slightly and tried again. "My first wife-"
"Lady Joanna," Sansa muttered absently.
"Yes, Lady Joanna." Tywin cleared his throat a little before speaking further. "Shortly after we were married, her father died. The abruptness of his death caused her to mourn terribly."
"I wasn't allowed to mourn the death of my father."
Her statement was not swung as a weapon. Even in her sad-child voice he knew it was simply a matter of fact.
He held her a little tighter before speaking.
"The deaths you hear about are the ones that fade easier. They never go away entirely, but time interrupts and creates gaps between the grief at a faster pace."
Tywin paused for a moment and Sansa could feel his breath quicken.
"But when you are there to witness the death of someone you..." His throat involuntarily clenched. "Care for." There was a moment of recovery. "It stays with you as fresh and dreadful as if it were that day, for the rest of your days... Perhaps there is a reason the Gods choose to brand those events at the front of the mind..."
She knew at the end Tywin was no longer talking directly to her. Sansa was no stranger to that particular torment. They shared a bed, and there was nothing sacred between people when sleep removed command of one's mind. There just wasn't. Her father haunted her dreams as much as Lady Joanna haunted his, but the pain of those memories were now halved.
She reached out and put her hand in his where it lay resting just past her head. Her fingers wriggled into their place between his.
Tywin would hold her hand like that when he could sense her stress - publicly or privately - and it was an action that always lent itself to calm. When he curled his fingers over, the effect was immediate. Perhaps for each of them.
She heard his breath let out behind her, then felt his mouth rest on the back of her head. He was doing no more than breathing her scent and nuzzling his lips and nose into her hair, creating a peaceful lull.
"Sleep, love."
He sounded as though he were already dreaming and, like their ghosts, his words were unfiltered and uncontrolled.
With that, her mind was able to sidestep the dolor that was threatening, able to follow a path of comfort until she found her own dreams.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The next time her eyes opened, Sansa found herself staring at dancing shadows cast on the walls by the fire in the hearth.
She was still curled up on her side, but her body ached and her head beat in a shallow but persistent thud, and she could tell that her husband was no longer curled up with her. She could not feel him at all.
The cold cloth Tywin placed on the back of her neck earlier was now tepid, but still served to dull the thump inside her skull. Her eyes were sore, her throat was raw, the place behind her cheeks burned and hurt. Though as her mind focused on Robb and her mother, the only thing she could offer were the thick tears that rolled down her face and the heavy air she pushed out of her lungs.
Sansa then felt warm knuckles rub circles into the rise of her hip.
There was nothing left in her to even acknowledge Tywin, his touch, or anything.
Her mind was just so tired.
Her body was just so cold.
The fire would have heated the room sufficiently, but her bones were icy. It came from within, like a damp cold that had seeped into her marrow.
She turned over slowly. The first thing she noticed was that Tywin was further away than his touch suggested. He was laying on his back with the arm furthest from her tucked behind his head. She also noted that the fire illuminated the top ridge of his profile in a way that made him look as though he were built of flames.
He looked warm.
When she moved again he turned his head toward her. Not saying a word, he simply watched until she was close enough to discern what she wanted, then lifted his arm in order to give it to her. Sansa curled herself into the side of her husband, facing him, her knees tucked up against his side, the arm under her and most of her torso laid on his belly. She felt his large hand come to rest on the edge of her hip and lower back.
He was warm, and it was enough to begin to settle her agitation, but it wasn't enough to ebb the fathomless tears that were still streaming down her face.
Tywin was looking at her; there was no emotion easily read on him. Her blurry eyes were not of any assistance either, but she could feel him. His fingers pressed a light rhythm into her back as his thumb traced an invisible pattern into her hip.
Sansa laid her head down on the softness of his bedgown and the warmth of him underneath it and tentatively closed her eyes.
"You're glad of it, aren't you?"
Her question came in the form of a corroded voice.
Tywin was teetering on the cusp of sleep himself when her words drew him back. His eyes struggled open, focusing on the girl that was partially draped over him, that had again raised her head and was looking up at him through red, swollen eyes. He blinked slow as he considered his words, tightened his fingers but a fraction where they rested on her hip. Tywin would not lie to her, but neither would he add to her torment. Thus he purposefully bit back any annoyance that may have gathered in regard her vague question.
"If you are asking me if I wanted your brother dead..." The momentary gap was in order to gauge her willingness for the truth. "Yes, you know that I did."
Other than taking a deeper breath and her tears still falling, Sansa displayed no outward signs of struggle.
"If you are asking if your brother's death will mean quicker gain and profit... Yes, it will."
Where her hand was resting idly on his stomach, he could feel her fingers curl, biting through the fabric into skin. Lord Tywin took a slow breath in, moved his hand from behind his head to rest on the crown of her hair. He began stroking his thumb over and through the softness there.
"If you are asking if your brother's death makes me happy..." Frowning a tiny amount, his brows pulled down lower and he looked at her with the serious eyes she knew to mean that he was troubled. "No, it does not."
It was barely a whisper, sounding more like a lullaby.
Sansa laid her head down again and tried to concentrate on the rhythm of her husband's breathing, the strokes of his fingers in her hair.
In the end, it was only after the drain and effort of her next wave of sorrow that she was able to find sleep.
To find some peace.
...
..
.