Chapter Text
Sansa
Sansa was certain the sound of screams would never leave her ears.
The screams of men.
The screams of women.
The screams of little boys.
The screams of little old ladies.
Funny how they all sounded alike when the Mountain’s Men plucked one from the enclosed portion of the muddy courtyard that was their makeshift prison. Only one each day, because these men knew that fear could be as motivating as pain.
One each day was sat on a stool, tied to a post, and had his or her chest shredded open by a rat trying to escape the heat at the bottom of the bucket that was pressed flush their chest. It was sickening how creative men could be in their depravity. Never before had Sansa realized how right the Hound had been – the world really was awful.
Each day when neither she nor Arya was chosen, she breathed a sigh of relief. She tried to feel sorry for the person who was chosen. And she did, truly. But her sympathy was overshadowed by the bone-deep relief that she and her sister would live to see another day.
Her little sister was perhaps the only reason Sansa was still alive. Upon being thrown in with the other prisoners at Harrenhal, the sisters recognized each other immediately. While Sansa had wanted to pull Arya into a hug, Arya had gathered up handfuls of mud while the guards weren’t looking and smeared it all over Sansa’s hair and face. Sansa hadn’t understood, and at first thought Arya was still angry about their fight at the Inn at the Crossroads, what felt like a lifetime ago, but Arya had scoffed at her and whispered, “How long do you think a pretty maiden will last with these men?”
Today’s victim was still warm when there was a commotion in the main courtyard of Harrenhal. The guards and servants were running around like frightened hens, scurrying to busy themselves with some task or another, or at least look busy.
The prisoners who were well enough to stand moved to the far side of their makeshift prison and struggled against one another to get a good look at whatever was going on. Arya was among them. Sansa stood back. She didn’t want to call attention to herself.
A few minutes later from the direction of the south gate came a procession of mounted men, one who sat a head and shoulders above all the other men.
The Mountain, Sansa thought with a shiver. He was perhaps the cruelest man in all of Westeros, not to mention the largest. He had burned his own baby brother, Sandor Clegane, when he was only a child, and rumor was his penchant for violence had only waxed since then.
A few of the guards hurried to meet him and motioned for him to join them near the prison. She couldn’t make out their voices but imagined they were relaying to him all the information they had extracted from their prisoners.
And that was a joke. These prisoners were farmers. They didn’t know anything about war. They didn’t have valuables hidden. They didn’t know about this Brotherhood without Banners. They probably didn’t even care which side won, so long as their lands remained unscathed (they didn’t).
The Mountain – Gregor Clegane – looked bored and irritable but listened, nonetheless. His eyes scanned over everything – all of this crumbling fortress he was supposedly responsible for holding under the Lannister banner.
His eyes landed on Sansa and she immediately froze in place, hoping he didn’t recognize her. Idiot! You were both at the Hand’s Tourney, he might remember you! Why didn’t you turn around or crouch down?!
His eyes moved off of her and for the second time today she let out a sigh of relief as her knees nearly buckled.
Of course, it had always been her and Arya’s plan that, should one of them be chosen for torture, they would tell their captors who they really were. The plan was not without risks, though. Most likely, the men would not believe them, and might even be extra cruel as punishment for their lie. Less likely, they would be believed and would be sent back to King’s Landing, where they would become hostages of the Crown. Their treatment might be relatively fair, or it might not be. If Joffrey was willing to have her beaten before, what would he do to her after her escape? The thought gave her shivers. And of course Arya would be treated even worse; Joffrey no doubt hated her because of the business with the wolves and the butcher’s son near the Inn at the Crossroads.
Even more importantly – regardless of how they were treated, their being returned to King’s Landing would be a crippling blow to Robb’s cause. The Lannisters could threaten to kill both of his sisters if he did not bend the knee. Then again, they had not done that before… was it because they only had one of the sisters? Or – and Sansa shivered to think of it – had they made such a threat, but Robb did not cede to their demands? Had he been willing to risk his sisters’ lives? She did recall Joffrey once taunting her that she was “worth even less than the Kingslayer”. Had there been an attempt to trade her for Ser Jaime and Robb declined?
Sansa was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the gate had been unlatched until she saw the crowd of prisoners parting like a river around a rock. The Mountain was slicing through them at a frighteningly calm pace. What bravery and confidence must this man have to put himself in a cage with dozens of men and women who hated him?
Yet none so much as spit at him; they lowered their heads and stepped back in absolute submission, not even watching what Ser Gregor did.
He stopped in front of Sansa, and she was sure her heart would explode. She wondered if this was how the rat in the bucket felt, because right now if there was nothing but a boy’s scrawny chest cavity between her and freedom, she would claw through it, too.
He pinched her chin roughly, nothing like the oddly gentle touch of his younger brother. He forced her head to tilt up until their eyes were meeting. It was only now that she fully appreciated how tall he was. Her neck could not crane back any further. Her chin was level with his sternum, putting all of his head and shoulders above her.
“You’re a pretty one under all that muck, aren’t you?”
Her bottom lip trembled, and his eyes didn’t miss it.
“Need a pretty little maid to help with my bath,” he growled in a tone that was as amused as it was threatening.
Without warning he pulled her by the wrist, and he was so strong that her body didn’t bother resisting. He could drag her all the way to his chambers even if she dug her heels into the mud, and he wouldn’t even break a sweat.
But suddenly her wrist was dropped and Gregor had turned toward the crowd of prisoners, his fist reared back and pointed in the direction of someone who barely came up to his waist.
“No, don’t!” Sansa shrieked.
Gregor turned his head so slowly that Sansa had plenty of time to realize how stupid she was, but she couldn’t let Gregor hit Arya. He could kill her with one blow.
“What did you say?” he growled. Sansa swore every single person in Harrenhal, not to mention the mice in the haunted halls, became silent.
“I… apologies, my lord, but that is my brother Arnold. He didn’t mean to disrespect you, only to protect me. You see, our father made him swear to protect me and—”
“Shut the fuck up, girl. Don’t need to hear your whole fucking life story.”
“Right. Apologies,” she curtsied.
Gregor was appraising her, “Best remember your little brother is here, girl. You do everything I tell you, might be I’ll tell Polliver not to feed him to the rats.”
Sansa nodded meekly and was once again pulled along behind Ser Gregor. She mouthed “Behave!” at Arya as she walked past.
It wasn’t that she didn’t fear Ser Gregor and what he would do to her, but they’d been in the prison for a fortnight with no success in escaping. Perhaps if she did what Ser Gregor said, she’d be allowed some freedom to walk around the castle. Perhaps someone would get careless. Perhaps Sansa would be in a position to free the prisoners and herself.
It was a very small hope, but even that was better than the no hope they’d been living on.
…
“You’re even fucking filthier than me, and I’ve been fighting a war,” Gregor spoke as he sat heavily on a chair in his chambers.
“Apologies, my lord.”
“You ever take a man’s armor off, girl?”
She shook her head.
He snorted, “Of course you haven’t. Well you’re about to learn. Come get me out of this so you can scrub a moon’s worth of mud and shit and blood off of me.”
She swallowed and nodded and reached for what seemed like the logical place to start – his forearm. With trembling fingers she found the buckle and worked it loose while he watched her with a lazy smile on his face as if she were the court’s fool.
It seemed to take an eternity to remove it all, with some occasional guidance from her new master. She would have appreciated how much time and effort went into the process if she was capable of feeling anything other than abject terror.
Once he was down to his clothes, he disappeared into the hallway for a few moments. Then some small boys came scurrying in like busy chipmunks and began gathering all the pieces, presumably to take them somewhere they’d be cleaned and polished.
When they were gone Gregor pulled her by the wrist again to an adjoining antechamber where two steaming baths awaited them. One was larger than the other, but she still doubted it would accommodate Ser Gregor.
“Me first, girl. I need the warm water after being in the bloody saddle for days on end.”
She nodded, once again submitting to the relief that she would not be made to strip down and bathe in front of him. Yet.
He apparently had no shame in his body, for he divested of his tunic, breeches, and smallclothes, then turned to face her with a proud smile on his face. She quickly averted her eyes which garnered a loud chuckle, “Don’t think you’ll insult me, girl. You’ll see it sooner or later… Well, you’ll do more than see it.”
She heard the surface of the water break as he stepped into the larger tub, then a relieved groan when he sat down.
“Don’t just stand there, girl. Bring that soap and the ladle. Wash me down. Or should I bring your little brother up instead? At least the little shit had some initiative.”
Sansa nodded and did as told, kneeling beside the tub and using the wooden ladle to pour the hot water over Gregor’s shoulders while he slouched forward and sighed in relief. As the water sluiced away the dirt and dried blood, she was surprised to find very few bruises or wounds.
Everyone’s afraid of him… no man wants to face him in battle. Or perhaps they face him but never last long enough to do any damage.
She lathered the soap in a bit of rough linen after dropping it twice from her trembling fingers. Gregor found her fearful clumsiness quite amusing. “You’re as shy as a fucking maiden, girl.”
She didn’t respond – just proceeded in running the soapy cloth over his arms, even as she could feel his heavy gaze on her.
“Look at me,” he spoke curtly.
Her eyes responded to the command before her brain could even process it. His eyes were narrowed, “You are a fucking maiden, aren’t you?”
Sansa’s mouth went dry as she pondered her response. If she told him she was a maiden, would it make him want her more, knowing she had never been claimed by another man? Conversely, if she told him she was not a maiden, would he want her because he would assume she was experienced in the ways of the marriage bed? It seemed either choice could either inflame or diminish his lust. Taking a gamble that Ser Gregor was not like highborn lords who cared about things like maidenheads, she told the truth, “Y-yes… my lord.”
She knew it was the wrong answer when his face split into that ugly grin again. His wet fingers came up to stroke her lips. “Imagine my luck,” he chuckled, “I’ve won Lord Tywin’s favor, and I get to fuck a nice, tight virgin cunt.”
The whimper that sounded in her throat was not intentional, but luckily it didn’t anger him and only amused him more. He snorted, “Might have to savor you. Once that maidenhead’s gone, there’s no getting it back, is there?”
She shook her head, feeling a glimmer of hope. If he couldn’t take her maidenhead, it would buy her time to devise a plan to get herself and Arya out of here. She could endure his lecherous glares. She could endure the indignity of being made to bathe him. She could endure sleeping next to him. Even if he made her touch him with her hand, as Jeyne Poole had once seen a kitchen maid doing to one of Winterfell’s household guards, she could endure it. She was a wolf. The humiliation would not kill her, and she might just get to leave here with her virtue intact.
I can do this.
I am a wolf.
I can do this.
I am a Stark of Winterfell.
Just survive – that’s what Arya and I promised each other. We’ll do whatever we need to do to survive.
Once again her emotions must have been transparent to Gregor, for he laughed again, a harsh sound, empty of genuine warmth, reflecting only sadistic amusement, “Don’t get too excited, girl. There are other ways I can take you. Your pretty little mouth. Your tight little arse.”
Sansa’s mouth dropped open. Jeyne had also hinted about women using their mouths to pleasure men, but… but an arse?! Is that even possible?!
Gregor’s head dropped back over the ledge of the tub and he laughed again. He laughed so loudly she was certain it could be heard for leagues around, echoing off stone walls in every direction. Arya was probably listening to it and pacing like a caged wolf. Which, at the moment, is precisely what she is.
Sansa could barely remember completing the rest of her task. Her eyes became unfocused and her movements mechanical as she washed Ser Gregor from head to toe. He made sure she didn’t miss a single spot. She washed his gigantic feet. She washed his gigantic manhood and bollocks, even the crack between his buttocks. It was the most degrading thing she’d ever done. She was a daughter of the Warden of the North! She had the blood of the Kings of Winter in her veins! She was beautiful and refined enough to have been betrothed to the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, yet Ser Gregor was making her kneel on the hardwood floor and wash his backside! Even the king didn’t have the right to demand this of his maids, yet this up jumped knight thought he was entitled to such treatment?!
When every disgusting inch of his oversized body was clean, she slapped the wet cloth in the water and stood to walk away, but he grabbed her by the wrist then wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. He pulled her face so close to his that all she could see were his eyes and the bridge of his nose, “Watch yourself, girl,” he growled between gritted teeth, “I like a little fire in my women… but don’t forget who you belong to.”
I don’t belong to you… The words were on the tip of her tongue, begging to be released through the lips she kept pursed as a matter of self-preservation. Her tongue was the rat, the back of her throat was the torch held to the bottom of the bucket. Her lips were the flesh and bone that needed to be ripped apart in order to secure an escape.
Only she knew in this case there was no escape for the rat. She ground her teeth together and nodded. Gregor released her so roughly she fell back on her rump.
He stepped out of the tub and grabbed a drying sheet, running it over his head as he walked toward the bedchamber, the water on his massive muscles catching the afternoon sun. “Wash the stink off yourself.”
She watched through the doorway as he made the barest effort at drying his skin before plopping face first in the large bed that, apparently, she would be made to share with him.
…
The bathwater was as cold as an autumn rain by the time she forced herself to get out and face whatever may come next.
To her horror, a lad she assumed to be Ser Gregor’s squire had come into the antechamber moments after she’d sunk into the water. He mumbled a halfhearted apology for the intrusion, retrieved her and Gregor’s dirty clothing from the floor, and left. She heard him doing something in the bedchamber briefly, though not loud enough to awaken Gregor who continued to snore away in the large bed.
With nothing to wear but the drying sheet, Sansa tied it above her breasts and quietly sat before the fire, praying that Gregor would sleep through the night and awaken the next morning with duties to attend to that would keep him away from her.
Only as she sat, a new terror arose in her. Now that weeks’ worth of dirt was washed out of her hair and off her skin, might Ser Gregor recognize her as Sansa Stark? It would prevent him from abusing her maiden body, certainly, but would it lead to her being shipped back to the Red Keep where Joffrey would treat her even worse than he had before, because now she was not just a traitor, but also an escapee?
If there was one hope to cling to, it was that no one knew for certain that she was alive. She had fled during the King’s Landing riots, when chaos distracted Joffrey, his family, and all his guards. It was quite possible that the Lannisters assumed she was killed by the riotous smallfolk. As stupid as they thought she was, they’d find it easier to believe she got herself killed than that she’d managed to escape and survive on her own.
Truly, she didn’t believe it either. At first, she’d just been running for her life, trying to escape the angry mob. She had ducked into an abandoned rowhouse – or what she thought was abandoned. Instead she found a young mother nursing an infant, blinking at Sansa as Sansa blinked at her.
For the first time in her life, and only because desperation inspired her, she wove a convincing yarn. She was a lady of court trying to escape her abusive husband, a lower lord from the Stormlands. She took advantage of the riots to slip from her husband’s clutches. She asked the woman to give her a plain frock and in exchange she could keep Sansa’s fancy silk gown. She could sell the dress or deconstruct it and sell the components. The pearl beadwork alone would fetch a very nice price, as would the silk panels.
And desperation served her well two ways that day. The woman nodded and briefly explained that her own husband had left to fight in the war, and the Crown wasn’t sending his wages to her. The woman spit on her dusty floor, cursed the “bastard king”, and emerged from another room with a plain brown rough spun frock and tattered cloak with hood. In the end she thanked Sansa, saying the pearls and silk would feed her for six moons. She handed Sansa a small knife, one used to peel carrots or dice potatoes, and suggested that if any of the rioters caught her, she use the knife on her own throat.
By the grace of the Seven, or perhaps her father’s Old Gods, Sansa made her way back to the docks unmolested by the rioters and unnoticed by the City Watch. Certainly no one was expecting Lady Sansa Stark to already be shrouded in rags. She had never booked passage on a ship, but she stood and watched for one that was being loaded rather than unloaded. Only one fit the bill, so she approached cautiously and asked one of the laborers where she could find the captain. Without casting a glance her way, the man pointed toward an older man with a large belly and pointed beard. The man was bellowing out drunken orders that none of his men seemed to be heeding. She summoned her courage and approached.
“Excuse me, captain. I’d like to procure passage on your ship.”
The man looked at her with unfocused eyes, “You didn’t ask where it’s going.”
“Well… where is it going?”
“Maidenpool.”
Maidenpool… the Riverlands… Tully territory!
“Please, my lord, might I procure passage?”
“That depends… how much coin have you got?”
“I have no coin, but I have this…” she held out the amethyst bracelet that Joffrey had gifted her. It was one of the few fine things she owned anymore. He only gave it to her to wear today as they saw Myrcella off at the docks. Apparently, Joffrey thought it was a good idea to flaunt his affluence in front of the smallfolk, and since Sansa was merely an extension of him, that meant draping her in fine silks and jewels.
She hoped the captain would say it was enough. The matching ring and necklace were tucked into her bodice, but she would need them to barter for food and transportation from Maidenpool to Riverrun, as had been her quickly devised plan.
The captain eyed the bracelet skeptically. She tried not to sound nervous, “They are real amethysts, I assure you.”
“And how would a peasant like you come to have such finery?”
She blushed, not having expected this question, and not having a ready answer.
The older man grinned, “Stole it off one of the ladies during the riot, did ya? Think it’s your ticket out of this city, do ya?”
She shrugged, “Yes?”
The man laughed, “Alright, lass. Truth be told it’ll more than cover your fare. Enough to buy you a nice fancy cabin…”
Sansa smiled.
“…if this were a passenger vessel. We’re a merchant vessel, but I’ll give you a crewman’s cabin. Since it’s a short voyage, I don’t have a full crew.”
Sansa had breathed a sigh of relief. It all seemed so easy she wondered why she hadn’t tried to escape months ago. Then again, this was the first time she’d been outside the Red Keep in months…
While on the ship she did something that made her cry, which made her feel like a stupid child. She used the paring knife to crop her hair. Only ladies who had servants to wash and brush their hair would grow it to their waist. Sansa thought to crop it to her shoulders but in the end, she cut it two finger widths below her collar bone. She told herself it was so that she could easily tie it back, but she knew it was vanity. She really was a stupid little bird.
The sense of relief she felt getting out of the city lasted only until she stepped off the ship at Maidenpool and began making her way inland. She had no idea who was friend or foe in these parts. Allegiances seemed flimsy in the Riverlands, from the little she had heard in passing from gossipy courtiers.
She made it two days before being captured by a group of men in mismatched armor, bearing no sigil. She was not alone. It seemed they were rounding up men, women, and children – though for what purpose she did not know.
They were brought to a castle so large and ruined that it could only be Harrenhal. Lannister banners waved proudly, and she realized she might as well not have fled at all.
Only there were no Lannister men in their rich crimson and gold to be found.
She and the other captives were thrown into the makeshift prison, and that’s when she saw Arya. She almost didn’t recognize her with her close-cropped hair and boy’s clothing. She smiled at her little sister, though knew better than to call out her name.
And Arya greeted her by slapping mud on her face and combing it through her hair.
Now, as Sansa sat by the fire in Ser Gregor’s room, watching the light reflecting off of her copper tresses, she realized Arya hadn’t been just making her look undesirable, she had been covering up her Tully red hair.
But there was no more disguise. No mud-stained hair. No peasant’s frock. All that was left was Sansa Stark, and the slim hope that Gregor would not recognize her from the Hand’s Tourney.
It crossed her mind, then, to try to leave this room. Only with nothing but a white drying sheet, she would stick out like a sore thumb. She wouldn’t make it down the stairs, much less out of the keep. And it might be worth the attempt if she didn’t know that Gregor was not the type of man who took defiance lightly.
So she would bide her time, cross each bridge as she came to it, and endure whatever he would inflict upon her until the time was right to make an escape. She took deep breaths to steel herself.
I am a wolf.
I am a Stark of Winterfell.
She repeated these affirmations inside her head for so long that the sun began to set.
Gregor was still snoring, and she wondered if indeed he would sleep the whole night through.
Some hours later a knock on the door startled her so much she gasped. Gregor was out of the bed in a flash, passing her not a glance as he shouted for whoever it was to hold on a bloody buggering moment. He rifled through a saddlebag and retrieved a pair of trousers, pulling them on hastily and lacing them as he walked toward the door and yanked it open.
“I told you I was not to be disturbed.”
A shaky young voice responded, “Apologies, m’lord, but Lord Tywin Lannister has arrived.”
No!
“Fucking hells; he was supposed to arrive three days hence!”
“I understand, my lord. He is early.”
“No shit, you dumb cunt. See him to a fucking dining hall and tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
“He… eh… ehm… after speaking to some of our men in the courtyard, he asked to be taken to the Lord’s Chambers immediately. Meaning these chambers. I ran ahead, my lord, so—”
“Fuck…” Gregor mumbled something inaudible over the sound of the door slamming shut. He ignored Sansa once again as he pulled on a tunic, then socks and boots not a moment too soon, as once again someone knocked. The same trembly voice announced Lord Tywin Lannister.
Sansa had never met the Lannister patriarch, but that gave her little comfort as she sat all but forgotten in what were Ser Gregor’s – or perhaps now Lord Tywin’s – chambers.
The door swung open and in strode a man bedecked in red and gold armor, a silk sash draped over one shoulder. His eyes took in Gregor without a hint of fear, flicked to Sansa, widened briefly, then flicked back to Gregor, “Ser Gregor… were you not informed of my impending arrival?”
“I was, Lord Lannister. Only I expected you in a few days’ time.”
Tywin Lannister cocked an eyebrow and looked back to Sansa for a fleeting moment, “Clearly. Well I’m here now and I’m ready to retire. Tomorrow we will break our fasts together so you can update me on the situation here and so I can inform you of your next assignment.”
Gregor groaned, “I’m being dispatched again? I only arrived today. My lord.”
“Then I suggest you get a good night’s sleep.”
Though she had no allegiance toward either man, Sansa’s heart was racing at the thought that the palpable tension would escalate to a physical fight, which she would have a front row seat to.
Gregor turned, picked up his saddle bag, and reached for Sansa’s arm.
“Leave the whore, Ser Gregor, unless you’ve ruined her beyond usefulness.”
He thinks I’m a whore?!
Gregor ground his teeth, “Didn’t even get a chance to touch her, my lord.”
“Pity,” Tywin Lannister spoke, though he clearly did not pity Ser Gregor his unfulfilled desires.
…
Sansa was once again ignored by her second new captor of the day. Tywin Lannister ordered a bath and a meal. Immediately, servants began draining the tub and scurrying about the antechamber, probably cleaning the floor that was covered in dirty footprints from her and Gregor’s shoes.
While the Great Lion poured and drank a cup of water, Sansa again pondered what this situation meant for her, and what her best course of action would be.
Lord Tywin didn’t recognize her – yet. And unlike Ser Gregor, Tywin Lannister had never seen Sansa Stark in the flesh, but he might know that she had red hair and blue eyes, which was distinct enough of a look to make him question Ser Gregor’s whore – but only if he knew Sansa Stark had fled from the capital.
He would either suspect her in that regard, or he wouldn’t. She could only be ready to use the lie she and Arya concocted and hope it stood up. If it didn’t, then she’d have to tell the truth and be shipped back to the capital.
In regards the threat to her person, she certainly felt safer in Lord Tywin’s hands than Gregor’s. Gregor had a reputation for personal brutality, including violence against his own family and his own wives. To her knowledge, Lord Tywin was only known for brutality against his enemies.
It horrified her that he thought she was a whore. He would expect certain services from her that she did not know how to render. However, presumably a whore would be given certain privileges that a prisoner plucked from the cage would not. When she wasn’t warming Lord Tywin’s bed, she would probably have free rein of the keep. She could study the gates and the guard posts. She could memorize the best route to get out of here and the number of men they would encounter along the way. If she was then able to free the prisoners, she could lead them along that route. The able-bodied male prisoners might outnumber the guards. The issue would be doing it without raising any alarms, but perhaps—
“Where are your clothes?”
Sansa snapped her head toward the Great Lion and suddenly her mouth was dry. She shook her head, and the man rolled his eyes.
Tywin was beginning to remove parts of his attire that he could handle unassisted. His sash, his sword belt, his gloves. He sat down and began unbuckling his greaves and his boots, then leaned back in his chair with a wince.
Courtesy is a lady’s armor. Her mother’s advice came back to her, though surely Catelyn Stark wasn’t referring to such a situation as this – was she?
Gain his favor. That was Sansa’s advice to herself. If she pleased him, he’d be less likely to treat her cruelly. If she defied him, he’d have all the more reason to suspect she wasn’t just some random prisoner or whore.
Sansa cleared her throat, “Shall I assist you, my lord?”
Tywin looked at her incredulously, “You know how to remove a suit of armor?”
She nodded, “A recently acquired skill, my lord.”
“Very well.” He stood up and Sansa approached him tentatively. She worked on his vambraces, pauldrons, breast plate, and other pieces she knew not the names of. It seemed he had worn a full set of armor here, and that surprised her. Was the Great Lion, the Warden of the West, really in the thick of the battle? Or did he wear this armor as something of a status symbol? Judging by the dents and nicks she found, she suspected it was the former.
It was when she was working on the gorget, trying to remember what Ser Gregor had told her, that she had to lift her arms. Her drying sheet fell away and she quickly crouched to pick it up before Lord Tywin could see her nude.
“Leave it,” he spoke, and while his voice was soft there was no mistaking it for a command.
Cheeks aflame she continued with his armor until every piece was placed carefully on the bureau or floor. She could feel the man staring at her, but she did not meet his eyes. She was mortified and terrified in equal measure.
“How old are you?”
In her present state his voice made her flinch. She shouldn’t be letting him see her trepidation, certainly a whore would have more gumption, but it couldn’t be helped.
She didn’t want to give him her real age – Sansa’s real age; the fewer dots she gave him to connect, the better. She thought to claim she was younger than her real age so he might not touch her, but she knew she looked older than she was. Claiming to be four and ten would not be believable. Sansa had turned six and ten during the voyage to Maidenpool.
She looked up at his surprisingly patient eyes, “Seven and ten, my lord.”
The Great Lion snorted, “So nine and ten, more like.”
Sansa’s eyes widened and the Great Lion seemed to take it as confirmation that he had caught her in a lie, “Do I strike you as a fool?” he asked with one eyebrow arched.
She shook her head.
“Right answer. Women always say they’re younger than they are, since most men like to pretend they’re with a maiden. Let me be clear: I’m not like most men. I don’t like to submit myself to delusions for the sake of bolstering my male pride. Do you understand?”
She didn’t, fully, but she nodded again.
“Good. Now what’s your name, girl?”
“Sarina,” she answered quickly but calmly. Good thing that was a question she had been prepared for.
He hummed then flicked his wrist, effectively dismissing her from his immediate presence. She picked up the sheet and tied it again over her breasts, then sat at one of the chairs. She had to remind herself to lean back. Whores didn’t have perfect posture, did they? Arya used to slouch at the table and Mother told her that only lowborn women slouch. (It hadn’t been the riveting motivation Arya needed.)
Tywin went back to ignoring her, rifling through a trunk that his servants had brought up while he was barking out orders for food and bath. He retrieved a corked inkwell, a wooden case she assumed held a quill, and several sheets of parchment.
There was a knock on the door. Tywin didn’t lift his head from where he set the items out on his desk, “Enter.”
Sansa almost gasped when Arya came in carrying a tray of food, and the feeling was apparently mutual.
“Wha—” Sansa started to speak, then clamped her mouth shut.
Arya was much better at staying in character. She ignored Sansa and placed the tray down on the small dining table.
“What’s your name, girl?” Tywin asked Arya, same as he’d asked Sansa, and – wait, did he say ‘girl’?!
“Lisbeth, my lord.”
Why did she let him know she’s a girl?!
“Lisbeth, go find clothing for my companion. At least two sets of undergarments and two dresses.”
“I thought I was to be your cupbearer, not a maid for your lady.”
No, Arya! What are you thinking?!
But Lord Tywin only glared at her with an eyebrow raised in amusement, “You will be whatever I need, you will do whatever I say. Or would you prefer I send you back to that muddy cage? Before you answer, keep in mind the guards may take more of an interest in you now that some of them know what’s between your legs… and what isn’t.”
He freed her from the prison because he knew she was a girl? But why would he care?
Arya did her best impression of a curtsy, all with a scowl on her face, and left.
“Eat your fill, Sarina.” Tywin spoke, once again without lifting his eyes from his continued effort to arrange his desk.
She glanced at the table and instantly the hunger that should have been bothering her all day was there, and with a vengeance for having been forgotten about. The guards were barely feeding the prisoners. They would toss food at them twice a day. If not for Gendry, Sansa and Arya might have starved. He was the strongest of the men in the prison, so he made sure whoever caught the bread, mealy apples, and shriveled carrots shared them. He rationed it fairly among the group, and though he was a large young man, he always gave a bit more to the growing children then he took for himself. That included Arya. Sansa sincerely hoped she herself was done growing. She was as tall as most men and her breasts already caught enough glances even though she did nothing to accentuate them, as some ladies of court used to do.
The meal spread out on the tray was fit for a lord during wartime, she supposed. Nothing fancy, but plenty of sustentive food: a browned steak of what was probably venison, three small, boiled potatoes, and two thick slices of brown bread, already buttered!
It was a good thing she was trying to convince him she wasn’t a lady, because she mauled the food, stabbing a potato with the fork and putting it whole into her mouth. Beneath the skin it was still hot, but she couldn’t bring herself to spit it out. While her teeth worked at the potato, she cut the venison steak into manageable bites. She washed the potato down with red wine, not even bothering to grimace at the bitter taste. Then she shoved pieces of steak into her mouth two at a time, wondering why she had bothered to cut them so small.
Buttered bread was one of her favorites, so she had saved that for last, only her tummy was suddenly aching. It felt like someone had stabbed her right in the gut.
She thought she might vomit and, as every turn of event today had done, wondered whether it would be good or bad for her. Perhaps Tywin would be disgusted and leave her alone for the night. Or perhaps he would be so disgusted that he would cast her out of his bedchamber, where the castle guards would either take her for themselves or toss her back into the prison. Ser Gregor would likely not have been thwarted by a bit of regurgitated food, but Tywin Lannister seemed like the type who just might be. So she used all her willpower not to gag, even as every inch of her skin began sweating.
She was so focused on not losing her meal that she didn’t notice the Great Lion approach until he snorted, “Ate too much, too fast. Have they been feeding you?”
The correct answer was ‘not much’ but she didn’t trust her mouth right now, so she shook her head slightly, afraid of attempting any more motion as she felt sweat rolling down her neck.
“Bloody fools,” Tywin walked to the window, and she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to himself or her, but she was glad for the words which gave her a distraction from the overwhelming need to retch. “Could have been repairing the defenses, making weapons, planting gardens… Instead they let perfectly capable young bodies wither away to uselessness.”
“Why feed bodies just to kill them?” she asked rhetorically now that deep breathing and time had settled her stomach somewhat.
"I'm sorry?" he turned to face her but remained near the window, hands clasped behind his back.
“They feed the prisoners just enough to not starve, so they can torture them for information. But they aren’t soldiers or even squires. They’re just farmers and peasants. They don’t know anything.”
Tywin snorted again, “Fools indeed.”
There was a knock on the door, and it was Arya once again. Her eyes went to Sansa but quickly settled on the remaining food on her plate, licking her lips at what she obviously saw as leftovers that the Lord wasn’t going to eat.
Tywin huffed, “Oh bloody hells, girl. Finish it then,” he flicked a wrist, “and bring me another meal… and some cheese or whatever the kitchen has, for later.”
Arya nodded and was already throwing a pile of clothing on a chair then shoving an entire piece of bread into her mouth. Sansa grabbed her wrist, “No, don’t! Uh… Lisbeth, was it? Eat slowly or you’ll get a dreadful belly ache.”
Arya rolled her eyes but thoroughly chewed the bread before swallowing.
Tywin huffed again, “Oh for Gods’ sakes! I didn’t mean finish it here! Do you think these are your chambers, girl?”
Arya shrugged, holding the sole remaining potato between her teeth like an apple. She picked up the tray and left without so much as a dip of her head in gratitude, which reminded Sansa that she, too, had forgotten her manners.
Gain his favor.
“Thank you, my lord, for letting me eat your food. And for letting Lisbeth eat. And for the clothes.”
A boy peeked his head through the door that led into the antechamber, “Your bath is ready, m’lord.”
Tywin nodded at the boy who then scurried away. He glanced at Sansa, “A starving man is a dangerous man. Remember that, girl.”
He walked into the antechamber and Sansa followed, assuming he’d want her to bathe him as Gregor had. When he turned to close the door and she was behind him, he startled, “What are you doing?”
“Aren’t I to help you with your bath?”
He arched an eyebrow, “Do you find me so old and feeble that I cannot bathe myself?”
She felt her cheeks flush, “Not at all, my lord, but Ser Gregor—”
“Fuck whatever Ser Gregor told you. Do not assume he and I have anything in common. If I wanted your help, I’d have told you.”
She nodded.
He jerked his head toward the bed, “Go to sleep, Sarina.”
She nodded again and walked into the bedchamber, once again analyzing his words. Did he mean for her to literally go to sleep? Or was it a less crude way of telling her to get in the bed and wait for him to come claim her body?
He had told her not to assume he was like Ser Gregor, yet he himself had referred to her as a whore and had wanted to see her naked. This wasn’t helpful…
She also wondered whether to put on the smallclothes Arya had brought. If he meant to claim her, he would want her nude. But if he had literally meant for her to go to sleep, he wouldn’t blame her for donning undergarments, would he?
With a sigh she decided to take his command literally. He hadn’t told her to “dress and get in bed”. He had told her to “go to sleep”. So she wouldn’t dress, and she would (try to) go to sleep.