A/N: This is an intense chapter, with depictions of abuse and sexual content. I'm sure most of my readers are well aware of the warnings by this stage of the story, but please do keep them in mind.

Sansa:

She gasped at the sound of Aegon's voice and twisted around to face him. He looked down at her and his hands tightened on her shoulders. Suddenly there was no breath in her lungs.

She felt twelve years old, saw Joffrey's wormy face and the bright mail of the Kingsguard, tasted blood in her mouth.

She remembered Petyr Baelish's dry kisses and the smile that never reached his eyes.

She felt Sandor Clegane's knife at her throat. He never kissed me, I wanted to believe he kissed me, that it was a romantic dream. He held the knife to my throat and ordered me to sing.

She thought of Septa Mordane, how the woman had wept over her lost youth and petted Sansa as she put her to bed at night. She told me how pretty I was. She told I was all she had in the world. She told me she loved me.

"My … my lord," she said. "I did not expect you."

Davos and Marya had moved into Tyrion's old rooms below. They would likely be finishing dinner. There must be guards on the stairs, servants bringing things, the Seaworth boys going out to a night's entertainment in the city taverns. She could call out. Someone would hear and come. Maybe. And he would be angrier, and he would find a way to make me pay for it. She kept her silence.

He didn't move, just stood over her, looking down at her, a slight smile on his lips. The silence stretched between them.

Sansa found herself breaking it. "You are welcome, of course … if I had known … my maids have gone to supervise the loading of the ship …". I am babbling like a fool. She stopped and smiled up at him.

"You look well," he said. He ran his fingers up the side of her neck, twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you, my lord." Stay. Stay here. I cannot hide in the mind of a bird not now. This is bad – the worst I have seen him since the night I was brought back to Harrenhal. She forced herself to remain calm, to remain present.

He took his hands away, and strolled over to help himself to a cup of wine from the flagon the table. He sipped, watching her over the rim of his cup. "You haven't greeted me," he told her.

She stood and walked over to him. He didn't bend his head, so she had to stand on her toes to kiss him.

When they had first met, so long ago, she had not been so conscious of his height, or the mass of his body. Although lean for a man, Aegon was strong, accustomed to riding and training at arms, and he was over a head taller than her. Sansa was a tall woman, she was not used to men making her feel small. She felt small now, and as fragile as a dandelion head gone to seed, like one puff of wind could blow half of her away.

He put her hand in the small of her back and drew her against him so that there bodies were pressed together. Then he hissed in surprise.

"Let me see," he said.

She paused, uncertain what he meant. Impatient, he caught her by the arms and lifted her, sitting her on the table beside the flagon and the goblets. His touch was more gentle as he ran his hands over her belly, which had rounded into a small but distinct bump. It was uncomfortable, sitting on the polished wood, her slippered feet dangling in the air, while Aegon probed the edges of that tiny bump, his thumbs prodding the outlines of her womb. He palpated the top, just underneath her navel, and then the sides, where she had only just begun to feel the hollows of her hipbones rounding out. Then he was at the bottom, his thumbs tracing a line, poking into her flesh. She stared at the wall-hangings, and tried not to move.

"The Grandmaester said you refused to let him examine you."

"I … I … he frightened me. Marya and Septa Giana say that I am doing well. I am too thin, but …"

"If you cannot ensure the well-being of this child when you are carrying it, perhaps I should make other arrangements for its care when it is born." His tone was calm, matter of fact.

She felt the breath catch in her throat. "No. No. I will—"

"Sh," he said, putting his finger against her lips. "Be quiet. You are better now, are you not?"

Silently, she nodded.

"Then there is no need for you to go to Dragonstone, is there? You will speak to Jon and tell him you don't wish to go. He's riding out of the city now. Podrick Payne is leaving." there was a glint in his eye at that. She forced herself to keep her face impassive. "When he comes back, you'll send for him. He'll want to meet with you alone, of course."

She fought back tears. "Please, let's sit down, and talk about this," she said. She took his hand and led him to a padded couch by the window. The last light of the sun was fading, and the ocean was turning to dark grey, dotted with the black outlines of islands like ghostly ships. He settled down, his cup in his hand, and watched her while she moved candlesticks closer. "Have you eaten, my lord?" she asked. Septa Giana had left a plate of cheeses and fruits by the wine, and she picked up the knife to cut an apple, then put it down again when he shook his head.

She took a quick look in the mirror as she passed it. I am still pretty, she thought with relief. Perhaps her eyes were a little red from crying, but her waist was still slender, her bosom still high and shapely. She tugged the neckline of her dress downward and painted a smile on her face. He was watching her. She could feel her lips quiver. I look stupid. Smiling like a fool. Just a stupid, stupid girl. She felt a flutter in her belly.

She took a sharp breath to steady herself. Take a step. Another. Walk to him. His eyes focused on her hips as she moved, and she let the breath out as she saw the flash of desire in his eyes. She knew that look, had known it all her life.

She felt the flutter again. She stopped as a sudden realization hit her.

That … that is my child moving. Quickening inside me. Oh, my little one. My poor child.

And then it was easier to walk over to him, to let him pull her down so that she straddled his lap, to let him press his lips to hers. His mouth was wet against hers, his lips seemingly gentle. She felt him cup her breast and squeeze, and she gasped.

"I've missed you," he said, breaking the kiss.

His hand was still on her breast. It hurts, she wanted to say, but he knew it hurt. Of course he knew. After a moment, he released his grip.

"My wife," he continued. "My beautiful wife. If that is what you are," he said, and his lip quirked.

"I am. Of course I am. The High Septon has said it … he annulled my marriage … he granted permission and said the words. I'm not …"

"Not my mistress? Or my whore? Even if I can make you moan like one."

She felt herself flushing with shame, and his smile deepened. It doesn't matter what he says. If he can have his fun like this, if he will be content, that is not so bad. He loves it when I am ashamed.

She met his gaze, settled back a bit, and then reached for the lacing of her bodice. Slowly and carefully, she began to draw the silk ribbon out through the first eyelet.

"Tyrion used to speak of Dragonstone," she said. "He lived there for a time while doing his research into dragonlore. He said it was a peaceful place. He used to like to stand on the balconies and look back to King's Landing and pretend he was Aegon the Conqueror."

Aegon hesitated. "I can take you to Dragonstone. After the wedding." His hand settled on her hip, and his eyes were bright. "I could give you the next babe in the Conqueror's bed."

She pulled that lace free and started on the next one. "This one needs to be born safe for that to happen," she said with a frown. "I would be frightened to be all alone in King's Landing. Besides, if I didn't go, Jon might insist on being in Summerhall the entire time, distracting-"

His face darkened and his eyes narrowed. She knew instantly she had made a mistake. Fool, she thought. To remind him of his brother the hero. Madness. Her hands were shaking as she pulled another lace out, faster now, but he wasn't even watching.

"You said you thought to fly to Casterly Rock for Tyrion's burial in the Hall of Heroes," she said, desperately. Think about Tyrion, please. Not Jon. Think about the Hand you loved, that man who was rational, even kind sometimes, for all the cruelty the world had shown him. Think about Tyrion, who tried to be kind to me. "If you were to go—"

"Shut up." He pushed her off his lap, slowly but inexorably, until she was on her knees on the floor in front of him. The shoulders of her dress were falling off, the silk sliding against her skin, but she did not dare pull them up. She felt like she did not dare even to breathe.

It will be over soon. What will happen will happen, and then he will smile and say he is sorry. I love those times, when everything is all right, when he is the smiling, funny, handsome king I met all those moons ago. If only I could stay in those times forever.

And then she felt that fluttering in her belly, and felt the breath in her lungs. She stared at the floor, and a thought rose in her mind. I am a Stark of Winterfell.

"Do you think I am stupid?" His voice was soft. "Hmm? Do you think I am a fool that you can manipulate by flashing your teats and batting your eyes? I'm disappointed in you, Sansa. I thought we understood each other better." He took a drink of his wine. "I respect your intelligence more than you respect mine, it seems. What is your plan? Let Jon and I fight it out, hope he wins. If he doesn't, warm my bed and wait for what … your little brother Rickon to avenge you? Or slip me a cup of poison once you have your 'heir and a spare'?"

"I … I just wanted to live in peace." She thought of Podrick, riding away from her. I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to feel safe.

"I just wanted to live in peace," his voice quickened, and there was a harsh, mocking edge. "I could have kept you in peace. No, you just wanted to do whatever you pleased, whenever you pleased." He reached out and touched her collarbone, drew a line downwards. She held still as she remembered Harrenhal and Valyrian steel in the moonlight. "Well, you know more about pleasing than you once did," he said. He reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. "You aren't that cold useless bitch Jon sent me." Then he ground her face into his crotch.

The wool of his breeches was scratchy against her cheek, and she could smell his scent – she knew it well – as she fought to breath. She struggled to pull away, but his hand on the back of her head was strong. She could feel tears seeping from her eyes. Finally, after what felt like forever, he let her go. She fell back onto the ground, gasping. Watching her, he drained his cup.

"I can get you more." She heard herself say the words as if from a very great distance away. She held out her hand for the cup, and he gave it to her. She pushed herself up from the floor, the cup in one hand. Her gown had fallen open, exposing one breast. There was hair in her eyes. She walked over to the table, poured him a new cup of wine, then one for herself, which she drained in a single swallow. She came back, handed him the wine, and knelt in front of him, reaching for the lacing of his breeches.

He was just raising the cup to his lips when she stuck the knife into his gut.