Sansa IV

Casterly Rock was unlike anything Sansa Stark had ever imagined. The ancient seat of House Lannister loomed high over the crashing waves of the Sunset Sea, its golden stone glinting in the fading light. Perched atop a massive cliff, the fortress seemed as if it defied nature itself, clinging precariously to the rock face. From a distance, Sansa had almost thought it was on the verge of tumbling into the churning waters below. The towering structure appeared more like a natural extension of the mountain than a castle built by men.

After nearly six grueling weeks on the road from King's Landing, Sansa was immensely relieved to finally arrive. The long journey had been exhausting—days spent bouncing in the confined space of the litter, with little more to do than watch the dusty road pass by. The stifling heat inside the enclosed carriage had been unbearable at times, and the constant creaking of the wheels felt as though it would drive her mad.

Now, as the cool sea breeze brushed against her face, Sansa breathed deeply, savoring the crisp air. It was invigorating, a stark contrast to the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of King's Landing. She could hear the roar of the ocean below, a distant but steady sound that filled the air around her, reminding her of the vast world beyond the walls of Casterly Rock.

As they made their way through the outer gates and into the courtyard, Sansa marveled at the size of the keep. Its walls seemed to rise endlessly, carved directly from the mountain itself. Though she had seen grand castles before—Winterfell, the Red Keep—there was something about Casterly Rock that was different. It felt ancient, powerful, and imposing in a way that even the Red Keep could not match.

For a brief moment, she found herself wondering how many secrets were hidden within its towering walls, how many generations of Lannisters had lived and died here, how many battles had been fought for control of this formidable stronghold. The thought made her shiver slightly, despite the warm sun overhead.

Sansa cast a glance over her shoulder at the winding road that had brought her here. The journey had been long, but now, standing in the shadow of Casterly Rock, she felt a strange sense of anticipation. This place, as intimidating as it was, marked a new chapter in her life—a place where she would have to tread carefully, but perhaps where she might also find a measure of control over her destiny.

Tyrion led Sansa through the grand entrance of Casterly Rock and into the vast, echoing great hall. The air smelled of salt from the sea below, mingling with the scent of burning logs in the massive hearth. Sansa couldn't help but feel a strange sense of finality as she took in her surroundings. The towering stone walls, the looming presence of the cliffs outside—it was all so imposing, yet this was to be her home now, her child's home. She had made her peace with that.

As they crossed the hall, Kevan Lannister approached them with a measured, composed stride.

"Uncle," Tyrion greeted with a nod.

"Nephew," Kevan returned, his voice as steady as his expression. He then turned to Sansa, inclining his head slightly in a gesture of respect. "My lady," he said, "Congratulations on your news. I'm sure it brings you great joy."

Sansa studied Kevan's face as he spoke. There was a civility in his tone, one that lacked the cold, calculated demeanor of Tywin, but she could still sense the Lannister edge beneath it. Kevan was more restrained, more tempered than his brother, but there was always an undercurrent of something unreadable in his manner. She smiled politely, though inside she couldn't quite tell if his congratulations were heartfelt or just another formality.

"I haven't been here long myself," Kevan continued, his eyes shifting between them, "Perhaps a few weeks. Your father thought it best that I remain to assist you both in settling in. Casterly Rock can be... overwhelming at first."

"Overwhelming indeed," Tyrion said dryly, though his gaze softened as it flicked towards Sansa.

Kevan glanced around the hall, his posture slightly stiff. "You'll find that things run smoothly enough here, though there are matters that will require attention soon. The people will want to know their new lady. And, of course, with your child on the way..." He trailed off, offering a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Sansa's fingers instinctively tightened around the fabric of her gown, her other hand still resting protectively over her stomach. The thought of meeting the people of Lannisport, of presenting herself as their new lady, felt daunting. The coldness of the place—the sheer cliffs, the sharp wind that blew in from the sea—mirrored the tension she felt inside. Still, she kept her expression calm, her posture regal. She had been raised to survive in courts like these, and she would not falter now.

Tyrion, sensing her unease, placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "We'll take things slowly," he said softly, though his words were for her alone. "There's no rush."

Kevan, ever observant, gave a slight nod as if he had heard Tyrion's reassurance and approved of it. "The Rock is a place that requires patience, my lady," he said, his voice almost kind, but still edged with that Lannister steel. "But once the people know you, they will accept you. They respect strength, and I have no doubt that you possess it."

Sansa smiled faintly, but inside, the words stung. Strength. That was what the Lannisters valued, and it was what she had learned to cultivate during her time in King's Landing. Kevan cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "If there is anything you need, my lady, do not hesitate to ask. Your comfort is a priority, and we will ensure that you are well cared for."

"Thank you, Lord Kevan," Sansa replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "I appreciate your kindness."

Kevan offered a curt nod before excusing himself, leaving Sansa and Tyrion alone in the vast hall. The crackle of the fire was the only sound that filled the space now, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

Tyrion turned to her, his eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Sansa hesitated before answering. "I'm... adjusting," she said finally. "It's not easy. I never thought I would end up here."

"Neither did I," Tyrion admitted, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "But life rarely gives us what we expect, does it?"

She smiled faintly, appreciating his attempt at humor, but the weight of everything still pressed down on her. "Casterly Rock is impressive," she said, looking around the hall, her voice distant. "But it feels cold."

Tyrion's gaze softened. "It is," he said quietly. "It has always been cold to me as well."

Sansa looked at him, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, they shared an unspoken understanding—a bond forged through survival, through enduring the cruelty of the world around them. She had never loved him, not in the way a wife might love a husband, but she had come to respect him. And here, in this foreign, imposing place, he was the only person she could truly rely on.

"We'll make it warmer," Tyrion said, his tone soft but determined. "For you, for our child. I promise."

Sansa nodded, her heart swelling with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. She wanted to believe him, to believe that this place could become a home, that she could find some semblance of peace here. But it was difficult to let go of the past, of the pain and loss that had followed her since she had left Winterfell.

Together, they began to walk toward the towering windows at the far end of the hall. From there, they could see the endless expanse of the Sunset Sea, the waves crashing against the jagged rocks below. The view was breathtaking, yet ominous. The sea seemed to stretch on forever, as vast and unpredictable as the future that lay before them.

"You'll grow to love it here," Tyrion said after a moment, his eyes on the horizon. "It may not be Winterfell, but it can still be a home for you. For us."

Sansa glanced at him, her expression thoughtful. "Perhaps," she said softly. "But I will always carry Winterfell with me."

Tyrion nodded, understanding the deeper meaning behind her words. "And so you should," he replied. "The North will always be a part of you, no matter where you are. But you'll need to find strength here too, if we're to build a future for our child."

Sansa's hand instinctively moved to her belly again, her thoughts turning to the child growing inside her. A symbol of both her past and her future. Could she raise a child in this place, surrounded by the cold stone walls of Casterly Rock? Could she ever truly feel safe here, or would the shadows of the past continue to haunt her?

As she stood there, gazing out at the endless sea, Sansa silently resolved that she would not let her child grow up in fear. Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever dangers still lingered, she would face them with the same strength she had always found within herself.

For her child, she would make Casterly Rock a home.

It was late in the evening when Sansa decided to explore the keep. Tyrion had left her alone to get settled in the lady's chambers, giving her space to adjust. She had never truly imagined what it would be like to live in Casterly Rock, but now that she was here, she felt a strange mix of awe and isolation. The chambers were grand—far grander than anything she'd known in Winterfell. Her mother had always shared a room with her father, and those chambers, though large, had felt lived in, warm, and personal. This, by contrast, felt cold despite its opulence, as though the grandeur served to remind her of her new life rather than comfort her in it.

Everywhere she turned, the Lannister banner seemed to loom, its crimson and gold vibrant and oppressive at the same time. The lion's snarling visage was stitched onto the tapestries, the cushions, even embroidered into the drapery that framed the high windows. For a moment, Sansa's throat tightened, and she had to stop herself from asking the servants to remove them. But she hesitated, reminding herself that this was her sigil now. It represented her family—her husband, her child growing within her. She was Lady Lannister now, in name and station, and she would be expected to live up to that title, to bear it proudly.

Still, every time her eyes caught sight of the lion, her mind flickered back to King's Landing, to the Red Keep. She saw the banners draped behind the Iron Throne, and, worse, she saw Joffrey seated beneath them, his sneer ever-present. He had never been a true Lannister by name, but in every way that mattered, he had carried their influence, their cruelty. The shadow of him seemed to cling to the sigil, a specter that haunted her even here, far from King's Landing.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the memory, but his face lingered in her mind's eye, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. How had it come to this? How had she gone from the daughter of Winterfell to the wife of a Lannister, with the very sigil that once struck fear in her heart now draped around her?

Sansa moved from room to room, her footsteps echoing softly on the stone floors as she explored the vast chambers of her new home. The keep was labyrinthine, with its twisting halls and shadowed corridors, and she soon found herself in unfamiliar territory, far from her chambers. The quiet was unsettling, broken only by the occasional flicker of a torch in its sconce or the distant sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs below. She wandered aimlessly, her thoughts tangled with memories of Winterfell and the people she had lost.

At one point, she paused at a window, looking out over the sea. The waves roared against the rocks, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine that she was back in the North, that she was safe and free from the weight of Lannister expectations. But the cold reality returned as quickly as it had left. Winterfell was gone, and she was here—alone.

At last, she came upon a door that intrigued her. Pushing it open, she stepped into a vast library, far larger than any she had ever seen. The smell of old parchment and leather greeted her, a strangely comforting scent that reminded her of Maester Luwin's study back in Winterfell. Towering bookshelves stretched up towards the high ceilings, filled with books, scrolls, and tomes that reached well beyond her grasp.

In the center of the room, illuminated by the soft glow of a few candles, sat Tyrion. He was hunched over a desk, stacks of papers and books piled around him, his attention focused on whatever task lay before him. He didn't seem to notice her entrance at first, lost in his work.

Sansa lingered in the doorway, watching him for a moment. There was something calming about seeing him here, surrounded by knowledge, far removed from the vicious court of King's Landing. For the first time since they had arrived, she felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find some semblance of peace here.

She stepped further into the room, her soft footsteps finally catching his attention. Tyrion looked up, surprised but not displeased to see her.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, setting down his quill and leaning back slightly in his chair.

Sansa shook her head, offering a small smile. "I wanted to explore. This place... it's so vast. I could spend weeks wandering and still not see everything."

Tyrion chuckled softly. "A bit overwhelming, isn't it? Casterly Rock has a way of making even the most seasoned travelers feel small."

She walked toward him, her fingers brushing along the spines of the old books as she passed. "I thought I might find you here," she said quietly. "The library at Winterfell was much smaller than this, though I never was a reader."

He smiled at that, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "You'll find this one well-stocked, though perhaps not with the same memories."

Sansa stopped beside his desk, glancing at the open ledger before him. "What are you working on?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"House business," Tyrion replied with a tired sigh. "Balancing the accounts, making sure the mines are running smoothly, and reviewing the landholdings. My father's left quite a legacy to manage."

Sansa looked at him, really looked at him—his weariness, the way the light flickered in his mismatched eyes, the burden that sat heavily on his small shoulders. For all his wit and sharp tongue, Tyrion carried his own weight of expectations, of duty. And in this moment, she realised how much they were alike in that regard. Both of them, trapped in roles they hadn't chosen, doing what they could to survive.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said softly.

"You're never a disturbance," Tyrion replied, his voice gentler than she'd expected. "Besides, I could use the company. It's been a long day."

Sansa hesitated for a moment, then pulled out a chair and sat across from him, her hands resting in her lap. She looked around the library once more, her thoughts wandering.

"I hope our child grows up with a love for books," she said, almost to herself. "That they find peace in stories the way you do."

Tyrion smiled faintly, his gaze softening as he followed her line of thought. "I have no doubt they will," he said, his tone warm. "And I'll make sure they have every book in this library at their disposal."

For a moment, they sat in silence, surrounded by the quiet wisdom of centuries contained within the shelves. In this small, dimly lit room, away from the chaos and expectations of the world outside, Sansa felt a glimmer of contentment. It wasn't Winterfell, and it never would be—but perhaps, in time, it could still be a home.

"Right," Tyrion said, rising from his chair. "I'll find the cook and ask her to prepare you a nice tea. Something soothing, to help you sleep."

As he passed by, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze—a gesture that had grown more familiar between them in recent weeks. It wasn't quite affection, but it was... something. A tentative understanding, a shared solace in the midst of their shared circumstances.

"Thank you, Tyrion," Sansa replied softly, watching as he made his way toward the door.

Once alone, she stood still for a moment, her gaze drifting over the vast shelves of books surrounding her. She let her fingers trace the spines, feeling the rough, worn edges of the ancient tomes. Many were histories—of the Kings and Queens of Westeros, the rise and fall of the Targaryens, and before them, the Age of Heroes. The stories she had once dreamed of, stories where she imagined herself a princess in a fairy tale, now felt distant, almost mocking in their grandeur.

Her eyes then fell upon the desk where Tyrion had been working, a clutter of papers and books scattered across its surface. With a quiet sigh, Sansa moved to tidy the mess, aligning the scrolls and letters into neat piles. But as she reached for the topmost letter, her hand froze. The words leaped out at her, unbidden, and despite herself, she began to read.

"...she would be a good Queen... Come to Meereen and meet her..."

Sansa's breath caught in her throat.

"...She is what the realm needs."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she read those words again, her mind racing. Meereen... A queen... Could they be speaking of her? The girl whispered about in rumors, the one with dragons who had escaped across the sea? Daenerys Targaryen.

Why would Tyrion be receiving letters about her? Was he involved in some plot she didn't know about?

Sansa carefully set the letter back down where she had found it, her hands trembling slightly. She stepped back from the desk, her mind swirling with questions. Who had sent this letter? Why had Tyrion not mentioned anything?

Suddenly, the walls of the library felt too close, the air too thick. She turned and made her way back to the window, looking out over the dark, sprawling cliffs of Casterly Rock, the sound of the waves crashing below a steady rhythm in the night. Her home—her child's future—lay within these walls now, but still, she felt a strange pull, a whisper of something bigger happening beyond this place.

Tyrion returned soon after with a small tray and a pot of tea, the smell of herbs filling the air. "Here," he said, pouring her a cup. "It's chamomile and valerian root. It should help calm your nerves."

Sansa took the cup with a polite smile, but her mind remained on the letter. As Tyrion settled back at his desk, seemingly unaware of her discovery, she sipped her tea, her thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty. The world around them was changing—again. And for the first time in a long while, Sansa wasn't sure where she fit into it.

But one thing was clear—Tyrion knew more than he was letting on, and whatever was happening across the sea, it was coming for them all.