The maids dressed Sansa the next morning, having watched the queen regent show them how she wanted it done. Margaery had left her very early, as she had to get dressed and prepared herself to attend, as well as Myrcella. And so Sansa was left alone with three quiet maids who said not a word as they tied laces and brushed out her red curls.

She didn't cry. She watched the magnificent white dress construct itself, watched the large sad eyes of the girl in the mirror. Finally, they fastened the wolf clasp about her shoulders, and she was wearing her House colors on her back. It was a beautiful cloak, grey and white with a direwolf leaping across the back, but she knew it would be red and gold soon enough. Perhaps the dresses were white to always match whatever cloak the bride was given...she knew Jaime would be in gold and scarlet, too.

She knew that Margaery, on the day of her wedding, would be wearing flowers in her curly brown hair and flowers about her waist and so many flowers in her hands, but that was because she was a Tyrell of Highgarden. As a Stark of Winterfell, Sansa would be decked in cold silver, and she was, at her neck and wrists.

Everything she wore was a gift of the Lannisters, since Sansa had nothing with her except for her claim. But it would be paid back, again and again, in this marriage.

Finally the maids led her to the hall beside the central courtyard, the largest and most beautiful one of all. Many princesses and queens had been married there, as well as duchesses, lords, and the like. It was called amongst the lower houses the Courtyard of Kisses, and romantic it most certainly was. In the autumn, the leaves of the trees were magnificent, and the grass was still lush and green. A cool breeze freshened the atmosphere.

It was a monstrous courtyard, too; large enough to seat the entire court in the stands along the sides, as well as allow space in the center for eventing. Sansa had even watched Tommen practice jousting there, once. But the fact that she was being married there only meant that the entire court would be in attendance, to witness the union of their Houses.

Joffrey was beside her, all of a sudden, and Sansa felt herself recoil.

"I'm to present you, today," he said rather forcefully, grabbing her arm. "I'll be your father for your wedding."

She felt an angry retort rise in her, but bit it down. She did not want a bruise on her face the moment of her marriage. The court would see her as a cold, beautiful lady of the north, or as nothing. She allowed King Joffrey to lead her to the front arch of the courtyard.

A step, and a hundred pipes burst into song, and the court sighed, and she saw Jaime Lannister standing at the end of an endless path beside a septon in black. His doublet was black, to her surprise, with gold lions on the sides and slashed in scarlet on the shoulders and sleeves. It was a fantastic confection, but wasn't black unlucky for weddings? Sansa blew the old myth out of her head. Why should she care? It wasn't as if this marriage could be worse. She saw he wore his new golden hand; it wasn't so terrible as she had expected it to be.

All too soon she stood beside him, and the septon was asking them their vows, and Joffrey whipped the silver cloak from her shoulders, and Jaime Lannister removed his own scarlet cloak and stepped behind her to drape it over her. It was so long it trailed beyond her feet, dusting the ground.

And then they were looking at her, she didn't know why, until in the haze she remembered that she was supposed to say something.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," she whispered, her voice barely distinguishable from the autumn breeze.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," said Jaime, his voice resounding through the courtyard like the crack of a drum.

And his hand touched her face, he drew close, and pressed his lips against hers. There was no passion in it. He barely touched her. When he withdrew, she was grateful that he did not make this more awful for her. If he had been younger, and they were wed in the first snow of Winterfell, and he was not a Lannister, she might have loved him.

The crowd seemed to surge forward, everyone intent on welcoming her. Cersei Lannister pressed a cold kiss to her forehead and then disappeared for the rest of the evening. Tywin Lannister embraced her, though he did not smile and did not speak. Tyrion shook her hand and wished her many happy children. Joffrey kissed her on the mouth, to her disgust, and wished her no children at all, so he could come and help them. Margaery hugged her tight and close, telling her how beautiful everything looked.

It was an endless ceremony, and Sansa merely wished she could go to her room and sleep. But thoughts of what happened when it was all over, and the bed, brought a chill to her blood. She tried hard not to think about what would happen when the day was done.

There was a magnificent feast, with ten roasted swans and the fruits of autumn all around. Sansa nibbled at a lemon cake, but couldn't stomach much else. Her husband sat beside her, feasting nearly entirely on spiced wine, laughing at the bawdy jokes of the men but not truly enjoying them, she could tell. He hardly even looked at her through the entire feast, until one person was shouting for them to kiss, and then more, and he turned and gently kissed the corner of her mouth. His skin was smooth, and clean-shaven for their wedding.

"That's not a real kiss!" laughed Garlan Tyrell. "Come on, Lannister, surely you've got more than that!"

"Oh? Come a few seats closer and I'll show you exactly how much more, Garlan," Jaime called back to him, to the laughter of those around. Sansa stared at her plate and blushed. Did he have to be so crude? Tyrion and even Joffrey were not so crude as this, not to the public.

"Do you want a boy or a girl, for your firstborn?" asked Alla, Margaery's cousin, mischievously. Sansa smiled tightly and answered whichever was first in her mind.

"Girl," she said firmly.

"Boy," said Jaime.

"You'd better name him Joff, after me, uncle," said King Joffrey loudly. "I'm sure Lady Sansa wouldn't want to forget her king even when she's married to someone else."

They served sliced duck next, roasted with cabbages and red wine. Sansa chewed on the pieces for a long time, unable to converse with those around her. She felt sick, felt as if the red cloak around her shoulders was burning her.

Music began again, and he took her hand to lead the first dance.

Sansa felt cold and heavy inside when she curtseyed to him, with the court all around and soft music rising like mist around them. But then he took her hand in his, placed the golden one at her waist, and they began to dance. And, for the first time all day, she felt alive.

Her breath left her as they whirled across the courtyard, as elegant and light as fairies. He was surefooted and wary of his partner; Sansa never stumbled or lost the rhythm. It was a rare occasion when she had danced with one so graceful, and she suddenly found herself smiling. When he dipped her too low, she even laughed. She was smiling and laughing, and the burst of emotion was too much, and then she was crying. She was crying hard, and he took her aside to no one's notice, since the entire court was dancing now.

She couldn't stop crying, shuddering sobs that racked her whole body. He didn't try to hush her, or tell her to stop, but dried her tears with the sleeve of his doublet and waited silently for her to finish. She fought for control of herself again, shocked at how she'd lost it in front of everyone in such a way. Even with Joffrey, she'd been able to be courteous and indifferent, no matter what he'd done.

"Here, stop crying. Dance with my father." When she wiped her face and managed a weak smile, he stood with her and led her back into the whirl of cloth and couples, and bowed, presenting her to Lord Tywin. "My lord, would you like a dance with my lady wife?"

Sansa danced with Lord Tywin, and then Joffrey, who spent his time with her subtly groping through her wedding gown. To her relief, she was then handed to Margaery, who saw her red eyes but said nothing about them.

Sansa turned her head, and saw her husband dancing with his sister, Cersei; not the exciting, fast dance that everyone else was dancing to, but a slow, rocking one. They seemed to be talking deeply about something. But then she was whirled to the young Prince Tommen and she forgot all about Ser Jaime.

At least, until the sun fell and the sky was lit with red, and someone began to tug at her skirt, and then a lace of her glove, and at the headdress she wore.

"The bedding! The bedding!" rose the cry, and Sansa felt the sudden rush of dread. The men piled around her, the women around Jaime, and they separated by a mass of people. Sansa gasped and cried out as the men pulled at her, unlacing he bodice of her gown, pulling the headdress from her head, unclasping her cape. Her shoes were long gone, torn from her feet when they had lifted her off of the ground. Joffrey was there too, and his hand slid up her skirts to give her bottom a hard squeeze.

Sansa fought to get away, but there was no escaping the horde. By the time they got to the door, Sansa was in the sheer black slip she'd been horrified at the day before, fighting back tears as hard as she ever could. The hooting and catcalls were unbearable. But they dumped her in the bed, and hastened away while the ladies finished with Jaime.

Finally, they two were lying in the same bed, he as naked as the day he was born and she almost as much. Sansa shut her eyes tightly, drawing her knees to her chest and shivering. She waited for him to touch her, to force her legs apart and take what was rightfully his, but for a moment he did not move. Then the bed shifted and she heard him walking across the room.

"Would you like something to drink, Sansa?" he said in a low voice, and she hesitated, then cracked her eyes open. He was standing across the room, his back to her, pouring mead from a bottle. She blushed heavily when she saw his bare back and buttocks and thighs, and her eyes immediately flew elsewhere.

"I...yes, if it please you, my lord."

"It does. Now drink," he said, handing her a goblet. She drank three long gulps, her head spinning but her heart pounding all the harder. She waited for him again, but he had walked away from her, and was drinking deeply from his own cup. She remembered the feast, when he had eaten or drunk little else but wine. He seemed fairly flushed, and could hardly bring himself to look at her.

"This is wrong," he murmured, almost too quietly for her to hear. "I was supposed to bring you home safe...I thought I could convince them to let me bring you home." Sansa felt her hope die a little more, wondering if he had given up on bringing her home. But she waited silently, as he spoke almost to himself. "I promised Lady Catelyn I'd bring you home. I made an oath you'd be safe and unharmed."

It almost sounded like he was confessing to her. He turned, then, and walked towards her. She squeaked at the sight of his naked form, but he ignored her, seating himself at the edge of the bed. His golden head hung nearly to his knees, his hands in his hair.

"I promised you'd be safe...not a scratch, not a drop of blood...but the only way I can bring you back is by drawing it myself. Not blood of the body...maiden's blood, but blood nonetheless. Brienne will kill me when she finds out..." he whispered, and briefly Sansa wondered who she was. But she felt more and more sad as he continued to speak, as if expelling the words would make him clean. "I can't leave until you're with child. Father won't let me leave until you've got a lion in your belly, and he'll kill me for a traitor if I go before. My hand is gone, I cannot defend you anymore."

He was most certainly drunk, and his control was wavering. Sansa suddenly understood very well what was going on, and she now knew the price of Winterfell. Her price, anyways. The realm would come with a hefty tag indeed; was she willing to pay it?

She imagined herself in Winterfell, surrounded by little golden-haired babies, and then herself still here, in the Palace, with Cersei and Joffrey. It was as if there was no second choice.

She scooted behind him, and nervously placed a hand on his back. He didn't move; he could have been a statue. What would Robb think of me? Can I really...what is more important? Would mother understand? Would father have understood?

But they were not here anymore, and she must give penance for that. It was her fault, after all.

She gently, hesitantly, kissed his bare shoulder. His head rose from his hand, and he did not look at her, but his breath was heavy. She remembered how Redrick had kissed her; on the shoulders, the neck, the collarbone. She blushed to think of that, and of it being the other way around.

But she placed her lips on his neck, on the nape, then the sides, and then once on the collarbone. Her breasts brushed him gently on the arm as she moved, through the fabric of the black slip. She was nearly beside him now, and when she looked down his good hand was gripping the covers of the bed.

"Sansa, don't, please. You're still so young," he ground through his teeth. But he did not push her away, it seemed he couldn't. When she looked down at his lap again, she nearly gasped in fear, but caught her breath. His manhood was rigid and significantly larger than it had looked before, just as Margaery's cousins and the maids would whisper about in the Maidenvault. She was a little frightened, but she knew that whatever she was doing was working. Still though, it looked far too large to fit in the secret place between her legs.

"I'm a maiden flowered," she told him firmly, moving to stand in front of him. She forced herself not to cross her arms in front of her chest, instead letting them rest on her hips. His eyes had not closed, anyhow; he seemed to be drinking in the sight of her slender body, sheathed in the sheer fabric. "And I'm not so young as to be naive, ser. I know what I'm buying."

"Where did you get this?" he asked her, his fingers reaching forward to pinch the material at her thigh. She shivered a little at his touch.

"Cer-Queen Cersei gave it to me," she managed, forcing herself not to pull away. He released it suddenly, a dark laugh bursting through his lips.

"Of course she did. How very helpful of her," he muttered, but Sansa did not understand. His green eyes met hers then, and she saw a little of the desire she so often had seen in Joffrey. It was terrifying and encouraging, all at once. "I want you, Sansa. Does that frighten you? Does that make me monstrous?"

"N-no, my lord. I am honored," she managed to say, her shields rising once more. He stared at her, not moving, for what seemed to be an eternity. Finally, he spoke.

"Do you understand what you're asking for?" he said slowly, his green eyes never leaving hers. She swallowed and, trying not to look like a scared girl but a brave lady of Winterfell, she nodded. Reaching down to grasp the hem, she pulled the slip over her head in one fluid motion.

And then, so suddenly, he moved towards her. She bit down a squeak and forced herself to sit still. His hand touched her, not hard and purposeful like Joffrey's, but not exactly of its own will, like Redrick's. It was almost as if he was forcing himself to move, as she forced herself not to. He touched her cheek, her jaw, her hair, her neck, her shoulder, the back of his hand brushed against her breast. His fingers grazed her belly, then rose again to her face.

He leaned closer, and she could smell the spicy scent of the wine on his breath. Her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. He withdrew then, and opened her eyes, confused.

"Don't close your eyes," he said almost coldly, his own eyes dark and emerald. "You won't pretend you're not doing this. You will know the price you're paying."

"I…yes, my lord," she said meekly, and he leaned forward again. This time his mouth was more forceful, and she responded as well as she could as he ravaged her mouth, kissing her lips repeatedly, biting at them, forcing them open and plunging his tongue between them.

Sansa tried to keep up, but his experience in this sort of thing far surpassed whatever light kissing she'd done with Redrick the singer. The force of it pushed her backwards, until she was lying back in the thick bedding, holding his shoulders and trying not to seem such a virgin.

His hand roamed over her side, caressing her hips and belly while he leaned on his right forearm, taking care not to put any weight on his wounded golden hand.

Then it moved between her legs, and pushed them apart. He shifted until his weight settled between her soft thighs, and for a moment he stayed there, arched over her braced on one hand, sweat beading on his fair brow.

"Are…are you sure, Sansa?" he asked her, his eyes intense and pained, but he remained immobile. "Is this what you want?"

She met his eyes with her own steady, even gaze.

"I want to go home."

He stared at her for over a full minute, and she felt that for an instant he had seen past her shields and her cold courtesy, her confusing shifts of emotion. He understood, in that moment, a little more of Sansa Stark than dozens of others had.

And then he lowered his head, leaned back to line himself up with her. A hot hardness pressed at her most feminine parts, and she bit her lips, trembling only a little. She waited for him to break her maidenhead, to bring the pain and tears described by the servant girls. Her hands on his shoulders were shaking ever so slightly, though she fought to control them.

But he didn't push himself inside of her. He leaned forward again, kissed her auburn hair, her eyes, the corner of her mouth. He couldn't bring himself to apologize to her again, but she knew that he was.

And then he bucked his hips, a smooth, powerful motion that broke clean through her maidenhood and buried him deep inside of her, so deep she gasped and lost her breath and couldn't even cry out in pain. Her inner muscles fluttered agonizingly along his length as began to rock back, withdrawing almost entirely, and then forward, plunging deeper than before.

"Please!" gasped Sansa, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Please, just…wait! Please!" He froze over her, still braced on his left hand, the only part of their bodies touching below the waist, and her hands on his arms. He was breathing as if he'd just finished a melee, and a droplet of sweat dripped from his chest to hers.

She caught her breath, tried not to whimper. Breathing deeply again, she tried to relax her abdomen, her tightly clenched inner muscles, but without much relief. Once he moved again, they were as tense and pained as before. She couldn't help the tiniest whimper from escaping between her lips. He noticed, though; he always noticed.

"Put your feet up," he grunted through tightly ground teeth. He was fighting to hold still, she could see, to not hurt her more than he had to.

"Wh-what?" she stammered, not understanding what he meant. He took a few deep breaths before speaking again.

"Your feet, lift them up and put them on my shoulders," he clarified, sitting back on his heels and grabbing one ankle with his left hand. She followed his lead, hesitantly lifting her other foot and resting it on his shoulder. It felt very strange, and didn't look like how she'd always imagined bedding to be, but then he leaned forward and she gasped as her lower back was lifted from the cushions.

She whimpered again when he thrust himself back into her, but it wasn't entirely of pain. There was a different feeling too, a sort of ticklish one that intensified when he thrust again. It continued to build, until at nearly every thrust sounds were forcing their way past her lips, and then none were from pain.

He said nothing to her, refrained from touching her, and he forced down any noise she suspected he might have otherwise allowed from himself. She tried to stifle her increasingly growing cries, but it was futile; every rippling motion from his strong stomach brought her even closer to come unseen edge, on which she already teetered precariously.

"Ohh…oh! OH!" she gasped, her hands twisted hard in the silk sheets. She wondered if anyone could hear them from behind those thick doors.

"It seems the Starks aren't so cold behind those tall walls!"

"Slap her tits!"

"Let's hear your best howl, wolf girl!"

She remembered the bawdy comments from the court when she had been a young girl, not understanding most of them and just enjoying the general delight of the court. But now, at the center of attention, she was filled with humiliation; here, with a Lannister between her legs, she was shaming her own house.

But all of those thoughts were blown from her mind when he leaned back, pumped her hips a few times in quick succession, and then buried himself to the hilt in her. Her vision blurred, then burst into explosions of stars as an intense feeling rushed from the wet heat between her legs to the very tips of her fingers and toes, curled and arched in the pleasure of it.

"Oh, Jaime! Jaime!" she screamed despite herself. The catcallers at the door were hooting in delight at her loss of control, but she could hardly hear them over the sound of her own pleasure.

The wetness between her legs doubled, overflowing until it dripped out onto her thighs, and he withdrew from her. She lay still, breathless and horrified at her obscene performance. He lay beside her, panting heavily, staring up at the ceiling.

"That's our Lion! Killing fools and bedding wenches!"

"Do 'er again, Jaime!"

Sansa shuddered to herself. If he turned and crawled over her again, she didn't know what she'd do. Humiliated, she sniffed and began to pull the blankets up and over herself. Perhaps she could drown out the crude suggestions being yelled through the door.

But that wouldn't be very brave. She merely pulled the blankets around her, to warm herself after he had moved away from her. She was wedded and bedded, there was nothing more to it. It was done.

"Have I pleased you, my lord?" she asked him quietly, and he stared at her for a moment, thrown off by the cold courtesy, so different from the screaming girl he'd bedded only a few minutes before. Her walls were back up, and they were strong walls indeed.

"I…yes, you've done…wonderfully. Just, just go to sleep, Sansa," he said wearily, not quite sure how to answer her. How could he tell her how sweet and innocent, and yet passionate she'd been? How could he tell her how he regretted the life she should have had, at the hands of some youth who would love her for it? Her heart had once been full of love, he could see, ready for the first romance she was thrust into. But that was something he was not able to give. Cersei had been his first love, and she would always be his love. He had nothing to give her but his compassion, and it wasn't enough.

She curled beneath the blankets, and he pulled her to his chest in a fool's charade of the protection he should have been able to offer her. But, how could he protect this girl he'd sworn to when he had nothing to defend her with?

The golden hand mocked him, glimmering in the light of the moon.