Fellowship & Fairydust

November 8, 299

Tyrion took a breath just outside of Sansa’s bedroom door. He smoothed a hand over his crimson tunic and then reached up and rapped on the scarred wood.

There was a rustling from within the room, then the door swung partway open and Adelaide’s face poked around the doorframe. She flushed when she saw him and stammered, “L-lord Tyrion.”

“Adelaide.” Tyrion bowed at her. “May I have a moment alone with my bride.”

“O-of course. I’ll just….”

“Podrick can escort you down.” He stepped to the side, revealing the squire standing patiently behind him.

Adelaide flushed again and then stepped out. Podrick held an arm out to her. The tips of her ears turned red, but she took the proffered arm anyway, allowing Podrick to escort her down the hall. Tyrion watched them go, shaking his head, then he turned and pushed open the door. Sansa stood at the head of the room dressed in a dull green dress that made her pallid alabaster skin stand out.

“My lord,” Sansa curtsied. “You look very nice.”

Tyrion sighed. “There’s really no need to lie to me, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa bit down on her lower lip.

“You do look beautiful, though,” Tyrion said. The dress was an ugly color – he suspected that Cersei had chosen the fabric – but Sansa wore it as well as she could. She was a very pretty girl; Bronn had, at least, been right about that.

Sansa gave him an uncertain look.

“Come.” Tyrion held an arm out to her. “Let’s give them a show.”

Sansa chuckled. She reached out and allowed Tyrion to escort her to the hall.

Just outside the doors of the sept, Tyrion dropped his arm away from Sansa, bowed to her, and left her alone so that he could go ahead and wait for her at the end of the aisle. At that moment, at the top of the hall as she stared at the gathered crowd, Sansa contemplated running. What could they do to her for running that hadn’t already been done? Kill her perhaps? There were days Sansa dreamed of death. Would death be worse than a life married to a man she didn’t love – a man she could barely stand to look at?

She let her eyes flit to him – the blond dwarf with the ugly scar. He was the only Lannister who’d ever treated her with anything resembling kindness. He’d rescued her from Joffrey’s ministrations on multiple occasions, and he’d said he planned to take her away from here. All she had to do was marry him, and he’d take her away from here. She straightened and began the trek down the aisle.

She’d barely gone a step when Joffrey stepped up beside her and took her arm.

“What are you doing?” Sansa hissed.

“Your father is gone,” Joffrey reminded her with a cruel twist of his lips. “As the father of the realm, it is my duty to give you away to your husband.”

Sansa didn’t want him anywhere near her, but she knew better than to protest. As they started down the aisle, she could feel everyone’s eyes upon her. She closed her eyes, allowing Joffrey to truly lead her, and when her eyes opened again, she was at the base of the stairs leading to where Tyrion stood. Tyrion gave her a small, reassuring smile, and though Sansa didn’t think it should make her feel better, it did – a little.

Joffrey dropped her arm when she was standing just in front of Tyrion, and then, on his way back downstairs, he took away the stool that was presumably meant for Tyrion to stand on. Sansa winced at the ugly scraping sound the wood made against the marble stairs as Joffrey dragged it towards himself, and again at the thud that it made when he dropped it at the foot of the stairs, out of reach of its intended. Snickers sounded in the hall, adding to the humiliation Sansa felt at the whole endeavor. From the look on Tyrion’s face, it wasn’t bolstering his confidence either.

The Septon didn’t seem to notice. He said, “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Tyrion grabbed the cloak and held it open. He stepped near to her. Sansa, understanding his predicament, crouched so that he could reach to drape the cloak over her shoulders. It was a warm, comfortable cloak, and in truth, Sansa liked the idea of someone bringing her under their protection, even if that someone was Tyrion Lannister: She had been protecting herself for far too long.

The Septon announced, “Your Grace. Your Grace. My Lord and Ladies. We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife.”

Sansa watched dully as her hand was tied to Tyrion’s.

“One flesh,” the Septon said. “One heart. One soul. Now and forever.”

***

Sansa sat at the head table beside her new husband – a man who grew ever-more drunk as the evening continued. A knot was tying itself up in Sansa’s stomach. She hated this ceremony, and yet at the same time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted it to end or to continue on forever. When the ceremony was done, she would be bedded. It would hurt – Margaery, and her mother had both spoken of pain, and despite Sansa’s bold words to Margaery, she was anxious about that. That anxiety wasn’t what kept her from touching her food, however. It was the thought of everything else – of disrobing in front of a man who was too drunk to remember to be kind, and the thought of staring at that ugly scar while he forced himself inside of her. How could she ever try to like a man in the daylight who was going to do that to her in the night?

She watched him, thinking of their night to come. She watched as he cleaned his teeth while staring at his reflection in a silver platter, and as he coughed on his wine and spat half of it onto his tunic. When he pulled the tablecloth up to wipe his drunken face – the knot that had formed in her stomach lurched, and she was sure she was going to be sick.

“Will you pardon me, my Lord?” Sansa asked him quietly.

“Of course.” Tyrion flashed her a drunken, misty-eyed smile. “Of course. Enjoy.”

Sansa looked away from him. She stood and stepped down towards the music and the gaiety, none of it reaching her bones. She didn’t know where she was going, but a moment or two later, she found herself talking to Adelaide at the edge of the room. A few moments after that, Joffrey grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the hallway.

“Congratulations, my lady.” He sneered.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She replied quietly.

“You’ve done it!” Joffrey smirked. “You’ve married a Lannister. Soon you’ll have a Lannister baby. It’s a dream come true for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa said blandly. Tyrion had told her that she’d no longer be a prisoner once they were wed, but as long as Joffrey was alive, she knew she would not have the luxury of behaving any other way.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter which Lannister puts the baby into you,” Joffrey sneered. “Maybe I’ll pay you a visit tonight after my uncle passes out? How’d you like that?”

Sansa knew that she shouldn’t react, but she couldn’t help the look of horror that crossed her face. There was no thought more despicable than that of sleeping with Joffrey.

“You wouldn’t?” Joffrey grinned. “That’s all right. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros will hold you down.”

Before Sansa could think of a reply, Joffrey had pulled her back into the main hall.

“Time for the bedding ceremony,” he cried out, clearly relishing the thought of her upcoming humiliation.

Most of the hall cheered.

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” Tyrion said coldly.

“Where’s your respect for tradition, Uncle?” Joffrey asked. “Come, everyone. Pick her up and carry her to her wedding bed. Get rid of her gown – she won’t be needing it any longer. Ladies, attend to my uncle. He’s not that heavy.”

Tyrion slammed his fist on the table. “There will be no bedding ceremony!”

Joffrey gave him a cold look. “There will be if I command it!”

“Then you’ll find you have a hard time pleasing your own bride once I’ve finished with you,” Tyrion hissed.

“What did you say?” There was murder in Joffrey’s eyes. “What did you say?!”

Sansa stared at Joffrey fearfully. She was sure that this would be the end of Tyrion Lannister. Her marriage might just be the shortest on record.

Tywin stepped forward. “I believe we can dispense with the bedding, Your Grace. I’m sure Tyrion did not mean to threaten the king.”

Tyrion stared at his father for a moment, and then he inclined his head. “A bad joke, Your Grace, made out of envy of your own royal manhood. Alas, mine is so small. My poor wife won’t even know I’m there.”

Sansa held her breath, staring at Joffrey.

“Your uncle is clearly quite drunk, Your Grace,” Tywin pressed.

“I am,” Tyrion agreed. “Guilty as charged.”

Sansa let her breath out slowly.

“But it is my wedding night.” Tyrion slid from his chair and walked around the table towards Sansa. “My tiny drunk manhood and I have a job to do. Come, wife.”

Sansa stepped carefully around Joffrey and followed behind a swaggering Tyrion; her arms tight around her waist.

“I vomited on a girl once in the middle of the act,” Tyrion said, loudly enough that the entire hall could hear. “Not proud of it, but I think honesty is important between a man and wife, don’t you agree? Come, I’ll tell you all about it. It will put you right in the mood.”

Sansa felt cold all over as she followed Tyrion out of the great hall towards his chambers. He talked loudly for a while, but when the noise of the reception fell away from them, his voice died, too. Sansa wondered if part of his drunkenness had been a show. He opened the door to his room and led the way inside. Sansa followed after, closing the door gently behind herself.

Not looking at her, Tyrion poured himself a goblet-full of wine.

“Is that wise, my Lord?” Sansa asked.

“Tyrion, Sansa,” he said quietly. “My name is Tyrion.”

Sansa swallowed. She’d never called an adult male by his first name. She forced herself to say the words anyway. “Is that wise, Tyrion.”

He spun, grinned at her, and held the goblet up in a toast. “Nothing was ever wiser!”

Sansa watched as he took a long drink from it and then stumbled backwards onto a chaise longue.

“Astoundingly long!” Tyrion said after a moment.

“What?”

“Neck,” he pronounced. “You have one.”

Sansa reached a hand up to touch her throat.

“How old are you, exactly?” Tyrion asked.

She shifted uncertainly. “Thirteen.”

“Well…,” Tyrion took another gulp of his wine. “Talk won’t make you any older… my lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage!”

Sansa nodded in understanding. She had learned in her time at King’s Landing that fighting her circumstances only made things worse. Tyrion had said that he wouldn’t hurt her, but she doubted, drunk as he was, that he would follow through on that promise if she were to kick and scream at him. She began unbuttoning the front of her dress, facing away from him, as if that would somehow protect her modesty.

“Stop,” Tyrion said quietly.

Sansa turned to look at him.

“I can’t,” Tyrion said. He looked down at his lap and corrected, “I could. I won’t.”

“But your father….”

“My father can go boil his head,” Tyrion growled. A soft look overtook his eyes. “I won’t share your bed. Not until you want me to.”

Sansa stared at him – at the ugly scar on his face. “What if I never want you to?” She asked quietly.

Tyrion looked wounded for a moment, but the look was quickly replaced by the wry smile that he wore so often. He lifted his goblet in a toast and said, “and so my Watch begins.”

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