AN: So. I know this work was technically marked as complete- and it was complete! It's perfectly suitable as a standalone piece, I was so overwhelmed by the response and the calls for an update however that I couldn't help myself! Plus, the disappointment that was Season 8 (a personal opinion, I understand many liked it) kind of has me grappling for fanfiction now more than ever! With this second chapter, I thought it would be really interesting to explore Sansa's POV since Chapter 1 was all Jaime. There won't be any repetition of events, it's still very much an advancement of plot in the lives of our two favourite characters, but it's certainly a very different take. As you will probably see, my version of KL Sansa is a little different, a little less naïve and a little more S6 Sansa, developing and learning the game. I really hope you enjoy this. It is dedicated to all of you who were so kind with your comments and encouragements. I cannot say enough how much they mean to me!
A Wolf Amongst Lions
When Sansa was little, she used to dream of the golden knights from the songs.
She was never under any delusion about what her role in the world would be once she grew older, and allowed herself to get swept away with the fanciful tales and love stories sung from Winterfell to Dorne. Her mother and father had done their best to protect her but she was a lady, and a Stark at that, and so, even as a young girl, she recognised her duty and dreamt of her future husband, of golden hair and jewel eyes, of kindness and laughter, of love, and the many children they would have together.
It was King's Landing that shattered her fantasy, that tore out her heart and bruised her girlish tendencies, that introduced her abruptly and without any warning at all to the cold, cruel and grey reality of the world. Her father's execution had ripped the cloak from her eyes, exposed the veins of the city and the rules of the game. Sansa had seen herself for what she was in that moment; a pawn on a board game, a piece pushed around by war generals in their bid for conclusive victory, no matter the cost. She was too valuable to be sacrificed, she knew that. She was a Stark long after Ned Stark died as her father.
It became very clear to her that Joffrey did not understand the game quite as well as he thought he did; his daily beatings of her, the scorn and brutality with which he treated her, despite the warnings from his family that she was ultimately important in their grander scheme of things, exposed him as the senseless boy Sansa had always been too blind and besotted to see. She was a slow learner, but it was true that she learned. She was no longer that same girl and she saw quite clearly the mechanisms that made King's Landing tick and pulse.
There was the Master of Whispers and all his little spiders, the serving girl to the Queen, the stable boy, the Northern baker on the edge of the city. They all simultaneously over and underestimated her; they tried to pick her brain for anything Varys could use but Sansa always knew to play dumb and docile and their disappointment was a flash too delayed that she could pick his spiders out from a mile away now and artfully dodge their probing questions. There was Lord Baelish, with his slick smiles and slick tongue and keen eyes that missed nothing. Sansa figured him out more quickly. She anticipated more difficulty in unravelling the motives of the elusive Littlefinger, until one day when he told her how remarkably she looked like her mother, stroking the hair from her face, and she saw it quite suddenly, the cogs turning behind his eyes, the streak of hunger for a woman he could never have and a throne he could never claim. Queen Cersei was another matter. It took longer to understand the Queen, though with each encounter, Sansa thought she was getting closer.
And just as she thought she'd learned the rules of the game and all the players on the board, Jaime Lannister returned to the Red Keep.
Sansa saw him first as he walked through the halls, blood stained and battered, hair to his chin and beard scratchy and unkempt. He looked nothing like the golden knight she remembered riding into Winterfell all those months ago and it took her a moment to place him. It wasn't difficult to see that something fundamental had shifted within the Kingslayer, something dark and twisted; there was no pride in him, no pomposity. He looked, Sansa thought, watching him from an alcove as he passed her by without a glance, like a broken man.
She'd made sure to keep low after that. Just as she thought she'd figured out the board, the game had changed entirely. She needed to see just how Jaime Lannister changed the situation.
As it was, the sudden appearance of Jaime Lannister changed very little. Sansa hardly saw him around the Red Keep, catching only glimpses of him if he deigned to show his face at court. She noticed the change in him, however, the golden addition that glinted from the shadow of his sleeve every time he shifted. No wonder he had seemed so dejected. He had lost the immortal part of himself, the thing he had cherished so deeply, the thing his entire self-worth and identity revolved around. Sansa couldn't help but find it ironic that the hand that killed the king was rotting in some wilderness; the knight that had dealt the treasonous blow reduced to a cripple.
But part of her wondered if it had felt in any way like the moment she lost Lady. Like being forcibly stripped of a piece of your soul and left to grapple and wander for something to make you whole again.
She had almost written him off completely when the Queen arrived at her chambers, smile sickly and sweet, dripping with poison, and Sansa couldn't help but re-evaluate everything.
"Hello, little dove," she crooned, slipping into the room, and folding her hands together. She looked so regal, golden hair twisted and braided around her head like a crown. Sansa could see the malicious glint in her eyes.
"Your grace," she bowed her head, dropping into a curtsy.
"There's no need for that, sweetest," Cersei said, gesturing for her to stand before moving over to the table to pour herself some wine. "Such formalities will soon become unnecessary."
Sansa watched the woman closely. Her brain whirled, trying to remember snippets of conversation, any hint that could reveal why the Queen's shoulders were so firmly set, her fingers clenching her goblet so tightly her knuckles turned white. Something had happened. Something she had missed.
"I'm not sure I follow, your grace…" admitted Sansa.
Cersei's lips twisted. "Of course you don't, child," she murmured. She spun quite suddenly, eyes flashing, mouth pursed. Her face relaxed soon after and Sansa fisted the skirts of her dress.
"I requested the honour of telling you," said Cersei, "given our close relationship. You see, my father, in his role as Hand of the King, has decided it best to secure a Northern alliance. Once the war is over and your dearest brother is defeated, the North will have to be pacified."
She took a sip of her wine. Sansa carefully sculptured her face into a blank mask. She clutched her dress tighter.
"In an act of leniency, the Hand of the King believes a marriage between the last Stark and-"
"I'm not the last Stark."
The words escaped her before she could stop them and yet, she didn't grapple for them. It was too late to take them back and Sansa felt a jolt of satisfaction at the way the Queen's face stilled for a second.
Then, her heart dropped through her chest when Cersei smiled, twisted and mocking, and said, "Oh, you will be soon, little sister."
Sansa recoiled. Cersei's smile grew.
"Oh yes, you'll be marrying my dearest brother, Jaime. The king will release him from his vows tomorrow and then you will marry in a week."
For some reason, Sansa tried to recall the song Septa Mordane used to sing to her as a child, the one about Jenny and her ghosts, but the lyrics evaded her. She clutched for some small remnant of her past, some safe distraction to keep her calm, to keep her feet on the ground when all around her, her life exploded. But all she could hear was the haunting melody and the errant, hollow thump of her heart.
She heard her voice as though it came from someone else, somewhere else. "I am a traitor's daughter. I am not sure I deserve such a match-"
"I see what you're trying to do, little dove," Cersei cut her off, laughing sharply. "Rest assured, I told my father that myself but he's male and stubborn and thinks he's always right." The Queen moved closer, so their noses were inches apart, and Sansa tasted the bitterness of the wine on her breath. "If you want to play the game of thrones, Sansa, you need to learn how to hide the wolf in your eyes. You speak such pretty words but your eyes, your eyes are like poison. Keep them blank, keep your mind working, but keep any and every thought and feeling out of your eyes." She brought her hand up and Sansa sucked in her breath. Cersei held her cheek, dragging her thumb softly along her eyelid. "You are like a doll," she murmured. "So very pretty. So very fragile. Jaime will never love you."
Sansa froze, eyes catching on the Queen's face, on the green of her eyes. Cersei's lips twitched, and she stepped back, taking a final sip of her wine before placing her cup on the table. "I cannot wait for us to be good-sisters," she said, the words rehearsed and loaded.
Sansa could only swallow, every courtesy choking her, though Cersei didn't wait for such plastic pleasantries, clasping her hands in front of her and leaving. She paused in the doorway, glancing back after a moment, and said loftily, "Perhaps you can ask your king for your brother's head as a wedding gift."
Sansa felt her throat convulse, and the Queen's smile cut her cold to the bone. She collapsed on the floor when the door clicked shut, clutching her chest. The lyrics came back to her, as though her Septa was there in the room, her voice low and soothing, and Sansa breathed deeply, closing her eyes, letting it lull her.
High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most
And the ones who had loved her the most.
~o~
Sansa wakes up and she's warm. Her hair is a flame, sprawled across the pillow, and when she shifts, she realises quite suddenly that there is an arm draped over her waist, heavy and unrelenting, and a heat at her back. Something scratches her neck and Sansa seizes up. A low groan in her ear, breathless and decidedly masculine, has her closing her eyes again, head burrowing back into the bed in an attempt to feign sleep.
She remembers her husband. Husband. She remembers the Queen visiting her to inform her of her betrothal, she remembers the Sept and the way Jaime's golden hand fumbled with the clasp of their cloaks, she remembers dancing and laughing and then Joffrey's voice, hot and pungent against her cheek, promising threats only a king could get away with. Sansa remembers her husband, mocking her, touching her, kissing her-
Her entire body feels infinitely warmer, and she clasps a hand to her mouth. Squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut.
Sansa has always been raised to know her duty. She was a daughter, until she became a wife, and then she would become a mother. But whilst she had known about the bedding ceremony, she did not expect it to be quite like that. Absent-mindedly, her hand slides to her naked stomach. Her Septa had never told her how long it takes to make a child, and Sansa caresses her skin, wondering if a baby could be growing there now.
She ponders on the game, her hand clenching then falling to her side. Sansa wonders how the game could have changed so catastrophically in one night. She wonders if she will ever truly find her feet in it again.
"Sansa?"
She tenses. His voice is groggy, deep and worn with sleep. She swallows, steeling her spine and courage, before she turns to face him. "Yes, my Lord?"
Her husband pulls a face, tugging her closer, though she isn't sure whether he means to as he stretches. "What did I say about formalities?"
Sansa studies him. Her husband- Jaime- is older than her but handsome. There is no denying his beauty; his hair is golden, his eyes bright and green in the morning sunlight, so similar to his sister's. And yet, despite their similarities, there is something eminently warm about him. He has laughter lines and some youthful glimmer in his eyes when he smiles. Sansa finds him quite pretty, and she realises he has been talking, asking her how she slept, only when she raises her hand to touch his face and he falls silent and blinks at her.
"My Lady?"
She smiles a little. "I thought you said no courtesies."
Jaime smirks, his arm tightening around her and she blushes when she feels the hard, rigid lines of his body against hers. He presses his lips to her jaw and her breath hitches. He murmurs against her skin, "Of course. My apologies, Sansa."
He must feel the way her entire body erupts in goosebumps for she feels his grin widen, but he pulls back, brushing some hair away from her face. Jaime sobers quickly, eyes tracing every detail of her, before he says, in a low voice that feels like a vow, "Joffrey won't touch you."
Sansa stills. His other hand, the golden one, is heavy on her back, and he strokes her hair. She thinks of Cersei, of all of her lessons. She thinks of the game of thrones and how to win is to stay alive. Sansa thinks that this new game might not be so difficult to navigate and though she has only known her husband for so short a time, mere hours, she thinks he might be the easiest player of them all to understand.
The Queen's voice whispers to her, Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs.
Sansa takes a deep breath and leans into his touch, interlocking her fingers with his against her cheek. Jaime watches her, his eyes hooded. She feels like she should feel guilty for playing him, but she feels nothing, only, for the first time in a long time, from before her father's death, before they left to come South even, Sansa feels something that settles in her chest like safety.
~o~
There are whispers when they appear in court that morning. Sansa clutches Jaime's arm tighter, and he squeezes her fingers. She holds her head high when they reach the throne, and Joffrey's lips twist in a malicious smirk that is not unlike his mother's.
"Uncle! Lady Sansa," the king announces. "I hear you had a successful night. My guards were practically fighting one another to be stationed outside your room."
Jaime's jaw clenches. His hand tightens on Sansa's, but she recognises the volatility in his eyes and speaks before he can react. "Thank you, your grace, for such a beautiful wedding. I can express my gratitude, though never enough."
"I'm sure we can find other ways for you to show your king your gratitude, Lady Sansa," Joffrey replies. He eyes her like she is a crown, a jewel for him to wear, or maybe something untouchable that he cannot wait to break.
Sansa bows her head. Despite the armour she has built up during her time in the capital, it is always Joffrey that can shatter her from the inside out. Her fear writhes in her stomach, though she maintains her courteous smile, allowing her husband to walk her out. He doesn't say a word until they reach their rooms, bowing, bidding her a stiff farewell.
She watches him as he walks away from her, most likely going to train, feeling something fall through her chest. There are new guards at her door, ones she doesn't recognise, even though they still wear Lannister colours. Sansa doesn't understand why it feels as though the floor itself has given way beneath her feet but she enters her room, leaning back against the door when it clicks shut, and cries.
Cries for her father. For Arya, lost out there in the wilderness. For her mother, whom she misses with every fibre of her being. For Robb, caught leading a war he shouldn't have to fight. She cries for Bran and Rickon, too young to understand that their father isn't coming home. She even cries for Jon, at the Wall. Sansa muffles her sobs in her skirts and wishes that there was no such thing as the game of thrones.
~o~
She sits at her vanity, brushing her hair, though her hands are going through the motions, her mind is far away. She hears her husband enter the room, sigh dropping from his lips, and her eyes shoot to him in the mirror.
He is tired, the sag of his shoulders reveals as much. His skin shines with sweat and he sighs again as he begins unlacing his vest. His golden hand is still clunky and Sansa can see how frustrated he is that, despite training for hours, every day, it is just as useless to him as a stump. She rises and moves closer, pushing his hands away to undo the laces herself. His eyes are fixed on her but she focuses on the work, pulling the shirt over his head when she's done.
"There's a bath waiting for you, my Lord."
"Jaime."
"My Lord Jaime."
He laughs a little, running a hand through his hair. Sansa steps back and folds her hands demurely in front of her.
"Would you care to join me, my Lady Sansa?"
Her cheeks flush and Jaime laughs again, though this time, the sound is heartier, warmer, rumbling in his chest. She knows he is mocking her slightly, finding amusement in her modesty. Sansa remembers the game, envisions the position on the board she needs to be in and swallows back her hesitation. "If you wish, my Lord."
Jaime sobers quickly. He coaxes her to turn around so he can unlace her dress and she stands patiently and lets him take his time. He huffs a few times when his golden hand slips but they are in no rush. The bath in the adjacent room will still be steaming.
She steps out of the dress when it falls, wearing only her shift. Jaime's hands linger, but she gestures for him to move into the next room, following after him.
He strips off the rest of his clothes and sinks into the water immediately, head relaxing against the tub, eyes fluttering shut for a blissful moment. Sansa steels herself and lets the straps of her shift drop. It pools at her feet and she braces herself against the bath before climbing in to sit opposite him. When she is seated, folding her arms carefully across her chest, which has blossomed in pink blush, she sees him watching her. His eyes are dark today. He beckons her closer.
"Come here."
Sansa shifts forward, inch by inch. Jaime's lips tilt before his hands are on her waist underwater, moving her so her back is against her chest and she sits between his legs. Her breath ripples, the steam makes her hair stick to her forehead.
Jaime drops his head onto her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist. She draws flowers into the skin of his wrist, feeling his heart beat against her shoulder blades.
"Jaime?" she begins softly. He hums into her neck. "Are we to stay in King's Landing?"
She can feel him frown. "Are you discontented here?"
"I simply assumed your father would want you to inherit Casterly Rock."
There is a beat of silence. Sansa bites her lip and wonders if she has vastly overplayed her hand. She must not get complacent in her place.
"My father," Jaime says slowly, "requires my assistance with the war plans. I am no longer a member of the Kingsguard but I am still a commander of his army."
"And what of after?"
"After?"
"After the war."
Jaime laughs, his breath hot, fanning against her back. "Sansa, if I don't happen to survive this war, you will either be remarried, most likely to Tyrion or Tommen to ensure the North remains in my father's hands, or you will be free to do whatever and go wherever you so please."
Sansa frowns. Her fingers pause. She had not considered that outcome. What if her husband does die? Will she remain trapped in King's Landing with Joffrey and Cersei if Tywin wins the war? And what if Robb wins? Will she still be his sister? Or the wife and widow of the Kingslayer?
No. There was little point speculating. She was going to get out of King's Landing one way or another. And yet, she is still perturbed by his comment.
"Dreaming about my death, are we, little wife?"
His voice is bitter, even if he is trying to jest. Sansa turns her body round to face him, eyes taking careful note of every line in his face. The skin around his eyes and lips is pinched, and he glances away from her, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He is far too easy to read. She must smooth him of his tells. She holds his chin and forces him to look at her.
"You might not believe me, Ser, but you are the only thing that has made me feel safe since I came to King's Landing."
Sansa cannot help the sincerity that leaks into her voice. She doesn't mean to reveal herself in her eyes, like Cersei warned her she does, but she can't help it. She cannot stop herself from speaking because it feels like he has thrown her a lifeline in the darkness, a chance to be honest, and honesty feels so foreign on her tongue.
"Not even my father could protect me," she says. "He was the one who sold me to Joffrey. He chased his honour and got himself killed for it. What good is honour if you cannot protect the ones you love?"
Jaime watches her. His hand tightens on her waist. "I'll protect you. I swore it."
"You also swore to protect the king," Sansa points out.
Jaime leans back. He is quiet for a long time. "What did your father tell you of that day?"
She shifts uncomfortably. This was not where she intended the conversation to go. Sansa diverts her eyes, before she murmurs, "Not a lot. I didn't get the bedtime stories of his battles like Arya, or the lessons like Robb and Jon. I found everything out by eavesdropping."
"And what did you hear?"
"I heard-" Sansa swallows. She drags her finger along the surface of the water, drawing shapes and figures, heroes and villains. "I heard that Tywin Lannister stormed the streets of King's Landing. I heard that you ran your sword through the king's back, breaking your vows. I heard that my father found you sitting on the Iron Throne, still with the king's blood drying on your blade."
"And did you hear that I warned the king against letting my father into the city?" demands Jaime. His voice is low, little more than a murmur and it barely ripples the water. He is staring at her with such intensity that she cannot look away. "That I told him my father would never fight for the losing side, especially not if the enemy could offer him something he wanted more? Did you hear that the king refused to listen, opening his gates and letting Lannister soldiers rape and pillage as they went? Did you hear that the king, knowing all was lost, commanded me to kill my own father? Did you hear he had wildfire placed under the city?"
Sansa stares at him. Jaime's jaw clenches.
"Aerys saw traitors everywhere," he continues. "So he had his pyromancers place caches of wildfire all over the city. Beneath the Sept of Baelor and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. Burn them all, he said. Burn them all. So I stabbed him in the back and slit his throat for good measure."
Jaime leans forward suddenly, so his nose is mere inches from hers. Sansa's breath catches in her throat. His chest heaves, his eyes are wide, shining. She can see the emerald flames of wildfire burning in them. "Did you hear any of that?"
Silently, she shakes her head. Jaime's eyes flick to her lips before he leans back. "No. Of course you haven't. Your honourable father took one look at me and decided I was guilty. He didn't even wait to hear my side of the story."
"Why didn't you tell anyone the truth?"
Jaime regards her curiously, sadly. "Who would believe the Kingslayer?"
She realises that he has shown her his cards, the entire deck, just as she wanted, and yet, instead of victory, Sansa feels her heart clench. She holds his face in her hands, holds fast when he tries to shake her off.
"You saved the city," she murmurs, flicking between his eyes. "You saved all those people and none of them have any idea. You're a better man than anyone has ever given you credit for."
Jaime's breath is pained when it escapes his lips. Ragged. He shakes his head. "I'm not a good man."
"No man is truly good," says Sansa. "Just as no man is truly evil. We're all jigsaws of them both."
His lips quirk. He lifts his working hand to caress the inside of her arm. "You are incredibly good, my Lady."
Sansa's face drops. She whispers, "No. No, I want to kill the king."
Jaime laughs. He lowers his voice to be as secretive as hers. "Sansa, I doubt there is a man or woman alive who has not shared that desire."
"The Hound stopped me. I would have killed him. He took me to see my father's head on the wall and I wanted to push him from the bridge."
The admission is a rush of breath running off her lips. She has just admitted treason to the king's uncle. Sansa wants to slap herself. She needs to remember the game.
"I wanted to kill him when he put his hands on you," admits Jaime, pulling her closer so she is sitting on his lap. Her breath hitches. Her hands drop to his chest. Their treason is warm and intimate between their lips. "I couldn't imagine him touching you, seeing you as I do."
"He won't," she gasps.
"No, damn right he won't," Jaime growls and he kisses her and Sansa finds that it makes her hotter than the steam from the bathwater. "Because you're mine, Sansa."
She swallows. She knows that legally, in the eyes of the Gods, it is mere fact that she belongs to him, her husband, and yet the husk of his voice, the persistence in his hands and eyes, the desperation with which he kisses her, as though she is oxygen to him, as though she is everything good in a very bad world, makes it feel as though something has shifted between them. Something significant. Sansa kisses him first this time and swallows the pleased sound he makes as he kisses her back. She thinks of the game as his hand rubs up her back. She wonders if they aren't separate players on separate sides of the board.
Sansa pulls back from his mouth and grips his face in her hands. "And you are mine."
Jaime just nods before kissing her again. He makes love to her once more, this time from an angle that is new and surprising. He swallows every one of her gasps. Jaime kisses every inch of her face, her chest, lower, bending his head to reach where the water stops. Sansa clutches his hair and he whispers sweet murmurs to her, their hearts beating so decadently, so tunefully.
She wonders if they're a team now and when it became her and Jaime Lannister against the world.
~o~
It is a week after their wedding that Tywin Lannister finally seeks out an audience with her.
Jaime left for training before she awoke and she sits in front of the window with her sewing. Sansa runs her finger over the silver direwolf, smiling sadly. She cannot cry, however. She has spent her tears already and has no more left to give.
When a knock sounds at her door, she assumes it is her maid, and calls her acquiescence without so much as glancing upwards from her work.
"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Sansa's blood freezes in her veins. Her needle embeds itself in her thumb, drawing a little blot of blood. She dares to look at him.
Tywin Lannister is a tall man, imposing and perilous, eyes like ice shards and face as stern as a Septa's. Sansa can see every military victory in the lines of his face, the bloodshed in the paleness of his cheeks, the ruthlessness in the cold smile on his lips. Jaime is nothing like his father, she thinks. Jaime seems to radiate warmth, whether he is joking or otherwise. He can be stubborn and mocking, though never ruthless. Sansa thinks that Cersei carries on Tywin's legacy far more efficiently than Jaime ever could; his daughter is just as callous, just as cruel, just as cold-hearted. She could slaughter civilians in the name of family and still find it in herself to sleep at night. Jaime sometimes has nightmares, she's noticed, where he wakes up sweating and she can only stroke his hair to offer him a false sense of serenity before he is lulled back to sleep.
There is no serenity in this world. Only chaos. But she keeps that small fact from him as though he is a child afraid of the dark.
Sansa slowly places her sewing down, getting to her feet to formally greet him. "Lord Tywin."
"Lady Sansa," he greets, moving further into the room, ducking his head to look her in the eye.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Tywin raises an eyebrow. "It seems only right, now you are my good-daughter, that I should come and give you my congratulations."
"Thank you, my Lord. I hope I make a good wife to your son."
He watches her, the smile drying on his thin, bloodless lips. The next time he speaks, it is in a lower voice, more tempered. "I do believe we are family now, Lady Sansa. You can do away with your recited pleasantries."
Sansa tips her chin up and smiles. "Of course, Lord Tywin. Would you like to sit?"
She gestures to the seats by the window, sitting opposite him. Tywin's eyes latch onto her direwolf stitching on the table between them, before cutting to her. Sansa takes a deep breath.
In all her time in King's Landing, playing the game, she has never been alone with the creator.
Tywin stretches his arms along the armrests, fingers curling like claws. "Now that that's sorted. I came to tell you what is expected of you as a Lannister bride. I understand this is a week late but war makes one stretched for time."
"And how goes the war effort, my Lord?"
He regards her for a long moment, gaze stern and piercing. "Does your husband not keep you updated?"
"No," replies Sansa, folding her hands on her lap. "War is a topic not usually discussed over dinner."
His eyes narrow slightly. "I assume your mother prepared you for married life. Catelyn Stark was always efficient, even as a Tully."
"Indeed, my Lord. She is an incredibly capable woman."
"With five children. Three boys," Tywin comments.
Sansa pauses, before she nods. "Yes, my Lord."
"You know," he continues, leaning back in his chair, his eyes never once leaving her face. "Jaime never wanted to marry. He was committed to the soldier's life, sworn by his vows. When he told me he'd joined the Kingsguard, I'd never been more furious in my life." Sansa stares at him. She wonders why he is showing her his hand. "He was my heir. My son. I had always planned for him to take Casterly Rock. He's the only one, of all my disappointing children, that ever managed to disobey me."
"Then I am honoured you chose me as his bride-"
"I thought we agreed to cut the pleasantries."
Sansa falls silent.
He watches her, eyes never straying from hers and she feels as though he can see into her mind. She remembers what Cersei told her, how she gives herself away with her eyes, and forces herself to relax, to go blank, to feel empty. Tywin taps his finger once against the chair arm.
"Where is Jaime?"
"Training, my Lord."
His face tightens and Sansa catches it even though whatever flicker of emotion overcame him disappears just as quickly as it happened. She keeps her thoughts neutral.
Tywin says, in a measured voice, "Jaime is still a formidable strategist. He was once my greatest swordsman. But no longer. I cannot send my crippled heir into battle, not unless I want him to be chopped into even more pieces and I have worked too hard to secure the legacy of this family to let that happen."
She feels the need to point out that he has three children, and another son at that should Jaime die, but Tyrion appears a sore spot for him. Sansa records that information for later consideration.
He's watching her closely. "Do you understand me, Lady Sansa?"
"Perfectly, my Lord."
His eyes remain fixed on hers for a moment longer and Sansa feels as though she is missing something fundamental, something that isn't being said, but Tywin appears satisfied with their conversation, standing.
"I must be off, Lady Sansa," he announces, fixing her with his stare as they both move into the middle of the room. "I do hope you will heed what I've said."
"Of course, good-father," Sansa smiles. "After all, we both want the same thing."
Tywin's lips purse. "And what might that be?"
"Why, Jaime's happiness."
He doesn't smile. He doesn't even falter. He just nods and takes his leave. Sansa waits a few extra moments after the door has closed before she sits, taking the direwolf in her hands and stroking the threadbare fur. She is a wolf amongst lions but Tywin Lannister has just given her the key to the game.
~o~
It takes a few weeks before Sansa is sure. She'd been sleeping badly, waking in the middle of the night, and then sleeping late into the morning, always waking with a headache that felt to crack her temples open and a sickness deep to her bones. Still, she waits until Jaime has long since left for training before she has the courage to remove her shift and stand in front of the mirror.
It is not the feeling she expected, admittedly. Sansa had always dreamt of this moment, ever since little Arya had been a screaming pink thing in her mother's arms, followed by Bran and then Rickon. And yet, considering her situation, considering her husband and his family, and the war raging in the distance, she had thought only of it as a necessity; a tool to get her out of the lion's den that was King's Landing.
But as Sansa presses her hand to her stomach, she feels her heart leap to her mouth and a strange sense of belonging washes over her. It has been so long since she has felt like she has a family, or a home to go back to, that the mere thought of a baby, contrived of her own flesh and blood, growing inside of her, makes her cry. It is far too early to be showing but Sansa missed her bleeding and has been sick every day, without fail, for six days. She will check with the Maester but her intuition tells her she's right.
The baby is so much more than an amalgamation of herself and her husband, though her heart beats almost painfully at the thought of it having his lovely, smiling eyes. The baby is her ticket out of the Red Keep, away from Cersei and her spiteful glares and hateful comments, away from the monster that is Joffrey. The baby is her leverage over Tywin Lannister, creator of this courtly game they play, who has always wanted a legitimate heir.
Sansa's thumb gently strokes her stomach. She wonders what Jaime will say, if he will be pleased. She doesn't mind if it is a boy or a girl, though she knows a boy will suit Tywin's agenda much better. It matters not, for his plan requires more than one child regardless, and Sansa is willing to extend her influence over the Lannister patriarch as much as she can. She wonders if Jaime will love them. She knows she undoubtedly will, even if they have golden hair and emerald eyes. She wonders if her mother will ever meet her grandchild. She wonders if Jaime will love her as the mother of his children, and if that could grow into loving her as his wife. Sansa hugs her arms around her waist and smiles.
She knows it is foolish to cling to hope, but she is hopeful.
AN: Well! An unplanned, unexpected chapter two! Please let me know if you liked this chapter, as out of the blue as it was, and also if you want me to continue this with more parts. I don't really have a direction with it, I just love this dynamic and exploring my two favourite characters. If I were to continue it, however, which POV do you prefer or do you think I should continue swapping between them both? Thank you so much for reading. I was genuinely BLOWN AWAY by the response to the first chapter, you were all incredibly sweet!