As Tyrion settled into his role as interim Hand of the King, he was stunned to see just how dire the situation in King's Landing under Joffrey's reign. There was very little to be done, it seemed. If this was ever to meet a favorable end, the throne needed allies. Unfortunately for Tyrion, the only way that panned out before him was to broker a match for Mycella's hand. In a largely unprecedented move, he sat the girl down and played the scenarios out with her. The Crowned Prince of Dorne was her choice by a landslide. Her enthusiasm warmed him. He could only hope that her match was to someone who would love as brightly as she.
In short order, her passage to her future had been set and she made haste for it. Once, he remembered her telling her brother that they were children and should enjoy it and look at her now. As the royal family watched her ship make sail for Dorne, Tyrion's attention drifted to Sansa who seemed to comfort a sobbing Tommen with so much softness, he ached. Joffrey seemed to make a sneering jape at his little brother which was met with the hint of a snarl, bared teeth over hushed words. He imagined her a mother one day, protecting their own young with that same wolfish manner. Not their, as in his and hers, he corrected himself. Hers with Joffrey. He willed himself to look away.
Their party rode through the city, making their return to the Keep. Sansa would never acclimate to the difference of reception of such things in King's Landing versus Winterfell. Every time her family or any visiting dignitaries of any of the Great and Noble houses of Westeros made their way through town, they were met with respect. Sometimes it was rather less than enthusiastic, but there were never screams and jeers and such hate. It jarred her greatly to be associated with any group that could garner such vitriol from the people. When a woman holding a near, or so Sansa could only pray as her view was obscured from behind the hulking form of The Hound ahead of them, lifeless child in her arms leaped in front of their horses, the crowd's insults became screams.
Sensing an opportunity for change, Sansa reached a tentative hand for Joffrey. "Perhaps, Your Grace, you might show them some kindness? Offer aid? We have more than-"
With a sniff, he reached into the pouch at his belt. Sansa's heart raced for a moment, thinking that maybe- just, maybe- there was some hope for humanity in him; something she could work with. When his calculated calm mask curled into a malevolent grin, she faltered. Whatever he was going to do was not going to end well. "Be gone with you, beggar," he barked, tossing a handful of silver stags at the woman.
Sansa closed her eyes and leaned down against the horse's neck, digging her hands into its grey mane for comfort as she'd done with Lady's scruff, letting its softness distract her. The screams became vicious chants. Before she knew what was happening, the crowds were in a frenzy, lobbing them with whatever they could find. Joffrey shouted an order and half the guards struck into the crowd in a melee of blows, landing them indiscriminately on men, women, and children. The starved, destitute masses of King's Landing found themselves under siege for demonstrating their needs. Sansa herself was yanked from her horse and dragged by an escorting Kingsguard with her ladies maids toward the Keep. She heard a wet splat and turned to it, finding Joffrey's face caked in what could only be dung. While the image should have pleased her, it only heightened her fear. If they made it out alive, what would he do to her as an outlet for his own shame?
The crowd was thick and frenzied. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw an alley and made haste for it. She could run. She could hide. She'd been excellent at disappearing from her brothers and Arya in Winterfell. Why shouldn't she be able to slip into the dark without notice?
Because this wasn't Winterfell.
A group of men saw her pull away and chased her down the hallway. She screamed and punched as the first one to reach her tore away at her dress. "At least I can fight them," she thought. "I can scream and cry and bite and scratch and kick to my heart's content. Maybe if I anger them enough they'll kill me and Joffrey won't ever be able to touch me again." She struggled and writhed. "Don't they know Direwolves are most dangerous when they're scared," her mind coached. "Show them what a wolf can do."
The Lannisters were escorted to the keep without much further incident. Tyrion took a silent headcount. Joffrey, Cersei, Tommen... Myrcella and Sansa. "No, you shipped Myrcella off she's safe," he thought. "But Sansa isn't here." He caught the arm of a maid he knew to be in her service. "Where is Lady Sansa?" he asked, voice coming out in more of a roar than he'd intended. The woman jumped, but still told him what had happened; how she'd gotten separated and where.
"Fuck the Stark bitch!" Joffrey cursed, setting himself on the base of one of the ornate pillars of the entryway. "Let them have her! Maybe I'll send my men to finish her off..." he seethed. "This is her fault."
Tyrion balked at his accusation. "You blind, ignorant fool! If she dies," he said, struggling against the litany of threats he daren't make on her behalf, scrambling to land on something reasonable that didn't betray the dread rising within him with every second, choosing "you'll never get your Uncle Jaime back. You owe him quite a bit, you know!" The look on the king's face was pure fire and Tyrion hardly noticed it enough to revel in the reaction. He turned to The Hound and commanded. "Find her! Make sure she is unharmed."
Gesturing wildly, as though striking imaginary, ineffective blows at the rioting smallfolk, Joffrey screamed, "He is my sworn shield! He is to stay by my side-"
"Or Your Lady's," Tyrion corrected as he rounded to be squarely in front of him, "whosoever needs his assistance more. Do you know how I know that? He is paid by the crown."
"I am the crown!" he objected.
With his mouth clamped shut, Tyrion shook his head, feeling his grip on his temper slip. He was grateful the monarch was sitting because he needed to look him in the eye. He needed each lash of his tongue to fall upon him like the legendary Harpy's Fingers of Astapor. "Little boy, you have no idea what sort of games you are playing at," he spat. "You are a petulant, distemperate ingrate, shaping up to be worse than any Mad King of lore in a much shorter time." By the time he finished speaking, he was mere inches from his nephews face with his own.
Enraged at his uncle's gall, Joffrey leaned back, teeth locked and eyes dark. "If you don't want to see mad, you'll get him back at my side. I need him here," he slammed his fist down upon the stone, sealing his demand.
Tyrion barked a laugh, truly raising his voice for the first time. "You need him here? Is it Clegane you love, not your wife to be?" Joffrey would never cease to amaze him in all the worst possible ways. He paced before him. "Need him here. For what?! To hold your hand? To wipe your ass? At this point it is your face that seems to be caked in shit, Your Grace," he said, pointing to the initiating offense that spilled needless blood.
"You can't insult-"
"Besides which," he continued, plowing right over his argument, unable to hear it for the blood rushing in his ears. "I'm sure your Lady Mother would be more than willing to coddle you as always. At this time, Lady Sansa needs him more. You," he said, hands shaking in anger, "are inside the keep and capable enough of defending yourself should the need arise since that piece of tin you use to compensate for your clear lack of manhood hangs so obviously where your cock should be!"
Face growing eerily close to a Lannister crimson, Joffrey screamed. "You are talking to a King!"
Before he knew what he was doing, the hand Tyrion had been gesturing with drew back and collided against his nephew's cheek, a blow that should have been delivered years prior that was now woefully too late to trigger any sort of learning experience. "And now I've struck a King! Did my hand fall from my wrist?" He waved demonstratively.
Joffrey remained quiet for a while, stewing in his own rage before storming toward his quarters. Tyrion, however, stayed by the entrance, pacing nervously. With every beat of his heart, he found himself working toward a dizzying panic. He wished, for the first time, that he were his bastard nephew and could run to Lady Sansa's rescue himself. He knew that, even if he managed to succeed in fighting his way to her and fighting off her would-be attackers, if she was hurt, there would be nothing he could do. He couldn't sweep her off her feet and carry her to safety. Not that the king would ever be a hero, but he could be. He could run to her aid and carry her off into the sunset. He could give her the world. In his mind, Tyrion could never be that.
Thankfully, before long, Clegane slammed himself and Sansa through the gates and deposited her, rather unceremoniously to the stone. Her cheek was cut and her lip split. Her hair uncoiled around her shoulders. Her dress was torn from her shoulder to her hip. Bruises marred her flesh, but those seemed largely too set in to be from today. She trembled and her breath heaved.
Tyrion's heart shattered at the sight of her. Still, he calmed. She was here. She was safe and she was alive. He knelt beside her. "My Lady, are you hurt?" he asked, offering a hand tentatively.
"No," she answered, surprised at the gesture. She took his hand and felt herself calm for the first time all day. They rose together and she bowed her head. "Thank you, My Lord."
Sansa found herself grateful for the King's preoccupation with the war. If he was distracted by planning what to do when Stannis Baratheon made his way to King's Landing or how Robb Stark was decimating the Lannister forces at every battle, there wasn't much room in his mind for her.
Or so she thought.
She'd managed to train her mind to keep Robb, her brother, and Robb, the so-called traitor apart in her mind. It was a feat, surely, but a person's natural survival instincts can do a great many things to keep a grip on sanity. To think about her brother, Robb, who once cleaned out a scrape on her knee and carried her back to Winterfell when she'd tripped over a lifted root in the Godswood, as the traitor, Robb, who Joffrey so often waxed poetic about killing in ways more vile than she would have ever believed, would have made Sansa lock herself away in her room and let herself die of worry. To die of worry wouldn't be the way to go. If she was going to die, she thought, it would be better to do it fighting, while she was still Sansa and a Stark and a Northerner, while there was still some of her left. Every so often, though, she remembered just how scared and tired she was, and how every time she fought back, the next time was just a little bit worse.
That afternoon was no different.
King Joffrey had called for his Lady to be brought to the throne room and bid everyone to leave them. A box, not unlike a podium used for trials, was the only thing in the sparse room, save the Iron Throne on high. The topmost sword was alleged to have once hung in the center of the room by one single horsehair; a reminder that justice and death always loomed overhead. What difference would that single sword have made, Sansa had thought originally, when the thousand that made up the throne itself were reminder enough. Standing there then with Joffrey so close to her with his own sword bare in his right hand, one damning, dangling blade was enough to incite madness.
"Once again, your family moves to make my life as difficult as they can," he spoke finally, voice low and lilting.
"Whatever my traitor brother has done, please, Your Grace, I had nothing-"
"Silence!" he snapped, beginning to pace around her. "You're nothing more than a bargaining chip, My Lady. Perhaps, if I show that I don't give a shit about what really happens to you, your brother will begin to fall in line." He slithered behind her, hips dug into her backside and his free hand in her hair, he pulled her head back to speak directly in her ear. "But what's the best way to show the young wolf?'
Sansa gasped, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't know, Your Grace."
"I couldn't take that tongue," he mused, biting his lip as though trying to entice her. Her whole body shuddered at the thought. "It will prove to be useful. You can't demonstrate your fealty without it." He slid his hand from her hair down her side and clasped her wrist and brought it up to the podium. He circled her once and stopped, facing her directly. "Your left hand will be necessary for the wedding," he said, teasing his fingers over her hand. "I'll not bind myself to a hand with bloody stumps where your fingers should be," he spat, disgusted by the thought. "But what about your right? They mightn't believe that I do mean business for just a finger, but the whole hand should do nicely." He reached for her other hand and brought it to the surface as well, resting his blade across both of her wrists, trapping her there. "That is what they did to my Uncle Jaime, is it not?" he asked, as flippant as though he were asking her the time.
"I don't know, Your Grace," she said quietly, voice beginning to tremble.
He leaned his weight against the sword. The sharp edge began to sting the skin and Sansa thought it might draw blood. "Just what do you know, then?" All Sansa could do was stammer. "Speak up," he prompted.
"Please, stop!"
Joffrey gave a wicked smile and eased the pressure, sheathing his sword. He licked his lips and came around to her side. He pulled out a dagger from his side and dragged it up and down her arm, tip scratching at her soft flesh. "I could always take strips of your flesh. Now, I may not be one of the Boltons," his eyes shone, a glint of admiration for their particular brand of torture belaying his intention to Sansa, "but I do think I remember their sigil well enough to make an attempt at a flay. Do you think your mother would know your pretty pale skin?" He brought the small blade to her chest. "Not as intimately as I do, of course..." he smiled, pressing himself flush against her. Sansa sniffed indignantly as her stomach roiled at his touch, "but do you think she would recognize? What would Lady Catelyn do? Do you think she would die of shock?" His face was nearly upon hers. Sansa could smell the honeyed mead on his breath. It sickened her. Everything about him sickened her. Everything about King's Landing sickened her. "Let's find out. But where to start?" He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and turned her around, slamming her against the block he'd intended to use to take her hand. "Your back might be good," he dug the blade into the fabric and tore open the thick fabric the color of cornflowers, revealing her slip. He pressed the steel to her skin. "There'd be no hope of you wearing pretty, daring dresses from The Reach, which is a shame because you do have the body for it," as he pressed himself against her to trap her, Sansa could have sworn she felt... no. No, he couldn't possibly be aroused by this. This torment could not bring him that type of pleasure. She shook the thought from her head, not wanting to imagine that he'd do that to her too after whatever he had planned for right now, "but you're a modest, Northern girl, aren't you, Lady Sansa? That might not be a reminder enough for you." He tore the dress open lower. Sansa grabbed at it, willing the tears that streamed from her eyes to go back from whence they came. He didn't deserve her tears. "Perhaps the back of your creamy thighs? You'd never be able to sit or stand or walk or fuck without the thought of me..." He grazed his rough palm down to where he'd intended to cut and grabbed. "I quite like that. What do you think?" Sansa cried out in protest, but Joffrey clapped his hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.
The door burst open. "Just what do you think you're doing? This woman is to be your wife!"
"Who do you think you are?" he asked, turning to face the intruder with a growl. "I specifically said-"
Storming towards them deliberately, Tyrion fumed. "Hand of the King, boy, and the only person keeping you from doing something we both know you'll regret." He took a deep breath, deciding that, perhaps, screaming at the King with the doors open wide wouldn't send the right message, no matter how little he truly cared for perception at the moment. He lowered his voice. "Think about this. This is the woman you are supposed to love. Even I thought you had more decency than this," he said, voice heavy with contempt. He wedged himself between the betrothed couple, Joffrey stepping back in revulsion at the touch. Sansa seemed to still slightly, grateful to be out of the moment. Tyrion turned to her, gently coaching, "Lady Sansa, I beg of you, return to your chambers."
"I don't care if you're the many-faced God, you little hobgoblin," he sneered. Sansa stepped back, hand subconsciously grasping Lord Tyrion's vest to pull him back with her. Joffrey gestured with his knife at his uncle, "I'll kill you too."
"Do it, your grace," Tyrion challenged, unmoved. "If it will stop you from placing undue harm on your innocent bride-to-be, go right ahead. But remember," he warned, furrowing his brow, "you're not doing so well with your advisors. How will it look if, in your time as King, you go through hands as though they're disposable?" He remembered then that he was only acting hand until his father saw fit to grace King's Landing with his presence and smiled, realizing just what that meant. "I can promise you, boy, the next one won't be as respectful of you as you are of Lady Sansa."
Displeased at the suggestion of needing guidance in any matters, and completely missing Tyrion's warning of Tywin's own special brand of cruelty, Joffrey's temper shortened. "You question my authority? That is treason, Lord Hand," he reminded. "Lady Sansa knows well how I feel about traitors. Since you're family, I'll show some mercy." He paused, feigning the suggestion that thoughts did indeed live inside his vindictive mind. "You may choose the manner of your execution. How do you want to die, Uncle?"
"At the age of eighty," Tyrion scoffed, rolling his eyes. He was certainly not going to die at the hands of his warped nephew. "Warm in my own bed with a belly full of wine and a girl's mouth around my cock." Joffrey closed the gap between them, pressing his dagger against the base of Tyrion's throat. He heard Sansa gasp audibly behind him. "You'll do well, Your Grace, to remember just how well the last King who tried to rule with fire and fury did on that throne, or has your Uncle Jaime never seen fit to tell you how that story ends?"
"You will not threaten me," he roared, pressing the blade in harder.
Tyrion remained calm. "I am not threatening you. I am enlightening you. If I were threatening you," he pushed the blade away dismissively, "you'd certainly know it." He turned to face the trembling girl who clutched at the scraps of her dress in an attempt to retain some modesty. He motioned for her to walk beside him and, casting a shaky glance between the two men, she did as he suggested. When they were out of the throne room and moving through the halls to the residence, where awaited a crowd of the household staff. Before they were in earshot, Tyrion finally spoke. "Lady Sansa, do you want me to get you out of this match?" He was met with tense silence. "I believe that there is a way-"
From the corner of her eye, she glanced at him suspiciously. Even though something within her tried to soothe her into trusting him, her mind screamed against it. He was a Lannister, after all, and no Lannister could possibly mean to do her anything but harm. She kept her gaze straight ahead, focusing on the click of her heels against the tile. "I'm loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one true-"
"Alright, but if you change your mind," Tyrion said, not sure if he wanted to add that he'd be there, that she could trust him, that he lo- No. Definitely not that. Either way, her steel impressed him. He thought, perhaps, she might survive Joffrey yet. "In the meanwhile, please," he turned to one of Sansa's chambermaids and directed, "escort Lady Sansa to my chambers. Draw her a hot bath. Bring her whatever she desires. Do not let her out of your sight. Fuss over her." He reached a hand up for Sansa's, noting how soft they were, then cursing himself for noticing. "I'll send protection for you as well."
"My Lord, that is not necessary," Sansa protested.
Tyrion shook his head, sadly. "I believe it is, My Lady. My nephew may be King and your betrothed, but I need you to understand..." He clasped her hand between his and looked deeply into her eyes, "there is kindness here, should you wish it. The King will not think to find you there. Any bride of his would not seek comfort from the Demon Monkey." Sansa's breath hitched. She hated how rudely people spoke of him for his physical stature. Surely, they could come up with a more damnable offense than his height, not that she could come up with anything worse than his House. Moreso, she hated the sadness in his eyes as he used the pejoratives of the people against himself. "Relax, My Lady. Stay as long as you like," he said, noting her unease and sent her on her way, going off in search of someone he could trust to guard the door against Joffrey's goons.