Alright readers, I have exams coming up, so I either won't be posting at all for like a week or I'll be procrastinating and therefore posting like 3 times a day...just be expecting little gaps between chapters. I seriously can't maintain my two-chapters-a-day rhythm for much longer, but I'll try to get a chapter up nearly every day...

Her lack of reaction scared him more than any amount of screaming or crying he would have expected. She stood there, draped in a towel and dripping onto his floor, her eyes just growing larger and larger until he was drowning in them. She looked like a starving waif, begging for him to give her anything at all.

"M-may I return to my room, then, ser?" she asked him quietly, her voice barely breaking. He opened his mouth to say yes, but something in her eyes told him to say no.

"You'd best stay here, my lady," he told her firmly but gently. "In the company of others." He didn't dare leave this girl who had nothing alone; no one was more inclined to do rash things than someone who had lost everything. Her exterior was hard and cold, but he knew she must be feeling terribly fragile inside. "If you'd like, you can stay with Margaery for the night."

To his surprise, she shook her head.

"She has company so often, my lord," murmured Sansa, her voice barely a breath in the still air. "I don't want very much company."

He heard and understood her implications, but he was loathe to leave her by herself in a time such as this. But her expression was not very welcoming, not that he expected it to be. Less than an hour ago he had fucked her until she bled. He nodded and bowed low.

"Then, lady Sansa, if I could have your leave," he said, then turned and walked from the room, shutting the door behind him. Sansa's four guards stood watchful outside of the room. "You all, make sure she doesn't go around by herself. Expect sounds of distress from her, but pay attention to anything odd, too."

Sure enough, a low wail pierced the door, followed by the sound of something being smashed. Jaime flinched, running a quick inventory in his head and wondering if there was anything worth running back in for. "My lord, she'll be fine," said one of the guards in an aside. Jaime looked at him; he was a tall youth, good looking, with kind hazel eyes. He was nearly as tall as Jaime, too.

"Don't get any ideas," he said coldly to him, then turned and all but fled the sound of his wife's grief.

The wooden lute lay in a thousand splinters on the floor.

Sansa sat in his bed, her arms wrapped around her knees. The tears dripped down her cheeks, but she could hardly feel them. She had to grieve quickly, for she would be punished for crying for a traitor. She wouldn't even be able to wear black, not for her own family.

There would be no funeral, no ceremonies; this was a time of war, and she would be lucky if someone found their bodies and brought them to Winterfell to be buried in the tombs with their ancestors. She made a mental note to have them carved in their likeness anyways...to capture Robb's strong, handsome face, Bran's kind eyes, Rickon's mischievous smile. She stifled another sob, trying to control herself.

Servants moved quietly in and out of the room. Jaime had told her the bare minimum, she soon discovered. The maids told her more, when she asked them. He had died the night before, at their own uncle's wedding at the Freys'. Robb and her mother...and Bran and Rickon the night before that.

Robb might have died as the Kingslayer bedded his own sister, she thought to herself. A few more tears squeezed out from between her lashes. Why can't I do anything right? Everything I do just backfires on me...if I'd run away in the beginning, I might have seen Bran and Rickon again, before...before...

But she knew that even if she had fled and by some gift of the gods had made it back to Winterfell unharmed, she would have been slaughtered or raped by Greyjoy's men. If he could kill children like her brothers, he would have no qualms in killing the last Stark girl. Sansa had given up on hoping for Arya's return.

"Mother, you never told me it could be like this," she whispered, trembling with the effort not to throw herself from the window and end it all there. As the last Stark, it was her duty to protect Winterfell. "I know life isn't a story...but you never told me it could be this awful." If she went back to Winterfell, she would bring her lord husband with her, and he would stand as Lord Protector, ruling over it how he wished. Even if she went back, she brought a lion with her.

But was that better or worse than leaving it to the squids, the Greyjoys? Am I a wife or a Lady of Winterfell?

"Father, mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon," she cried into her hands. "Lady..."

If she had Lady, things would be so much better. Lady would have protected her from Joffrey, from Cersei and Lord Tywin and Jaime. Lady would have stood between her and the Lannisters, would never have left her at their hands alone like her family did.

But as the cried their names, she gave them up. She could not cry for them for long, because if the Lannisters noticed her absence, then she would be suspect. She could not cry for her traitor family.

"My lady?" murmured a soft voice, and the sweet faced Fae edged into the room. Her eyes were wide and concerned, but all Sansa could see was Lannister red.

"Get out!" she screamed, nearly leaping from the bed. Fae jumped a foot in the air and dashed from the room, leaving Sansa tense and breathless in the red covers. It had grown quite dark out, and she still had yet to see Jaime. She was very glad he'd left her to herself for the night. She had regretted coaxing such a reaction out of him earlier, had tried to stop him when he pushed her into the wall, but he was deaf to her cries.

She still shuddered when she thought about it. He pushed me to the floor and mounted me like...like a dog! The thought filled her with disgust. But thinking about that made her only feel guiltier, more like a blood traitor than ever.

"That was not ladylike," she told herself, sitting up and wiping her nose. "I shouldn't have yelled at her." She felt like screaming and crying and hitting someone, but her mother had always told her she was to be a lady one day. And she supposed the best way to pay her respects was to become the lady her mother would have wanted her to be.

"Tyrion, tell me what to do!" groaned Jaime, rubbing his hand through his short hair. Some of the curls had begun to return, spiraling over his forehead lazily. Jaime would have gone for Cersei for advice, if she had not been part of the problem already. And his younger brother had always been quick of wit and good in these sorts of situations. Tyrion poured them both large goblets of red wine.

"From Dorne, drink up," he told Jaime, handing one to him. Jaime took two long swallows; it burned on the way down, but made him feel a little lighter. He sighed and stared at the bright gold hand they had attached to his wrist; that thing that covered and yet cursed him.

"I wasn't made for this," he muttered, taking another swallow of wine. "I wasn't made for a wife and child. I was made to fight, and look at me now."

"Yes, well, you're a lot better off than me, I'd wager," jested the dwarf, scratching his mangled nose. "I wasn't made for anything purposeful. I was made to offend our lordly father, I suppose." Jaime had to laugh at that, but it turned quickly into a sigh.

"What am I supposed to do? Cersei is angry with me, for whatever reason, and I don't know what to say to my own wife," agonized Jaime, draining the wine. "My own wife...my innocent, naive little wife, who deserves better than me, that much is to be sure. I'm too corrupted for her."

"Jaime, you're a good man," said Tyrion quietly, surveying his brother with his mismatched eyes. "Say what you will, you've done some wrong things and some unforgivable things, and some stupid things to be sure, but your heart has always been in the right place. In some ways, you're more naive than Sansa." Jaime gave him an odd look and laughed. "Laugh if you must brother, but it's true. You've never cared for anything beyond Cersei, never lost anything that meant anything to you...but she's lost everything."

Jaime thought about what Tyrion had said and nodded. "And Cersei?" he asked, waiting for his wiser brother's morsels of advice. But the dwarf just laughed and shrugged.

"To hell with her, I never know what she's angry about. These days, it's so many things I don't bother to keep up anymore." Jaime poured himself another goblet of wine. Tyrion gave him a concerned look. "Should you be drinking so much, brother? I never knew you to be a lover of wine."

"Yes, well, I find myself needing it more and more recently," he said thickly, taking a smaller swallow to appease his brother. "What am I to do with a crying woman, Tyrion? The only grieving I've ever handled was a grieving widow on a battlefield, and it's to warn them away. I never wanted a wife."

"And yet here you stand, with one," said Tyrion firmly. "She's your responsibility now. You can leave her alone all you want during the day, she'll appreciate that, but at night you're going to have to act the husband. If she can do her duty, you can do yours." His voice turned more gentle, kinder for his brother. "Do something for her, something small, that she would like. She doesn't like you, of course not, especially since half of the deaths in her family are accounted to ours, if not all. But she would bear it better if you could give her the chance to like you."

"She won't like me, Tyrion," said Jaime in a low voice. "I...I lost my temper, tonight." He was loathe to admit it, and he could feel Tyrion's green and black eyes boring into him. He could feel the anger and the restraint pouring off of his younger brother, who he knew longed to hit him at that moment. Truth be told, Jaime would not fight back.

"Jaime, listen to me," hissed Tyrion, his eyes narrow. "You control yourself around that girl. I've watched Cersei manipulate her like a dog, I've watched Joffrey use his guards to beat her, and I've watched her build up her walls, to keep everyone out. She'll wall you out too, soon enough, if not already, and then she's lost to you forever. You might have a wife and children, but you'll never have Sansa Stark."

"I don't want her, I just want to bring her back to Winterfell," burst Jaime angrily, but Tyrion was already shaking his head.

"It's too late for that, brother. Father's plans always had a way of giving us the worst of any deals. She's your wife now, whether or not you want her or Cersei or Brienne or whomever. In the laws of gods and men, you're married, and she's yours. Whether or not you want to behave like a husband is entirely up to you, but it could make a great deal of difference for your future. Some promises require more time and effort than others to maintain," he finished, his dark eyes glinting. Jaime had the feeling that Tyrion knew more than he suggested. He stood, chilled, to take his leave. He loved his brother dearly, cripple or not, but sometimes he was frightened by how much he knew.

"I'll bring her something, then," he said, holding out his hand. "Something from the markets, perhaps. Or the underground. Thank you for your advice, brother." Tyrion clasped the offered hand and smiled crookedly.

"Not a problem at all, Jaime. Go try to behave yourself, please."

"And of Cersei?"

"Ah, leave her to stew in her juices. She'll realize how much she needs you soon enough."

Jaime left his brother then, wanting all too badly to spend the evening practicing swordfighting with his left hand, but feeling guilty for leaving Sansa to mourn alone. That had always been his trouble; since he'd been a boy, Jaime had always wanted everything. He had wanted a wife, a home, and sons, but he had wanted the Kingsguard too. He had wanted to sit Casterly Rock, but he wanted to flee to the lands east with his sister, to marry her and live out their lives anonymously. He wanted to die in the field of battle, in a blaze of glory, and to never die at all.

And now he wanted Sansa to smile, Cersei to want him again, to regain his skill with the sword, to leave Winterfell to the wolves...he'd never wanted that icy castle anyways. But so far, nothing was working out the way he liked. That, too, he was used to. But he could take them one at a time, and perhaps something would work out.

He walked back to the enormous doors and threw them open.

There she sat in the center of his bed, finishing braiding her long red hair. Her face was washed, her gown clean and light. There was no sign of whatever she had broken earlier, no sign that anything had happened at all. Her eyes were a bit red, but it was hardly noticeable. She looked up when she heard the doors open, and stood, and curtseyed.

"My lord," she greeted him rather coolly. He stared at her, his mind absolutely boggled. If he had lost his sister, especially to someone who held him captive, he would be tearing his hair and wreaking havoc for weeks. But there the Stark girl stood, her head high and proud and her eyes clear.

"Are you well, Lady Sansa?" he asked her hesitantly. "I know you must be distraught, it's a terrible thing to lose one's family." Her eyes sharpened, and it was all he could do not to step back. But then the moment passed, and she was turning from him gracefully, pulling the covers of the bed straight.

"They were traitors," she said simply, touching her hair again. "I cannot love a traitor to my king. I love King Joffrey." Jaime had to refrain from screaming. Tyrion had been right of course; she had thrown up her Stark walls, and those were tall, cold walls indeed. If ever a lie crossed anyone's lips, it was that of Sansa Stark professing her affection for their king. He stepped forward and touched her shoulder gently, feeling worse when at the immediate flinch.

"Sansa, sit with me," he said tiredly. It was very dark now, far past the time to be sleeping. But if he wanted to share a bed with her, and have her lie comfortably, he must apologize for what he'd done to her before. "Earlier, in the bathing room-"

"Ser Jaime, it is your right as my husband to do what you will," she said firmly, sounding incredibly convincing. But Jaime had not forgotten the blood. "My right as a wife is to demand the safety of your roof and the bread you break. You have provided for me, and it is fair that I provide for you." She sounded as if she were reciting something told by her septa, or her mother, and he strongly suspected that to be truth. She was very good at re-telling what she had been told, and flattering where she should have cried. A duller man might have believed her.

"Just Jaime, if we're in bed together," he told her. "I'm not your master. And it doesn't count if I'm supposed to keep you safe beneath my roof, and wound you myself. And earlier...I don't know what came over me." Liar...it was a woman, with luscious curves and teasing eyes. "but it won't happen again. I will not hurt you, physically or otherwise. It isn't knightly."

"Yes, m-Jaime," she murmured, her mouth twisting into a smile but her eyes calling him other names. Oathbreaker, Oathbreaker, they whispered. They were large, blue, and trusting, but he knew better than to believe that. He hated being deceived, even under the arms of courtesy. She lied prettily enough, though. His gaze couldn't help but to roam her bare neck and shoulders, left vulnerable by the braid. She was very well developed, for one still young. He was finding himself very drawn to her. Gently, so gently, his left hand touched the side of her neck, brushed her collarbone. He leaned forward to brush his lips across it too.

He felt her stiffen, then. She tried hard not to show it, but it was obvious that if she released herself to her instincts, she would be halfway across the room by now. Sighing, he sat back and surveyed her with resigned green eyes.

"Alright. Let's go to sleep." It was very dark out, with the only lights being that of the moon shining through the window, and the candles on the tables. He stood to put them out.

"Might I go back to my room, Se-Jaime?" she burst suddenly, and he could see that it had taken all of her courage to ask him that. He stared at her, quite tempted to let her go. But he laughed easily and blew out a candle.

"But then I might never get you back, my lady," he half-teased, stripping off his clothes. He would have bet all of Casterly Rock's gold on it; once she was no longer held against her will, he would be seeing significantly less of his courteous little wife. She seemed irritated at his jesting, but she reached back and unlaced her gown anyways. Dropping it to the floor, she sat nervously in a light shift, a nearly shapeless confection that showed her long legs very nicely.

Jaime slid beneath the sheets beside her, reaching out his left arm and pulling her close. She didn't exactly resist, but she did not come easily to him; he ignored her obvious discomfort. I'm giving her time to recover from...everything. This isn't that much to ask. Grabbing the hem of her shift, he abruptly pulled it over her head. She couldn't stop the surprised squeak that broke through her cold shields.

Her surprise worsened when he continued to pull her until she was lying on top of him, her head against his chest and her legs draped on either side of his thighs. She flinched, hard, when his hand touched the small of her back, but he did no more than that. Despite her smooth skin against his and the smell of her clean hair, he was exhausted and very content to lie quietly like that.

"Best blanket in the world," he murmured, rubbing her back in long, soothing strokes. She twitched a little, and he could have sworn she had laughed.

Sansa lay very still, trying not to move a single muscle. Jaime was fast asleep, his deep breaths rising and falling in his chest under her hand and cheek. She dared not move, in case he woke and decided to take his rights. It would have been easy enough; she could feel him against her thigh and, though he was not hard, she knew how quickly that could change.

He had told her that he was not her master, but they were empty words. She couldn't help but to hate and fear him, and he treated her like furniture. He could be kind; that much was true. She knew he had the capacity to be good and gentle. But she had also watched his temper spiral wildly into the air, watched as he changed from controlled to a typhoon of anger or lust. Waiting for the explosion was almost worse than knowing it was coming.

She still wanted his seed to take root, that she might be able to go home; despite all that had happened, she would be open to mourn her brothers if she was away from the king. If she had her own household of people she loved and remembered of her childhood, things might be better. She could ensure the construction of her brothers' tombs.

Perhaps there would be a little bit of Robb and Bran and Rickon and Arya, in her children. She might not love the father, but she didn't think she could hate a child.

Still, she was far too sore to even consider mounting him. And she was still trembling with the aftershock of before, when even her cries couldn't stop him. She had never experienced a helplessness like that before, not even at the hands of Joffrey's guards when they would beat her. All the time she would have a fierce dignity, no matter what they did, but here...here he would hurt her where she was most vulnerable.

She wondered if she'd ever be able to make herself incite his passion again.

She probably could have slipped away and made it back to her room. He seemed very deeply asleep, and if he woke then she could say she was merely getting something to eat or drink. But she remembered when she had run from him, and he had pulled and shaken her like a doll; when she had come to him, and he pushed her into a wall and made her bleed. So she lay very still, her fingers touching the wisps of hair on his chest.

Finally, fretfully, Sansa fell asleep.