Chapter Text
In the moment that Joffrey casts her aside for Margaery, all Sansa feels is relief. She will not have to marry her tormentor. She will not have to marry the monster who murdered her father, who made her go up to the walls of the Red Keep with him and stare at her father’s severed head until her eyes burned with the tears she held back. Joffrey will wed someone else - someone whose honeyed tongue may actually keep her safe. Sansa hopes that Margaery is able to keep herself safe from Joffrey. No one deserves his cruelty.
Margaery is a sweet girl - a few years older than Sansa is, and widowed - though, as her husband perished before their wedding was consummated, she is still a maiden. She coaxes Sansa out of her shell a bit, she and her grandmother, the Lady Olenna. Lady Olenna’s tongue is so sharp as to frighten Sansa, but she uses it on the, as she calls them, imbeciles surrounding her, rather than Sansa herself. It is a relief to be around someone, at least, who doesn’t speak cruelly to her, doesn’t assume she is a brainless twit, as Cersei does. The three of them - Sansa, Margaery, and Lady Olenna - plot to marry Sansa to Margaery’s older brother Willas, who is in Highgarden and did not travel to King’s Landing with the rest of his family. He is the heir to House Tyrell, and what Margaery tells her of Willas makes her eager to wed him and be free of Cersei and Joffrey.
Mostly she wants to be free of Cersei and Joffrey, but Willas does sound lovely. She learns to giggle with Margaery at the sharp words Lady Olenna sends at her maids and the menservants who serve her. She walks around the Red Keep, arm in arm with its future queen, showing her the places Sansa discovered when she and Septa Mordane explored, when she first came to King’s Landing and thought she would be queen. It is right for a queen to know the castle she inhabits, Sansa thinks, so it is only right for her to share her knowledge with Margaery.
Of course she won’t be allowed to leave the Red Keep, she thinks, to escape the Lannisters. Of course she won’t be allowed to marry Willas Tyrell. Instead, she is to wed Tyrion Lannister - the Imp, as Arya always called him. Tyrion, though a dwarf, has always been kind to her, belying his epithets - he has been a truer knight than the vicious king who now sits on the Iron Throne. She is not eager to marry Tyrion, of course, as it does nothing to help her escape King’s Landing, but things could be so much worse. She could still be betrothed to Joffrey. The thought makes her shudder.
Marriage to Tyrion will not be that bad, she tries to tell herself, as she looks with alarm at Shae’s furious face. Before her handmaiden can say a word, Sansa holds up her hand and says, “Shae, leave us, please.” Her handmaiden complies, though she is glaring at Tyrion, who looks nervous, the whole way out of the room, and she does not shut the door behind her quietly. Sansa frowns at the door, having flinched at the loud sound of it slamming shut. “I wonder what can be bothering her about this?” she says under her breath.
Apparently not quietly enough for Tyrion to have missed it. “Sometimes we hear things in ways we do not want to, my lady,” he says, an echo of his earlier words. Sansa shakes her head. Why would hearing of her marriage to Tyrion bother Shae? If anyone has the right to be bothered by it, it is Sansa herself - or Tyrion. “I am so sorry, my lady,” her husband-to-be tells her, sorrow etched on his face. “If I thought I could have chosen differently without endangering you…”
“I thank you for your concern over my welfare, my lord,” she replies, looking down at her hands. “Your care is appreciated.”
“I am sorry,” he repeats before turning for the door.
“My lord,” she says, making him turn back to face her, “what shall I expect as your wife?”
He sighs heavily. “I will not harm you,” he tells her. “I will do my best to protect you; you have my word as a Lannister.” When he sees her flinch, his lips press together. “I apologize, my lady,” he says quietly. “I spoke without thinking. You have my word as your husband-to-be that I will not harm you, not ever.”
Looking at him, willing the sting away from his words about his House, she says, “You cannot promise that, my lord. I would prefer that you promise to make the choice best suited to my protection, even if it is not one you prefer. Even if it is one that could harm me for the moment, yet protect me long-term.” She does not know what he would count as harming her, what he counts as protecting her, though she does trust him… to an extent. He has protected her, after all, and with no expectation on him to do so, with no expectation that she owe him anything in return for his protection.
“In that case, Lady Sansa, I promise to protect you however I can, and not to betray your trust,” Tyrion promises with a bow, and turns to leave.
When Lord Tywin calls her to his office in the Tower of the Hand - the office that was, for a short time, her father’s - she does not know what to expect. What on earth can he wish to speak to her about? Shae goes with her, and walks with Sansa into the office of the Hand.
“Lord Tywin,” Sansa says, curtsying deeply, pushing away the hurt at seeing this cruel man in the chair her father, who was so kind, occupied.
“Lady Sansa,” he replies curtly. “Come. Sit.”
She walks toward his desk, Shae at her side, but when they reach his desk and Sansa seats herself, Tywin stiffens and half-stands from his chair, face contorted with fury. “My lord-?” Sansa begins, but he cuts her off harshly.
“You,” he growls, glaring fiercely at Shae. “You!”
Sansa frowns in confusion. “Lord Tywin, has my handmaiden done something wrong?” she asks. “If she has, I am sorry - she is not from King’s Landing, and she is still learning our ways.”
Tywin waves her worries away with a hand - and blows her away with his next words. “My son brought you here?” he demands of Shae, who says nothing, chin tilted high but eyes on the ground. “He disobeyed me? Well? Answer me, girl!” he shouts, and Sansa flinches. “You do know, do you not,” Tywin demands of Shae, “that I ordered my son to leave his whore behind when I sent him to King’s Landing to act as Hand in my stead?”
Sansa’s jaw drops. She looks between Lord Tywin and Shae, gaze flickering back and forth, and she realizes that Tyrion’s words the other day, when he came to inform her of their impending nuptials, were not meant for her, but for Shae. Her handmaiden, who apparently is also his whore. Who was his whore first, in fact. She is not sure whether she is more disgusted that Tyrion brought a whore to King’s Landing against the express orders of his father, or that said whore was given to her as a handmaiden. No wonder Shae knows nothing about being a handmaiden! She is not a handmaiden at all!
“I am aware that you informed Tyrion of it,” Shae replies, staring at him annoyedly, “my lord.” She sounds almost mutinous.
“And yet you came,” Lord Tywin says, through his teeth. He eyes Shae for several long moments; she eyes him right back until he calls for his guards. “Take her to the black cells,” he tells the guards, whose faces Sansa cannot see through their helms. “Have her executed in the morning.” He pauses, eyes narrowing even more on Shae. “No,” he says, calling the guard back just as they reach the door. “Execute her when you get there. Dispose of her corpse however you please.”
Sansa presses her lips together and holds very still, taking deep breaths to stave off the tears welling in her eyes. Not that she is pleased with the revelation of Shae’s status, but Shae is one of the few people here in King’s Landing who has protected her. She doesn’t want Shae to die.
Well… No. She does not want Shae to die. The fact that she has been - Sansa’s cheeks flush - sleeping with Sansa’s betrothed matters not. It is not as if Sansa was betrothed to Tyrion when he met Shae. But what can she do? Tywin Lannister has spoken.
“My apologies for that, Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin says tightly. “I assure you, that sort of thing will not be allowed to continue. I would like you to come to me if my son disrespects you like that again.”
Sansa blinks. “As you wish, my lord,” she replies demurely, keeping her eyes on the surface of his desk as an idea strikes her, not daring to look up and meet his eyes. “Lord Tywin…” she begins, unsure how to go on.
“Yes?” he replies, sounding impatient.
Gritting her teeth, she asks, “My lord, since you are to be my good-father… and since my own lord father is… gone… I was wondering- well, I was hoping that I might call you my lord father.” She chances a glance up at him; he is trying - and not succeeding very well - to hide that he is gobsmacked. “My lord… father?” she says hesitantly, quietly, as if she is afraid he will shout at her for daring to say it - which, in all fairness, she is.
“You truly wish this?” Lord Tywin asks, sounding utterly baffled, though he tries valiantly to conceal his bafflement.
“I do, my lord father,” Sansa replies, ducking her head again, looking at his desk again.
In her peripheral vision, she sees him nod - once. “Yes,” he says, as her eyes flash back up to meet his. “Yes, you may call me that - as long as I have the privilege of calling you my daughter.”
“Of course, my lord father.” She chances a smile at him; miraculously, he actually almost smiles back - his lips sort of twitch, like his muscles have forgotten how to move to form a smile. “Is there anything else you wished to speak to me of, my lord father?”
“Yes,” Tywin tells her. “I am aware of the way Joffrey has been treating you.”
“His Grace?” Sansa queries, eyes darting back and forth, still not rising to meet his. “King Joffrey is always gracious with me, as a king ought.” Finally she glances up at Lord Tywin, a quick flicker of her gaze, and sees that he does not look amused.
“Hmm,” he says, lips flattened. “After his wedding to Margaery Tyrell, I will send you and Tyrion to Casterly Rock.”
Sansa freezes. “My lord?”
And then Lord Tywin frowns. “No. We should get you away from Joffrey sooner.” His frown deepens for several long moments as he considers what to do with her. “Hmm… perhaps,” he muses, “you and Tyrion could go to Winterfell.”
She thought she was already sitting as straight up as she could, but the effect of his words proves her wrong on that count; her spine straightens more than she knew it could as she stares intently at Lord Tywin. “My lord father?”
“The North needs a new Warden, since… ah, since the previous one can no longer fill that role,” he elaborates, more diplomatically than she had expected him to ever be. “You and Tyrion will go north; you will rebuild what must be rebuilt to make Winterfell functional again, and Tyrion will be the new Warden of the North.” His flattened lips show what he thinks of this plan; he had never intended for Tyrion to be the Warden of anything, not even the West, which he is technically the heir to. “Your family’s claim on Winterfell will bring it back into the fold, and this will ensure that whichever way this war ends, you and my son will be safe.”
Sansa stares at Lord Tywin in utter shock. Did he just-? He did. He just implied that it is possible that the Lannister forces may not actually win this war. He is contingency planning. Does this mean that Robb is winning? She keeps her face still, refusing to let her thoughts show. If Tywin knows that she suspects what this may mean…
“My lord father…” she says slowly, having no idea how to respond to what he’s said.
“Of course,” he continues, “the line of a Warden is not secure until he has an heir.”
Of course, she thinks - this is the catch. “Must I have a child before Lord Tyrion and I go North?” she asks. “Only… the royal wedding is in only three months, and you said that you wanted me to leave sooner than that.”
“You must not birth a child before you go North, my daughter,” Lord Tywin says; she struggles not to shudder at the words coming from his mouth. “However, you will need to have a maester confirm a pregnancy before you leave.”
“Yes, my lord father,” she replies, dipping her chin demurely. “I understand.” Winterfell’s fate - and her own - rely on her ability to entice Tyrion into her bed. And he is renowned for his dealings with whores. She is only a girl, only recently flowered - she knows nothing of what happens between a husband and wife in their bedroom. She knows that she is blushing furiously, but surely Lord Tywin is expecting her to - speaking so frankly of pregnancy to her.
After a long, silent - awkward - moment, he says, “Well, the whore must be dead by now. You may go.”
She rises and curtsies deeply - more deeply than she has for him before. “Thank you, my lord father.” The words taste like ash in her mouth, and she has to turn swiftly to hide the tears she needs to blink away.
Fortunately, Lord Tywin does not call her back, and the guards at the door are facing outwards and therefore cannot detect her too-fast blinking. She hurries - though not too quickly; she cannot seem to hurry - away from the Tower of the Hand, back to her own chambers. She has been handed a victory she never - never - would have expected: she can go home.
As soon as she falls pregnant.