Author's Note: My dearest readers, I am hoping that posting this chapter will give me the swift kick in the ass that I need to finish this fic! School/teaching is currently controlling my life, and it probably won't stop until the semester is over, but I make a solemn-ish vow that I will have this fic finished within two weeks! Right, I expect you lovely people to hold me to that.
Chapter 11: In which there is musing on the past and an unexpected intruder.
Tywin Lannister was not a man who dwelled on regret. Instead, he moved forward with purpose, letting thoughts of tomorrow dominate thoughts of today. However, if he were caught in a weak moment (an impossibility by anyone's reckoning), he might admit to a desire to have something…better.
Had he paid more attention to his children, Jaime and Cersei's activities would have been prevented. Had he formed a small amount of affection for his youngest son, Tyrion would not be letting his not insignificant intellect go to waste.
If he had not been so enraged, he could have asked Sansa why.
Tywin had gone to High Garden to hear her reasons, intending to be perfectly rational about the whole thing, but his intentions had fallen by the wayside when he saw her glowing in that way reserved for expecting mothers and well-fucked women. In that moment, her reasons became unimportant and all that mattered was wounding her as deeply as he could. He had been gratified by the hurt on her face when he called her a whore, but the feeling was transient and when it left, it left him feeling hollow.
Knowing that he could not correct the past, Tywin attempted to move beyond it, but the specter of Sansa Stark lingered in his life (and his heart). He had resolved to throw away her gifts, but when his hands touched the eiderdown quilt hanging over the arm of his couch, he hesitated.
It had been the first gift she'd ever given him. She had laughed at his nonplussed expression, "What can you get a man who owns a good chunk of the world? I settled on something practical." Then she had leaned in close to him, whispering conspiratorially, "We can snuggle under it." Sansa had laughed all the harder when his face twisted in distaste.
Realizing that excising physical memories of her would not spark sudden memory loss of his time with her, he decided to keep them as reminders of how close he came to ruin.
Tywin persisted in this manner until he received the wedding invitation.
Though it had found its way into the rubbish bin immediately, it preyed on him. Visions of Sansa clad in a shimmering white dress, belly swollen with child, gliding down an aisle towards the Tyrell whelp assaulted him. He almost opened the invitation several times, wanting his eyes to confirm the words that would be printed on the paper. But it went back into the bin.
His son, damn him, had noticed and asked. His answer had been succinct, his tone had dissuaded further questions, but Jaime plucked the invitation out, saying that he loved weddings, especially after attending his own.
The reminder of his new daughter-in-law distracted him, had presented another set of issues for him to dwell on, and his son had been waved away with an impatient hand. Jaime had gone to High Garden a week later, dragging his giant bride with him, leaving Tywin to become a seething mass of anger and hatred.
On the day of the wedding, Jaime called, leaving a cheerful message about how beautiful the bride was, how handsome her groom had been.
In response, Tywin threw his mobile at his office door, and it had shattered on impact. He did not need his son to tell him how beautiful a bride Sansa was, for he had been seeing that image in his mind's eye for the last three months.
He put in extra hours that day, not arriving at his flat until the early hours of the next morning. There were several lights on, and he made a note to admonish the cleaning service provided by the building. As he made his way towards the kitchen, a soft voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Hi."
He turned and saw Sansa Sta—no, Sansa Tyrell, sitting on his couch, snuggled into the eiderdown quilt.
She repeated her greeting and added, "We need to talk."
In lieu of answering her, Tywin went in search of a stiff drink. If he stayed in the room with her for another moment, she would find herself either throttled or fucked, or perhaps both.
Author's Note Part II: What do you say, how 'bout I up the rating on this fic?