In the weeks leading up to Stannis Baratheon's attack, Sansa continued to see very little of the King. In the moments she did, she noticed that the hand was never too far behind. She wasn't quite sure what he was playing at or what exactly he knew, but she was secretly grateful, whether it was vigilance or strictly coincidence. The night of the battle itself was no different. Even though she had been ordered to stay with the Queen regent and the ladies of the house, the King had sent a member of his guard to fetch her and bring her up to the battlements to meet with him. As she walked, the sounds of men preparing for battle quickened her throat.

"I hope they sack the city," she thought. "I liked King Robert well enough. Stannis is his brother, surely he can't be worse than Joffrey."

When she reached the top of the walls, Joffrey was already there, hand grasping the hilt of his sword proudly. She curtseyed before him and he bade her no such efforts. Instead, he reached for her arm and walked with her, as they'd done all those months ago before she truly knew who he was. But this time was different. Her hands shook from fear, not excitement. His touch wasn't gentle, but firm, fingernails digging half-moons into her arm. When he leaned in to whisper into her ear, the words still sent shivers all over her body, to be sure. They were no longer pleasurable, but menacing. "If I die in this battle, my men have direct orders to make sure that you're comforted," he said, voice dripping with poorly obscured meaning. "Often. As frequently as they can. In any way they choose." He stopped. He turned her to face him and pressed a fierce, gnashing kiss to her lips. "If I live, expect my presence in your bedchamber forthwith," he said, puffing his chest out.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered, not sure which fate she liked least.

Joffrey seemed convinced enough and smiled. "This is my new sword, Widow's Wail," he said, pulling the blade out and displaying it before her. "Do you like it?"
It was a marvel, she admitted, long, nimble, the dark grey, obviously Valyrian steel folded with ripples of red throughout. The center of the garish gold pommel was inlaid with a ruby the size of her fist. Even though she'd never seen it before, something about it seemed eerily familiar. "Yes, Your Grace," she said, trying not to show how uneasy she felt.

"Kiss it," he commanded.

She looked at him, unsure of his intention. "Your Grace?"

"Kiss it," he repeated. "For luck." Leaning forward, she obeyed. Joffrey pressed the edge against her face and moved it slightly, knicking her lip. She hissed, drawing back to stop the bleeding. "Careful, My Lady. Valyrian steel. Sharp as sin. I've quite a bit of knowledge of it."

Of course, she thought. Please do tell me all about it while the city is under attack. "Is that so, Your Grace?"

Unaware or uncaring of her indifference, he continued. "Indeed. This one is a little more powerful than the last piece I possessed. That one couldn't even cut down a direwolf pup," he said, slashing at the air.

"Your Grace?"

"Sometimes," he said menacingly, "it's more humane to just slice the throat of the broken than to let it suffer in the cold, don't you think?"

A direwolf pup, broken... What had he done to Bran? Her eyes flickered for the briefest moment before hardening to a piercingly stoic glare. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Do you know where they got the steel for my blade?" Joffrey asked, bouncing a little, pleased to be rattling her.

"No, your grace."

He sauntered to her and stuck it out. "Put your hand on it," he said. She stayed her hand in her dress. Joffrey reached and moved for her. "Put your hand on it. Doesn't it sing to you?" Sansa gulped. It did. She just couldn't bring herself to listen to its song. She didn't want to know why it made her so uneasy. "The last life it took was your father's, so it should." Sansa pulled her hand away as though burned. "That's right, My Lady. Your father's sword. Ice, didn't he call it?" Joffrey smiled, admiring the blade but casting the occasional glance to her. "So needlessly large we managed to forge two new swords from it. One for me, one for my uncle Jaime, when he returns. I can only hope that, in its new form, it'll bring me the blood of your brother and your mother as well." Sansa felt the sick rise in her throat and took a step back. "Maybe even some more of yours. That way, when one day it belongs to our son, he'll remember just how powerful his father was."

"A son," she thought. "Over my dead body."

From beside her, a warmer, friendly voice aired concern. "My Lady, shouldn't you be in seclusion with the Queen Regent and the other Ladies?" Tyrion asked, surveying his nephew suspiciously. "Surely His Grace wouldn't wish any harm to befall his wife to be." He turned back to Sansa and saw the fresh cut on her lip. He was too late again. Again and again.

Her heart hammered in her chest. He saved her again. But this time, with that sword in Joffrey's hand, she worried that he may actually kill them both. With the battle ahead, it would be easy to say that they were both killed in the action and be rid of Tyrion's interruptions and her traitor family. Quickly, she came to a decision.

"I, actually, came out to kiss His Grace good luck," she said, pressing herself against him and, this time, allowed herself to be the aggressor, knowing that her traitor's blood was dripping against his mouth, hoping it tasted like rage and ice and bitter rejection.

"Until we meet again," he said, wiping the at his mouth with his sleeve distastefully and turning from the pair.

Tyrion approached her delicately. "Lady Sansa-"

"I pray for your safe return, My Lord," she interrupted, noting Joffrey's lingering presence at the end of the hall wishing to overhear them and added, "Just as I pray for the King's." She nodded to direct his attention to the eavesdropper, then softened her expression, hoping that he understood which half of that statement she truly meant. Either way, she'd pay for that later. Of course, Joffrey would survive, she thought. The worst ones always do.

As she retreated into the Keep, Tyrion watched her go. His green eyes shone with admiration in the torchlight and he wondered, just maybe, if she harbored any fondness for him at all. It almost seemed... but no. No, that couldn't be. She was to marry Joffrey. He couldn't endanger her life by letting himself harbor that thought.

Perhaps, he thought, the Gods will be kind tonight and the King will fall in battle. No, more likely I do, he corrected himself. More likely and probably a kindness for all involved.

Had Tyrion known just how close he would come to death that night, he mightn't have thought so callously on the subject. He might have admitted to Sansa, just shown her that he had... cared. Still, to fall in a battle they would go on to win because of his help and the remembrance of the Mad King's fondness for wildfire caches would have been one thing. To have a member of the Kingsguard strike him twice once the fighting was over was something he hadn't expected. When the first stab hit his right side, he'd been shocked. The second blow, a slice probably meant to sever his head in two, came to land, he faded away almost instantly, falling into someone's arms. Even as his mind faded to black, Sansa's face came to him. I pray for your safe return, My Lord. Her words swirled in his mind over and over.

A day after the battle, his former squire, newly knighted for his heroics in battle had come to find him. He'd carried him to the Maesters immediately after the blow, even though he hadn't been able to get there in time to stop it from happening. When he'd returned to the infirmary to inquire after him and tell him about his new title, they'd said he'd been taken to his quarters. Podrick hadn't expected such a quick recovery but was glad to hear it. When he reached the Hand's chambers, he knocked and was greeted by an unfamiliar voice. Tywin Lannister had returned during the night and ousted Tyrion from his duties. He gave the young man directions to Tyrion's new room and, when he finally got there, he found a dire situation. Tyrion lay in his bed, face wrapped in filthy bandages, still in his shirt from the battle.

Apparently, the wound on his side didn't merit attention as it had stopped bleeding before they got there. Tyrion groaned in pain, sweat beading on his forehead and chest. Podrick eyed the pots of salves and elixirs on the table. They each bore instructions addressed to Tyrion.

They expected him to take care of the situation himself? No, the knight thought. No, they've left him here to die.

So, he set to work. Podrick eased the Lord into a seated position, met with an agonized groan, but Tyrion made no motion to wake. He lifted the man's dirty tunic off and was met with a rather disgusting wound. He began to clean it out first. As he surveyed the man for signs of infection past the obvious fever, he caught sight of what he thought were the distinctive raised lines, but they weren't. They were a lighter pink and too far away from the wound, up near his shoulder as opposed to by his hip. His curiosity got the better of him and he had to know. His mark. As soon as he read the words, his heart broke for the man. No wonder he'd been so specific about care for the future Queen Consort. "Oh, milord..." he sighed. He continued caring for the man and, once his wounds were dressed and he'd replaced tunic with a fresh one from his trunk, he set off to find an additional pair of eyes. He reached the door he sought and knocked lightly. It was early, he knew, but most of the ladies of court rose early. Thankfully, his assumption was correct as a still sleepy voice called for his entrance.

Raising from the edge of the chaise on which she sat, teacup grasped between her hands, Sansa gave a slight curtsey. Pod bowed his head, "Lady Sansa, I have a question for you," he admitted hesitantly.

The man looked familiar to her, Lord Tyrion's squire if memory served, but she wasn't entirely sure she had his name. "Ser Podrick, am I correct?" she asked.

"Yes, milady," he smiled, pleased at her acknowledgment, then cleared his throat, wringing his trembling hands. "Lady Sansa, if someone had shown you kindness and they'd been gravely injured and abandoned by their family, would you help them? If you could, I mean?"

Sansa gazed upon him with careful scrutiny. Gravely injured? "I suppose so, yes. Why?"

With a nod, he looked at the ground. She seemed so gentle and he was suddenly ashamed of asking this of her, even though he knew it was the right decision. "Could you follow me, milady?" he asked, gesturing to the door.

The request was too bizarre to be disingenuous. Sansa nodded her assent and moved to follow him. The pair traveled through the corridors together silently. Pod rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was fairly certain that what he had asked wasn't something that would be seen kindly from the Lannisters, but at the moment he didn't much care. Lord Tyrion needed help.

They reached his chambers and Sansa's breath froze in her chest.

"What happened?" she asked, crossing to the man's bedside and taking in the sight of his battered frame.

"He was attacked in battle by one of our own men," Podrick explained. "I managed to get him to safety and, when I returned to visit him, this is what I found." He gestured to the bandages and bottles. "The maester left all of this here with instructions, but I'm not learned, milady. I don't know what most of this says." Sansa picked up a small blue bottle of a serum she knew to be meant to dress wounds. If he wasn't 'learned' as he said, she could only hope he'd used it properly. If he'd offered this orally, he might have done far worse damage than good. "Could you help me and perhaps sit with him from time to time?" he asked, finally.

Sansa sighed, realizing just how much trouble her soon-to-be husband would cause over this. "Ser Podrick..." Sansa wanted to. She did. She hated seeing Lord Tyrion like this when he'd never been anything but kind to her.

"Just, to help me," he said. "I'd consider it a huge favor and I would be in your debt. And perhaps to show some kindness to someone who's seen very little of it." Sansa began to soften a little. She sat on the stool by the man's bed and carefully surveyed him. "You've never been cruel to him and I'm afraid I'm the only one who truly cares, but I see kindness in you, Lady Sansa." Podrick stepped a little closer to her and found himself face to face with her for the first time. "You're not like the others."

"I suppose," she agreed.

For the day that followed, Sansa and Podrick rotated shifts staying by his side. She thought about all of the times he'd seen to her well being when no one else had. It was as though something kept drawing them together. Something stronger than the fact that he was her insipient husband's uncle. Something personal. Tyrion had begun to stir and groan, fever returning overnight. She refused to leave, even as Pod came in for his turn. Sansa would have sworn she heard- no. He couldn't have.

Still, she stayed by his side and didn't flinch when he unconsciously took her hand.

From behind her, the knight smiled, refreshed in his realization that he made the right call.

Before long, the dressing on his side needed changing. Sansa went to lift the hem of his tunic dutifully. "Oh, no, milady. I'll get the wound on his side," Pod interrupting, not wanting her to see what lay mere inches above it, "but would you perhaps get one of the serving girls to fetch some cool water." The young woman did as she was asked and, when she returned, he had finished.

In an effort to break his fever, Sansa doused a clean rag in the water and placed it on his brow. It appeared to ease him some, so she began to relax some. She'd never been particularly skilled in healing, but she had certainly been proficient in the basics. She folded her arms on the mattress and rested her head atop them. Sansa wondered again what exactly had made Podrick come for her. All she knew was that she was grateful he had. It had been almost 36 hours and no one had come looking for her.

Tyrion began grasping at the sheets restlessly. Sensing his urgency, she slid her hand beneath his and held it still, hoping he'd feel her presence and calm as she had when he'd taken hers after the riots at flea bottom. He did, a little, but not as much as she'd hoped. She found herself studying his hands and arms; The way the pronounced veins branched up to his surprisingly toned biceps, his sunkissed skin, how nicely his fingers fit between hers as though they were meant to be. She shook herself from her thoughts. No, his hands were his and didn't belong with hers.

"Lady Sansa?" came a weak, groggy voice from beside her head and she gave a start, turning to see Tyrion staring at her in disbelief.

Sansa's shock turned to relief. "It's good to see you awake, Lord Tyrion." Truthfully, she was worried that he mightn't do so and the thought was becoming more and more distressing. The bandage covering the gash on his face obscured large swaths of his expression which troubled her as well. She couldn't get any sort of a sense of his emotion.

He withdrew his hand from hers shyly. "My Lady, I thought..."

"I don't really know why I'm here, My Lord," she interrupted. "You're kind to me and I was told you needed help. I was awful to you before and I just..." Sansa trailed off. "I wanted to apologize. And I wanted to thank you. For everything." She grasped his hand a bit tighter. "You've been a great comfort, My Lord."

Breathing shallow through his slightly parted lips, Tyrion finally answered, "My Lady, you need not apologize nor thank me, but for now," he said hesitantly, "I thank you from the deepest reaches of my heart, but I ask that you leave." He closed his eyes and twisted away from her gently. "I do not wish for you to see me like this."

Sansa's heart panged. He seemed so upset. She hadn't meant to cause him any more harm. That was the last thing she wanted. "My Lord?"

"Please, My Lady," he whispered, refusing to look at her.

She stood on shaky legs. She didn't want to leave him. But she supposed she should do as she was bid. "Of course, My Lord. I'll let Ser Podrick know that you're alert." She turned for the door and, when her hand was upon the latch she turned back to find him staring at her, as though convinced she was a figment of his imagination. "Get well soon."

"Thank you, My Lady," he said, averting his eyes once more.

The next time Sansa saw Tyrion was on Joffrey's nameday. They'd been seated beside each other at the large round table brought into the hall and her stomach had wrenched every time he turned away to avoid her gaze. The hours crept by in awkward anticipation. There had been many discussions about soul markings. Both of the Lannister siblings avoided the topic thoroughly. Sansa asked polite questions of Lord Tywin of his, since he and his wife had been so young when they met. She and Prince Tommen lamented the anxiety not knowing left. Joffrey sat silently, glaring at her the whole time.

The bells chimed midnight. Nothing. Unfeeling of any sensations on his own skin, Joffrey stood and began to disrobe in a frenzy. The dinner attendees were all too taken aback to protest or understand fully what was going on. All, that is, except Cersei who seemed neither surprised or outraged. She hung her head, knowing all too well what was likely behind it. When he finished, standing there in his small clothes, he searched every inch of his skin for even a single word.

Tyrion snorted into his cup, willing himself not to allow for any amusement to show on his face. No mark. What a surprise. He truly loves no one. The realization of the implication dawned on him and his eyes darted between Sansa, who seemed frozen beside him, and the raging young monarch, eyes alight and seething as he hurled toward her.

"You don't love me, you treacherous little cunt!" he shouted, grabbing a fistful of her hair and dragging her from her chair, Tyrion's instinctive reach for her useless against the force. For the first time, the room bore witness to his violence against his betrothed firsthand. Tommen watched in abject horror, suddenly seeing his previously idolized older brother truly for what he was.

Sansa sobbed, screaming "Stop!" over and over, begging him for mercy she knew too well would never come. He threw the girl to the floor in a heap, leveling a sharp kick to her hip, leveling her. She trembled and wept as his attacks kept coming

"Joffrey, enough!" Tyrion raged, standing with his dinner knife clutched in his palm.

"I'll not have a wife who is not devoted to me!" he shouted at his uncle, turning to face him, face and chest red and heaving.

Tywin shook his head, cold eyes glowering at him. "That's not how this works, boy. The markings are for you." He gnashed his teeth. He bore no pleasant ideations for the girl, but to watch the boy wail at her so callously wasn't something he could do. "What this means is you don't love her, not that she doesn't love you."

Calmly, Cersei walked around the table, voice even and smooth as ever. "My Love, it is not the end of the world," she assured. "Others have handled this situation in the past. You will as well." She reached a deceptively gentle hand for her son's arm.

He pushed her away. "I don't care! If there's no hope of devotion-"

"I won't let you do this!" Tyrion bellowed, walking toward the boy with an unmatched fury. "You cannot hurt her!"

"And why not?" Joffrey challenged.

Tyrion's voice lowered to something reminiscent of a growl as he searched for the way to get around this. "She's..." he stammered. "I..." All eyes were on him now. "Because she doesn't belong with you." When he finally realized what he had to do, he dug his fingers into the neck of his shirt and pulled it to the side, revealing the words that felt burning hot on his chest. And there they were, I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey. "She belongs with me."

From the floor, Sansa couldn't see the interaction, but she could only assume. She was Tyrion's soulmate. Why hadn't he told her? Her pulse raced and her breath hastened. She could be free of this. She could be free of Joffrey.

The king read the words over a few times before his eyes finally met his uncle's. "You're not serious? Oh!" He loosed a howl of laughter. "Oh, this is even better," he said, turning to Sansa. He pointed at the man who stood, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. He'd ruined everything and now they were both done for. "This is an even bigger humiliation than a traitor family and certainly worse than the good clean death I was going to give you! It's all there, isn't it?" He turned back to his uncle and gave him a little shove. "I should have known. You've done nothing but simper and coo since you arrived. And you've known for years. You haven't been twenty-one for some time now, have you, Uncle?" He was looking to provoke him. He towered over Tyrion but now, Tyrion had the power. Joffrey was letting his emotions get the better of him. He took a breath and patiently waited for the king to rant himself out of thoughts. He could handle the boy's japes as long as they stayed directed at him. "Years, you've known that your soulmate is devoted to me. What a wonderful gift you've given me, Uncle!" He laughed, turning from him. Tyrion flinched, moving to come between Joffrey and Sansa. He reached past him and lifted the startled young woman from the floor and thrust her against his uncle, who offered the most stability he could muster and caught her from falling back down. "There you go, My Lady, your handsome white knight here to save you. Enjoy your nights at the hands of the drunken imp." He reached for the decanter of wine on the table and rose it in a mocking toast. "May he treat you half as well as I have. You deserve each other." He downed the rest of the wine and stormed out, leaving the dinner guests to their own scattered thoughts.

Cersei followed her son. Tywin asked Sansa if she would be willing to forgo marriage to Joffrey in favor of Tyrion. When she agreed, more emphatically than any of them had expected, he told her he'd have her things and Tyrion's moved to a larger set of rooms immediately. He motioned for the still bewildered Tommen to follow him, meaning to have a talk with the boy about his brother's outburst and why it was not to be repeated, regardless of the reason.

Tyrion and Sansa were left alone, staring silently at each other. A million thoughts swirled through each of their minds, but the one overwhelming thought they both shared was of one another.

For Sansa, it meant relief. It meant safety. It meant a chance. And then suddenly, fear of all of the things that were to come hurdling toward her at once. What if Tyrion wound up being just like the rest? He hadn't shown any indication of that, but he was a Lannister, after all. He had never been anything but kind, but he had had so many opportunities to say something since his arrival in King's Landing. But he'd had a month, one full turn of the moon since the day they'd first spoken. She bit at her lip as she stared at him, unable to find the words she desperately wished to ask.

For Tyrion, it was panic. It was the overwhelming realization of what he'd just done, and how much danger he may have put them both in, only for it to end with no objections. Most of all, though, it was Sansa, in front of him, and now they were to have a chance and he could love her openly and he could finally breathe.

They walked slowly at each other's sides to their new chamber, in a secluded corner of the residence. He opened the door and ushered her inside. Sansa looked around at their new rooms. They were larger and much more grandiose than hers, everything crimson and gold, with an attached bath, a seating area, a small dining table, a patio overlooking the garden, and of course, to the left of the patio, the sleeping quarters were arranged, the bed on a high platform with steps all around and beautiful brocade curtains to divide it from the rest of the space. She found herself in the center of the space, staring at Tyrion, wordlessly imploring him to speak; to give any sort of explanation for what had just happened.

He stared up at her, backlit in the small hours by the full moon outside their window, features aglow. "I'm so sorry, My Lady." He crossed to her, gesturing for her to move to the settee and speak to him. "I'm so sorry, please."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, voice hardly a whisper. "For over a year now, I've been tortured by this animal and you said nothing." Beginning to regain her footing, she tried again, stare piercing through him. "For over a year now, I've been battered and beaten and threatened and you could have stopped it? It was that easy," she gestured lamely in the direction she presumed they'd come from. "For over a year, I have been stripped of my mind, my body, and my soul by this horrible, monstrous cretin and you theoretically could have done something about it all along. Instead, you watched idly for a whole month." Sansa crossed her arms and dug her fingernails into her elbows. When Tyrion moved not to speak, she continued, shaking her head in exhausted disbelief as she blinked wasted tears from where they clung to her dark lashes, obscuring her vision temporarily. "I thought you were brave. I thought you were someone I could trust." She let out a puff of breath, waiting for any sort of response from Tyrion. "I guess not," she resigned, crossing to the bed and drawing the curtain tightly behind her.

"My Lady, I am sorry. Please-"

Sansa noted that Tyrion's voice sounded vaguely tear strangled and nearer the curtain than she'd like. Good, she thought. Let his heart ache the way my body does. "Just leave me be," she groaned, guarding her side gingerly and easing back on the bed and staring at the ceiling. She hated to harbor such hurtful thoughts when, truthfully, he'd done nothing wrong, but she was so frustrated by the entire situation. Now what? She was stuck in King's Landing and marrying a Lannister. The kindest Lannister, to be sure, but a Lannister nonetheless. A Lannister who has saved you countless times, and just saved your life whether tonight or a year down the line, she thought, I'll have to apologize in the morning, but for now, I just want to ignore the whole thing.

"My Lady? I-" Tyrion started, brushing his fingers against the thick curtains briefly before turning and finding himself on the settee alone. He propped his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and allowed a few hot, angry tears to stream from his tired green eyes. Having had enough of that, he pawed the offending wetness from his eyes, and popped the top from a decanter of wine and sought to drown his sorrows. Of course, this was how his soulmate finding out that her words lived on his body would go. Of course. There was never any other way.