Tyrion dressed himself in darkness, listening to his wife’s soft breathing from the bed they shared. She dreams, he thought, when Sansa murmured something softly - a name, perhaps, though it was too faint to say - and turned onto her side. As man and wife they shared a marriage bed, but that was all. Even her tears she hoards¹ to herself.  He had expected anguish² and anger when he told her of her brother’s death, but Sansa’s face had remained so still that for a moment he feared she had not understood. It was only later, with a heavy oaken door between them, that he heard her sobbing³. Tyrion had considered going to her then, to offer what comfort he could. No, he had to remind himself, she will not look for solace⁴ from a Lannister. The most he could do was to shield her from the uglier details of the Red Wedding as they came down from the Twins. Sansa did not need to hear how her brother’s body had been hacked⁶ and mutilated, he decided⁷; nor how her mother’s corpse⁸ had been dumped naked into the Green Fork in a savage⁹ mockery of House Tully’s funeral customs. The last thing the girl needed was more fodder¹⁰ for her nightmares.  It was not enough, though. He had wrapped his cloak around her shoulders and sworn to protect her, but that was as cruel a jape as the crown the Freys had placed atop the head of Robb Stark¹¹’s direwolf after they’d sewn it onto his headless corpse. Sansa knew that as well. The way she looked at him, her stiffness when she climbed into their bed... when he was with her, never for an instant could he forget who he was, or what he was. No more than she did. She still went nightly to the godswood to pray, and Tyrion wondered if she were praying for his death. She had lost her home, her place in the world, and everyone she had ever loved or trusted. Winter is coming, warned the Stark words, and truly it had come for them with a

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