On the morning her new gown was to be ready, the serving girls
filled Sansa’s tub with steaming hot water and scrubbed her
head to toe until she glowed pink. Cersei’s own bedmaid
trimmed her nails and brushed and curled her auburn hair so it fell
down her back in soft ringlets. She brought a dozen of the
queen’s favorite scents as well. Sansa chose a sharp sweet
fragrance with a hint of lemon in it under the smell of flowers.
The maid dabbed some on her finger and touched Sansa behind each
ear, and under her chin, and then lightly on her nipples.
Cersei herself arrived with the seamstress, and watched as they
dressed Sansa in her new clothes. The smallclothes were all silk,
but the gown itself was ivory samite and cloth-of-silver, and lined
with silvery satin. The points of the long dagged sleeves almost
touched the ground when she lowered her arms. And it was a
woman’s gown, not a little girl’s, there was no doubt
of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the
deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in
dove-grey. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that
Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it. They
brought her new shoes as well, slippers of soft grey doeskin that
hugged her feet like lovers. “You are very beautiful, my
lady,” the seamstress said when she was dressed.
“I am, aren’t I?” Sansa giggled, and spun, her
skirts swirling around her. “Oh, I am.” She could not
wait for Willas to see her like this. He will love me, he will, he
must . . . he will forget Winterfell when he
sees me, I’ll see that he does.
Queen Cersei studied her critically. “A few gems, I think.
The moonstones Joffrey gave her.”
“At once, Your Grace,” her maid replied.
When the moonstones hung from Sansa’s ears and about her
neck, the queen nodded. “Yes. The gods have been kind to you,
Sansa. You are a lovely girl. It seems almost obscene to squander
such sweet innocence on that gargoyle.”
“What gargoyle?” Sansa did not understand. Did she
mean Willas? How could she know? No one knew, but her and Margaery
and the Queen of Thorns . . . oh, and Dontos,
but he didn’t count.
Cersei Lannister ignored the question. “The cloak,”
she commanded, and the women brought it out: a long cloak of white
velvet heavy with pearls. A flerce direwolf was embroidered upon it
in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. “Your
father’s colors,” said Cersei, as they fastened it
about her neck with a slender silver chain. A maiden’s cloak. Sansa’s hand went to her throat.
She would have torn the thing away if she had dared.
“You’re prettier with your mouth closed,
Sansa,” Cersei told her. “Come along now, the septon is
waiting. And the wedding guests as well.”
“No,” Sansa blurted. “No.”
“Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your
father’s place, since your brother is an attainted traitor.
That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to
marry my brother Tyrion.” My claim, she thought, sickened. Dontos the Fool was not so
foolish after all; he had seen the truth of it. Sansa backed away
from the queen. “I won’t.” I’m to marry
Willas, I’m to be the lady of Highgarden,
please . . .
“I understand your reluctance. Cry if you must. In your
place, I would likely rip my hair out. He’s a loathsome
little imp, no doubt of it, but marry him you shall.”
“You can’t make me.”
“Of course we can. You may come along quietly and say your
vows as befits a lady, or you may struggle and scream and make a
spectacle for the stableboys to titter over, but you will end up
wedded and bedded all the same.” The queen opened the door.
Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Osmund Kettleblack were waiting without, in
the white scale armor of the Kingsguard. “Escort Lady Sansa
to the sept,” she told them. “Carry her if you must,
but try not to tear the gown, it was very costly.”
Sansa tried to run, but Cersei’s handmaid caught her
before she’d gone a yard. Ser Meryn Trant gave her a look
that made her cringe, but Kettleblack touched her almost gently and
said, “Do as you’re told, sweetling, it won’t be
so bad. Wolves are supposed to be brave, aren’t
they?” Brave. Sansa took a deep breath. I am a Stark, yes, I can be
brave. They were all looking at her, the way they had looked at her
that day in the yard when Ser Boros Blount had torn her clothes
off. It had been the Imp who saved her from a beating that day, the same man who was
waiting for her now. He is not so bad as the rest of them, she told
herself. “I’ll go.”
Cersei smiled. “I knew you would.”
Afterward, she could not remember leaving the room or descending
the steps or crossing the yard. It seemed to take all her attention
just to put one foot down in front of the other. Ser Meryn and Ser
Osmund walked beside her, in cloaks as pale as her own, lacking
only the pearls and the direwolf that had been her father’s.
Joffrey himself was waiting for her on the steps of the castle
sept. The king was resplendent in crimson and gold, his crown on
his head. “I’m your father today,” he
announced.
“You’re not,” she flared. “You’ll
never be.”
His face darkened. “I am. I’m your father, and I can
marry you to whoever I like. To anyone. You’ll marry the pig
boy if I say so, and bed down with him in the sty.” His green
eyes glittered with amusement. “Or maybe I should give you to
Ilyn Payne, would you like him better?”
Her heart lurched. “Please, Your Grace,” she begged.
“If you ever loved me even a little bit, don’t make me
marry your—”
“—uncle?” Tyrion Lannister stepped through the doors
of the sept. “Your Grace,” he said to Joffrey.
“Grant me a moment alone with Lady Sansa, if you would be so
kind?”
The king was about to refuse, but his mother gave him a sharp
look. They drew off a few feet.
Tyrion wore a doublet of black velvet covered with golden
scrollwork, thigh-high boots that added three inches to his height,
a chain of rubies and lions’ heads. But the gash across his
face was raw and red, and his nose was a hideous scab. “You
are very beautiful, Sansa,” he told her.
“It is good of you to say so, my lord.” She did not
know what else to say. Should I tell him he is handsome?
He’ll think me a fool or a liar. She lowered her gaze and
held her tongue.
“My lady, this is no way to bring you to your wedding. I
am sorry for that. And for making this so sudden, and so secret. My
lord father felt it necessary, for reasons of state. Else I would
have come to you sooner, as I wished.” He waddled closer.
“You did not ask for this marriage, I know. No more than I
did. If I had refused you, however, they would have wed you to my
cousin Lancel. Perhaps you would prefer that. He is nearer your
age, and fairer to look upon. If that is your wish, say so, and I
will end this farce.” I don’t want any Lannister, she wanted to say. I want
Willas, I want Highgarden and the puppies and the barge, and sons
named Eddard and Bran and Rickon. But then she remembered what
Dontos had told her in the godswood. Tyrell or Lannister, it makes
no matter, it’s not me they want, only my claim. “You
are kind, my lord,” she said, defeated. “I am a ward of
the throne and my duty is to marry as the king commands.”
He studied her with his mismatched eyes. “I know I am not
the sort of husband young girls dream of, Sansa,” he said
softly, “but neither am I Joffrey.”
“No,” she said. “You were kind to me. I
remember.”
Tyrion offered her a thick, blunt-fingered hand. “Come,
then. Let us do our duty.”
So she put her hand in his, and he led her to the marriage
altar, where the septon waited between the Mother and the Father to
join their lives together. She saw Dontos in his fool’s
motley, looking at her with big round eyes. Ser Balon Swann and Ser
Boros Blount were there in Kingsguard white, but not Ser Loras.
None of the Tyrells are here, she realized suddenly. But there were
other witnesses aplenty; the eunuch Varys, Ser Addam Marbrand,
Lord Philip Foote, Ser Bronn, Jalabhar Xho, a dozen others. Lord
Gyles was coughing, Lady Ermesande was at the breast, and Lady
Tanda’s pregnant daughter was sobbing for no apparent reason.
Let her sob, Sansa thought. Perhaps I shall do the same before this
day is done.
The ceremony passed as in a dream. Sansa did all that was
required of her. There were prayers and vows and singing, and tall
candles burning, a hundred dancing lights that the tears in her
eyes transformed into a thousand. Thankfully no one seemed to
notice that she was crying as she stood there, wrapped in her
father’s colors; or if they did, they pretended not to. In
what seemed no time at all, they came to the changing of the
cloaks.
As father of the realm, Joffrey took the place of Lord Eddard
Stark. Sansa stood stiff as a lance as his hands came over her
shoulders to fumble with the clasp of her cloak. One of them
brushed her breast and lingered to give it a little squeeze. Then
the clasp opened, and Joff swept her maiden’s cloak away with
a kingly flourish and a grin.
His uncle’s part went less well. The bride’s cloak
he held was huge and heavy, crimson velvet richly worked with lions
and bordered with gold satin and rubies. No one had thought to
bring a stool, however, and Tyrion stood a foot and a half shorter
than his bride. As he moved behind her, Sansa felt a sharp tug on
her skirt. He wants me to kneel, she realized, blushing. She was
mortified. It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of
her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her
betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak
of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek
as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp.
She felt another tug at her skirt, more insistent. I
won’t. Why should I spare his feelings, when no one cares
about mine?
The dwarf tugged at her a third time. Stubbornly she pressed her
lips together and pretended not to notice. Someone behind them
tittered. The queen, she thought, but it didn’t matter. They
were all laughing by then, Joffrey the loudest. “Dontos, down
on your hands and knees,” the king commanded. “My uncle
needs a boost to climb his bride.”
And so it was that her lord husband cloaked her in the colors of
House Lannister whilst standing on the back of a fool.
When Sansa turned, the little man was gazing up at her, his
mouth tight, his face as red as her cloak. Suddenly she was ashamed
of her stubbornness. She smoothed her skirts and knelt in front of
him, so their heads were on the same level. “With this kiss I
pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”
“With this kiss I pledge my love,” the dwarf replied
hoarsely, “and take you for my lady and wife.” He
leaned forward, and their lips touched briefly. He is so ugly, Sansa thought when his face was close to hers. He
is even uglier than the Hound.
The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell
down upon them. “Here in the sight of gods and men,” he
said, “I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and
Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one
soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between
them.”
She had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.
The wedding feast was held in the Small Hall. There were perhaps
fifty guests; Lannister retainers and allies for the most part,
joining those who had been at the wedding. And here Sansa found the
Tyrells. Margaery gave her such a sad look, and when the Queen of
Thorns tottered in between Left and Right, she never looked at her
at all. Elinor, Alla, and Megga seemed determined not to know her.
My friends, Sansa thought bitterly.
Her husband drank heavily and ate but little. He listened
whenever someone rose to make a toast and sometimes nodded a curt
acknowledgment, but otherwise his face might have been made of
stone. The feast seemed to go on forever, though Sansa tasted none
of the food. She wanted it to be done, and yet she dreaded its end.
For after the feast would come the bedding. The men would carry her
up to her wedding bed, undressing her on the way and making rude
jokes about the fate that awaited her between the sheets, while the
women did Tyrion the same honors. Only after they had been bundled
naked into bed would they be left alone, and even then the guests
would stand outside the bridal chamber, shouting ribald suggestions
through the door. The bedding had seemed wonderfully wicked and
exciting when Sansa was a girl, but now that the moment was upon
her she felt only dread. She did not think she could bear for them
to rip off her clothes, and she was certain she would burst into
tears at the first randy jape.
When the musicians began to play, she timidly laid her hand on
Tyrion’s and said, “My lord, should we lead the
dance?”
His mouth twisted. “I think we have already given them
sufficent amusement for one day, don’t you?”
“As you say, my lord.” She pulled her hand back.
Joffrey and Margaery led in their place. How can a monster dance
so beautifully? Sansa wondered. She had often daydreamed of how she
would dance at her wedding, with every eye upon her and her
handsome lord. In her dreams they had all been smiling. Not even my
husband is smiling.
Other guests soon joined the king and his betrothed on the
floor. Elinor danced with her young squire, and Megga with Prince
Tommen. Lady Merryweather, the Myrish beauty with the black hair
and the big dark eyes, spun so provocatively that every man in the
hall was soon watching her. Lord and Lady Tyrell moved more
sedately. Ser Kevan Lannister begged the honor of Lady Janna
Fossoway, Lord Tyrell’s sister. Merry Crane took the floor
with the exile prince Jalabhar Xho, gorgeous in his feathered
finery. Cersei Lannister partnered first Lord Redwyne, then Lord
Rowan, and finally her own father, who danced with smooth unsmiling
grace.
Sansa sat with her hands in her lap, watching how the queen
moved and laughed and tossed her blonde curls. She charms them all,
she thought dully. How I hate her. She looked away, to where Moon
Boy danced with Dontos.
“Lady Sansa.” Ser Garlan Tyrell stood beside the
dais. “Would you honor me? If your lord consents?”
The Imp’s mismatched eyes narrowed. “My lady can
dance with whomever she pleases.”
Perhaps she ought to have remained beside her husband, but she
wanted to dance so badly . . . and Ser Garlan
was brother to Margaery, to Willas, to her Knight of Flowers.
“I see why they name you Garlan the Gallant, ser,” she
said, as she took his hand.
“My lady is gracious to say so. My brother Willas gave me
that name, as it happens. To protect me.”
“To protect you?” She gave him a puzzled look.
Ser Garlan laughed. “I was a plump little boy, I fear, and
we do have an uncle called Garth the Gross. So Willas struck first,
though not before threatening me with Garlan the Greensick, Garlan
the Galling, and Garlan the Gargoyle.”
It was so sweet and silly that Sansa had to laugh, despite
everything. Afterward she was absurdly grateful. Somehow the
laughter made her hopeful again, if only for a little while.
Smiling, she let the music take her, losing herself in the steps,
in the sound of flute and pipes and harp, in the rhythm of the
drum . . . and from time to time in Ser
Garlan’s arms, when the dance brought them together.
“My lady wife is most concerned for you,” he said
quietly, one such time.
“Lady Leonette is too sweet. Tell her I am
well.”
“A bride at her wedding should be more than well.”
His voice was not unkind. “You seemed close to
tears.”
“Tears of joy, ser.”
“Your eyes give the lie to your tongue.” Ser Garlan
turned her, drew her close to his side. “My lady, I have seen
how you look at my brother. Loras is valiant and handsome, and we
all love him dearly . . . but your Imp will
make a better husband. He is a bigger man than he seems, I
think.”
The music spun them apart before Sansa could think of a reply.
It was Mace Tyrell opposite her, red-faced and sweaty, and then
Lord Merryweather, and then Prince Tommen. “I want to be
married too,” said the plump little princeling, who was all
of nine. “I’m taller than my uncle!”
“I know you are,” said Sansa, before the partners
changed again. Ser Kevan told her she was beautiful, Jalabhar Xho
said something she did not understand in the Summer Tongue, and
Lord Redwyne wished her many fat children and long years of joy.
And then the dance brought her face-to-face with Joffrey.
Sansa stiffened as his hand touched hers, but the king tightened
his grip and drew her closer. “You shouldn’t look so
sad. My uncle is an ugly little thing, but you’ll still have
me.”
“You’re to marry Margaery!”
“A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One
of the Aegons did too. The third one, or the fourth. He had lots of
whores and lots of bastards.” As they whirled to the music,
Joff gave her a moist kiss. “My uncle will bring you to my
bed whenever I command it.”
Sansa shook her head. “He won’t.”
“He will, or I’ll have his head. That King Aegon, he
had any woman he wanted, whether they were married or
no.”
Thankfully, it was time to change again. Her legs had turned to
wood, though, and Lord Rowan, Ser Tallad, and Elinor’s squire
all must have thought her a very clumsy dancer. And then she was
back with Ser Garlan once more, and soon, blessedly, the dance was
over.
Her relief was short-lived. No sooner had the music died than
she heard Joffrey say, “It’s time to bed them!
Let’s get the clothes off her, and have a look at what the
she-wolf’s got to give my uncle!” Other men took up the
cry, loudly.
Her dwarf husband lifted his eyes slowly from his wine cup.
“I’ll have no bedding.”
Joffrey seized Sansa’s arm. “You will if I command
it.”
The Imp slammed his dagger down in the table, where it stood
quivering. “Then you’ll service your own bride with a
wooden prick. I’ll geld you, I swear it.”
A shocked silence fell. Sansa pulled away from Joffrey, but he
had a grip on her, and her sleeve ripped. No one even seemed to
hear. Queen Cersei turned to her father. “Did you hear
him?”
Lord Tywin rose from his seat. “I believe we can dispense
with the bedding. Tyrion, I am certain you did not mean to threaten
the king’s royal person.”
Sansa saw a spasm of rage pass across her husband’s face.
“I misspoke,” he said. “It was a bad jape,
sire.”
“You threatened to geld me!” Joffrey said
shrilly.
“I did, Your Grace,” said Tyrion, “but only
because I envied your royal manhood. Mine own is so small and
stunted.” His face twisted into a leer. “And if you
take my tongue, you will leave me no way at all to pleasure this
sweet wife you gave me.”
Laughter burst from the lips of Ser Osmund Kettleblack. Someone
else sniggered. But Joff did not laugh, nor Lord Tywin. “Your
Grace,” he said, “my son is drunk, you can see
that.”
“I am,” the Imp confessed, “but not so drunk
that I cannot attend to my own bedding.” He hopped down from
the dais and grabbed Sansa roughly. “Come, wife, time to
smash your portcullis. I want to play
come-into-the-castle.”
Red-faced, Sansa went with him from the Small Hall. What choice
do I have? Tyrion waddled when he walked, especially when he walked
as quickly as he did now. The gods were merciful, and neither
Joffrey nor any of the others moved to follow.
For their wedding night, they had been granted the use of an
airy bedchamber high in the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion kicked the
door shut behind them. “There is a flagon of good Arbor gold
on the sideboard, Sansa. Will you be so kind as to pour me a
cup?”
“Is that wise, my lord?”
“Nothing was ever wiser. I am not truly drunk, you see.
But I mean to be.”
Sansa filled a goblet for each of them. It will be easier if I
am drunk as well. She sat on the edge of the great curtained bed
and drained half her cup in three long swallows. No doubt it was
very flne wine, but she was too nervous to taste it. It made her
head swim. “Would you have me undress, my lord?”
“Tyrion.” He cocked his head. “My name is
Tyrion, Sansa.”
“Tyrion. My lord. Should I take off my gown, or do you
want to undress me?” She took another swallow of wine.
The imp turned away from her. “The first time I wed, there
was us and a drunken septon, and some pigs to bear witness. We ate
one of our witnesses at our wedding feast. Tysha fed me crackling
and I licked the grease off her fingers, and we were laughing when
we fell into bed.”
“You were wed before? I . . . I had
forgotten.”
“You did not forget. You never knew.”
“Who was she, my lord?” Sansa was curious despite
herself.
“Lady Tysha.” His mouth twisted. “Of House
Silverfist. Their arms have one gold coin and a hundred silver,
upon a bloody sheet. Ours was a very short
marriage . . . as befits a very short man, I
suppose.”
Sansa stared down at her hands and said nothing.
“How old are you, Sansa?” asked Tyrion, after a
moment.
“Thirteen,” she said, “when the moon
turns.”
“Gods have mercy.” The dwarf took another swallow of
wine. “Well, talk won’t make you older. Shall we get on
with this, my lady? If it please you?”
“It will please me to please my lord husband.”
That seemed to anger him. “You hide behind courtesy as if
it were a castle wall.”
“Courtesy is a lady’s armor,” Sansa said. Her
septa had always told her that.
“I am your husband. You can take off your armor
now.”
“And my clothing?”
“That too.” He waved his wine cup at her. “My
lord father has commanded me to consummate this
marriage.”
Her hands trembled as she began fumbling at her clothes. She had
ten thumbs instead of fingers, and all of them were broken. Yet
somehow she managed the laces and buttons, and her cloak and gown
and girdle and undersilk slid to the floor, until finally she was
stepping out of her smallclothes. Gooseprickles covered her arms
and legs. She kept her eyes on the floor, too shy to look at him,
but when she was done she glanced up and found him staring. There
was hunger in his green eye, it seemed to her, and fury in the
black. Sansa did not know which scared her more.
“You’re a child,” he said.
She covered her breasts with her hands. “I’ve
flowered.”
“A child,” he repeated, “but I want you. Does
that frighten you, Sansa?”
“Yes.”
“Me as well. I know I am ugly—”
“No, my—”
He pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t lie, Sansa. I
am malformed, scarred, and small,
but . . . ” she could see him groping
“ . . . abed, when the candles are blown
out, I am made no worse than other men. In the dark, I am the
Knight of Flowers.” He took a draught of wine. “I am
generous. Loyal to those who are loyal to me. I’ve proven
I’m no craven. And I am cleverer than most, surely wits count
for something. I can even be kind. Kindness is not a habit with us
Lannisters, I fear, but I know I have some somewhere. I could
be . . . I could be good to you.” He is as frightened as I am, Sansa realized. Perhaps that should
have made her feel more kindly toward him, but it did not. All she
felt was pity, and pity was death to desire. He was looking at her,
waiting for her to say something, but all her words had withered.
She could only stand there trembling.
When he finally realized that she had no answer for him, Tyrion
Lannister drained the last of his wine. “I understand,”
he said bitterly. “Get in the bed, Sansa. We need to do our
duty.”
She climbed onto the featherbed, conscious of his stare. A
scented beeswax candle burned on the bedside table and rose petals
had been strewn between the sheets. She had started to pull up a
blanket to cover herself when she heard him say,
“No.”
The cold made her shiver, but she obeyed. Her eyes closed, and
she waited. After a moment she heard the sound of her husband
pulling off his boots, and the rustle of clothing as he undressed
himself. When he hopped up on the bed and put his hand on her
breast, Sansa could not help but shudder. She lay with her eyes
closed, every muscle tense, dreading what might come next. Would he
touch her again? Kiss her? Should she open her legs for him now?
She did not know what was expected of her.
“Sansa.” The hand was gone. “Open your
eyes.”
She had promised to obey; she opened her eyes. He was sitting by
her feet, naked. Where his legs joined, his man’s staff poked
up stiff and hard from a thicket of coarse yellow hair, but it was
the only thing about him that was straight.
“My lady,” Tyrion said, “you are lovely, make
no mistake, but . . . I cannot do this. My
father be damned. We will wait. The turn of a moon, a year, a
season, however long it takes. Until you have come to know me
better, and perhaps to trust me a little.” His smile might
have been meant to be reassuring, but without a nose it only made
him look more grotesque and sinister. Look at him, Sansa told herself, look at your husband, at all of
him, Septa Mordane said all men are beautiful, find his beauty,
try. She stared at the stunted legs, the swollen brutish brow, the
green eye and the black one, the raw stump of his nose and crooked
pink scar, the coarse tangle of black and gold hair that passed for
his beard. Even his manhood was ugly, thick and veined, with a
bulbous purple head. This is not right, this is not fair, how have
I sinned that the gods would do this to me, how?
“On my honor as a Lannister,” the Imp said, “I
will not touch you until you want me to.”
It took all the
courage that was in her to look in those mismatched eyes and say,
“And if I never want you to, my lord?”
His mouth jerked as if she had slapped him.
“Never?”
Her neck was so tight she could scarcely nod.
“Why,” he said, “that is why the gods made
whores for imps like me.” He closed his short blunt fingers
into a fist, and climbed down off the bed.
On the morning her new gown was to be ready, the serving girls
filled Sansa’s tub with steaming hot water and scrubbed her
head to toe until she glowed pink. Cersei’s own bedmaid
trimmed her nails and brushed and curled her auburn hair so it fell
down her back in soft ringlets. She brought a dozen of the
queen’s favorite scents as well. Sansa chose a sharp sweet
fragrance with a hint of lemon in it under the smell of flowers.
The maid dabbed some on her finger and touched Sansa behind each
ear, and under her chin, and then lightly on her nipples.
Cersei herself arrived with the seamstress, and watched as they
dressed Sansa in her new clothes. The smallclothes were all silk,
but the gown itself was ivory samite and cloth-of-silver, and lined
with silvery satin. The points of the long dagged sleeves almost
touched the ground when she lowered her arms. And it was a
woman’s gown, not a little girl’s, there was no doubt
of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the
deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in
dove-grey. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that
Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it. They
brought her new shoes as well, slippers of soft grey doeskin that
hugged her feet like lovers. “You are very beautiful, my
lady,” the seamstress said when she was dressed.
“I am, aren’t I?” Sansa giggled, and spun, her
skirts swirling around her. “Oh, I am.” She could not
wait for Willas to see her like this. He will love me, he will, he
must . . . he will forget Winterfell when he
sees me, I’ll see that he does.
Queen Cersei studied her critically. “A few gems, I think.
The moonstones Joffrey gave her.”
“At once, Your Grace,” her maid replied.
When the moonstones hung from Sansa’s ears and about her
neck, the queen nodded. “Yes. The gods have been kind to you,
Sansa. You are a lovely girl. It seems almost obscene to squander
such sweet innocence on that gargoyle.”
“What gargoyle?” Sansa did not understand. Did she
mean Willas? How could she know? No one knew, but her and Margaery
and the Queen of Thorns . . . oh, and Dontos,
but he didn’t count.
Cersei Lannister ignored the question. “The cloak,”
she commanded, and the women brought it out: a long cloak of white
velvet heavy with pearls. A flerce direwolf was embroidered upon it
in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. “Your
father’s colors,” said Cersei, as they fastened it
about her neck with a slender silver chain. A maiden’s cloak. Sansa’s hand went to her throat.
She would have torn the thing away if she had dared.
“You’re prettier with your mouth closed,
Sansa,” Cersei told her. “Come along now, the septon is
waiting. And the wedding guests as well.”
“No,” Sansa blurted. “No.”
“Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your
father’s place, since your brother is an attainted traitor.
That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to
marry my brother Tyrion.” My claim, she thought, sickened. Dontos the Fool was not so
foolish after all; he had seen the truth of it. Sansa backed away
from the queen. “I won’t.” I’m to marry
Willas, I’m to be the lady of Highgarden,
please . . .
“I understand your reluctance. Cry if you must. In your
place, I would likely rip my hair out. He’s a loathsome
little imp, no doubt of it, but marry him you shall.”
“You can’t make me.”
“Of course we can. You may come along quietly and say your
vows as befits a lady, or you may struggle and scream and make a
spectacle for the stableboys to titter over, but you will end up
wedded and bedded all the same.” The queen opened the door.
Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Osmund Kettleblack were waiting without, in
the white scale armor of the Kingsguard. “Escort Lady Sansa
to the sept,” she told them. “Carry her if you must,
but try not to tear the gown, it was very costly.”
Sansa tried to run, but Cersei’s handmaid caught her
before she’d gone a yard. Ser Meryn Trant gave her a look
that made her cringe, but Kettleblack touched her almost gently and
said, “Do as you’re told, sweetling, it won’t be
so bad. Wolves are supposed to be brave, aren’t
they?” Brave. Sansa took a deep breath. I am a Stark, yes, I can be
brave. They were all looking at her, the way they had looked at her
that day in the yard when Ser Boros Blount had torn her clothes
off. It had been the Imp who saved her from a beating that day, the same man who was
waiting for her now. He is not so bad as the rest of them, she told
herself. “I’ll go.”
Cersei smiled. “I knew you would.”
Afterward, she could not remember leaving the room or descending
the steps or crossing the yard. It seemed to take all her attention
just to put one foot down in front of the other. Ser Meryn and Ser
Osmund walked beside her, in cloaks as pale as her own, lacking
only the pearls and the direwolf that had been her father’s.
Joffrey himself was waiting for her on the steps of the castle
sept. The king was resplendent in crimson and gold, his crown on
his head. “I’m your father today,” he
announced.
“You’re not,” she flared. “You’ll
never be.”
His face darkened. “I am. I’m your father, and I can
marry you to whoever I like. To anyone. You’ll marry the pig
boy if I say so, and bed down with him in the sty.” His green
eyes glittered with amusement. “Or maybe I should give you to
Ilyn Payne, would you like him better?”
Her heart lurched. “Please, Your Grace,” she begged.
“If you ever loved me even a little bit, don’t make me
marry your—”
“—uncle?” Tyrion Lannister stepped through the doors
of the sept. “Your Grace,” he said to Joffrey.
“Grant me a moment alone with Lady Sansa, if you would be so
kind?”
The king was about to refuse, but his mother gave him a sharp
look. They drew off a few feet.
Tyrion wore a doublet of black velvet covered with golden
scrollwork, thigh-high boots that added three inches to his height,
a chain of rubies and lions’ heads. But the gash across his
face was raw and red, and his nose was a hideous scab. “You
are very beautiful, Sansa,” he told her.
“It is good of you to say so, my lord.” She did not
know what else to say. Should I tell him he is handsome?
He’ll think me a fool or a liar. She lowered her gaze and
held her tongue.
“My lady, this is no way to bring you to your wedding. I
am sorry for that. And for making this so sudden, and so secret. My
lord father felt it necessary, for reasons of state. Else I would
have come to you sooner, as I wished.” He waddled closer.
“You did not ask for this marriage, I know. No more than I
did. If I had refused you, however, they would have wed you to my
cousin Lancel. Perhaps you would prefer that. He is nearer your
age, and fairer to look upon. If that is your wish, say so, and I
will end this farce.” I don’t want any Lannister, she wanted to say. I want
Willas, I want Highgarden and the puppies and the barge, and sons
named Eddard and Bran and Rickon. But then she remembered what
Dontos had told her in the godswood. Tyrell or Lannister, it makes
no matter, it’s not me they want, only my claim. “You
are kind, my lord,” she said, defeated. “I am a ward of
the throne and my duty is to marry as the king commands.”
He studied her with his mismatched eyes. “I know I am not
the sort of husband young girls dream of, Sansa,” he said
softly, “but neither am I Joffrey.”
“No,” she said. “You were kind to me. I
remember.”
Tyrion offered her a thick, blunt-fingered hand. “Come,
then. Let us do our duty.”
So she put her hand in his, and he led her to the marriage
altar, where the septon waited between the Mother and the Father to
join their lives together. She saw Dontos in his fool’s
motley, looking at her with big round eyes. Ser Balon Swann and Ser
Boros Blount were there in Kingsguard white, but not Ser Loras.
None of the Tyrells are here, she realized suddenly. But there were
other witnesses aplenty; the eunuch Varys, Ser Addam Marbrand,
Lord Philip Foote, Ser Bronn, Jalabhar Xho, a dozen others. Lord
Gyles was coughing, Lady Ermesande was at the breast, and Lady
Tanda’s pregnant daughter was sobbing for no apparent reason.
Let her sob, Sansa thought. Perhaps I shall do the same before this
day is done.
The ceremony passed as in a dream. Sansa did all that was
required of her. There were prayers and vows and singing, and tall
candles burning, a hundred dancing lights that the tears in her
eyes transformed into a thousand. Thankfully no one seemed to
notice that she was crying as she stood there, wrapped in her
father’s colors; or if they did, they pretended not to. In
what seemed no time at all, they came to the changing of the
cloaks.
As father of the realm, Joffrey took the place of Lord Eddard
Stark. Sansa stood stiff as a lance as his hands came over her
shoulders to fumble with the clasp of her cloak. One of them
brushed her breast and lingered to give it a little squeeze. Then
the clasp opened, and Joff swept her maiden’s cloak away with
a kingly flourish and a grin.
His uncle’s part went less well. The bride’s cloak
he held was huge and heavy, crimson velvet richly worked with lions
and bordered with gold satin and rubies. No one had thought to
bring a stool, however, and Tyrion stood a foot and a half shorter
than his bride. As he moved behind her, Sansa felt a sharp tug on
her skirt. He wants me to kneel, she realized, blushing. She was
mortified. It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of
her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her
betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak
of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek
as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp.
She felt another tug at her skirt, more insistent. I
won’t. Why should I spare his feelings, when no one cares
about mine?
The dwarf tugged at her a third time. Stubbornly she pressed her
lips together and pretended not to notice. Someone behind them
tittered. The queen, she thought, but it didn’t matter. They
were all laughing by then, Joffrey the loudest. “Dontos, down
on your hands and knees,” the king commanded. “My uncle
needs a boost to climb his bride.”
And so it was that her lord husband cloaked her in the colors of
House Lannister whilst standing on the back of a fool.
When Sansa turned, the little man was gazing up at her, his
mouth tight, his face as red as her cloak. Suddenly she was ashamed
of her stubbornness. She smoothed her skirts and knelt in front of
him, so their heads were on the same level. “With this kiss I
pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”
“With this kiss I pledge my love,” the dwarf replied
hoarsely, “and take you for my lady and wife.” He
leaned forward, and their lips touched briefly. He is so ugly, Sansa thought when his face was close to hers. He
is even uglier than the Hound.
The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell
down upon them. “Here in the sight of gods and men,” he
said, “I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and
Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one
soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between
them.”
She had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.
The wedding feast was held in the Small Hall. There were perhaps
fifty guests; Lannister retainers and allies for the most part,
joining those who had been at the wedding. And here Sansa found the
Tyrells. Margaery gave her such a sad look, and when the Queen of
Thorns tottered in between Left and Right, she never looked at her
at all. Elinor, Alla, and Megga seemed determined not to know her.
My friends, Sansa thought bitterly.
Her husband drank heavily and ate but little. He listened
whenever someone rose to make a toast and sometimes nodded a curt
acknowledgment, but otherwise his face might have been made of
stone. The feast seemed to go on forever, though Sansa tasted none
of the food. She wanted it to be done, and yet she dreaded its end.
For after the feast would come the bedding. The men would carry her
up to her wedding bed, undressing her on the way and making rude
jokes about the fate that awaited her between the sheets, while the
women did Tyrion the same honors. Only after they had been bundled
naked into bed would they be left alone, and even then the guests
would stand outside the bridal chamber, shouting ribald suggestions
through the door. The bedding had seemed wonderfully wicked and
exciting when Sansa was a girl, but now that the moment was upon
her she felt only dread. She did not think she could bear for them
to rip off her clothes, and she was certain she would burst into
tears at the first randy jape.
When the musicians began to play, she timidly laid her hand on
Tyrion’s and said, “My lord, should we lead the
dance?”
His mouth twisted. “I think we have already given them
sufficent amusement for one day, don’t you?”
“As you say, my lord.” She pulled her hand back.
Joffrey and Margaery led in their place. How can a monster dance
so beautifully? Sansa wondered. She had often daydreamed of how she
would dance at her wedding, with every eye upon her and her
handsome lord. In her dreams they had all been smiling. Not even my
husband is smiling.
Other guests soon joined the king and his betrothed on the
floor. Elinor danced with her young squire, and Megga with Prince
Tommen. Lady Merryweather, the Myrish beauty with the black hair
and the big dark eyes, spun so provocatively that every man in the
hall was soon watching her. Lord and Lady Tyrell moved more
sedately. Ser Kevan Lannister begged the honor of Lady Janna
Fossoway, Lord Tyrell’s sister. Merry Crane took the floor
with the exile prince Jalabhar Xho, gorgeous in his feathered
finery. Cersei Lannister partnered first Lord Redwyne, then Lord
Rowan, and finally her own father, who danced with smooth unsmiling
grace.
Sansa sat with her hands in her lap, watching how the queen
moved and laughed and tossed her blonde curls. She charms them all,
she thought dully. How I hate her. She looked away, to where Moon
Boy danced with Dontos.
“Lady Sansa.” Ser Garlan Tyrell stood beside the
dais. “Would you honor me? If your lord consents?”
The Imp’s mismatched eyes narrowed. “My lady can
dance with whomever she pleases.”
Perhaps she ought to have remained beside her husband, but she
wanted to dance so badly . . . and Ser Garlan
was brother to Margaery, to Willas, to her Knight of Flowers.
“I see why they name you Garlan the Gallant, ser,” she
said, as she took his hand.
“My lady is gracious to say so. My brother Willas gave me
that name, as it happens. To protect me.”
“To protect you?” She gave him a puzzled look.
Ser Garlan laughed. “I was a plump little boy, I fear, and
we do have an uncle called Garth the Gross. So Willas struck first,
though not before threatening me with Garlan the Greensick, Garlan
the Galling, and Garlan the Gargoyle.”
It was so sweet and silly that Sansa had to laugh, despite
everything. Afterward she was absurdly grateful. Somehow the
laughter made her hopeful again, if only for a little while.
Smiling, she let the music take her, losing herself in the steps,
in the sound of flute and pipes and harp, in the rhythm of the
drum . . . and from time to time in Ser
Garlan’s arms, when the dance brought them together.
“My lady wife is most concerned for you,” he said
quietly, one such time.
“Lady Leonette is too sweet. Tell her I am
well.”
“A bride at her wedding should be more than well.”
His voice was not unkind. “You seemed close to
tears.”
“Tears of joy, ser.”
“Your eyes give the lie to your tongue.” Ser Garlan
turned her, drew her close to his side. “My lady, I have seen
how you look at my brother. Loras is valiant and handsome, and we
all love him dearly . . . but your Imp will
make a better husband. He is a bigger man than he seems, I
think.”
The music spun them apart before Sansa could think of a reply.
It was Mace Tyrell opposite her, red-faced and sweaty, and then
Lord Merryweather, and then Prince Tommen. “I want to be
married too,” said the plump little princeling, who was all
of nine. “I’m taller than my uncle!”
“I know you are,” said Sansa, before the partners
changed again. Ser Kevan told her she was beautiful, Jalabhar Xho
said something she did not understand in the Summer Tongue, and
Lord Redwyne wished her many fat children and long years of joy.
And then the dance brought her face-to-face with Joffrey.
Sansa stiffened as his hand touched hers, but the king tightened
his grip and drew her closer. “You shouldn’t look so
sad. My uncle is an ugly little thing, but you’ll still have
me.”
“You’re to marry Margaery!”
“A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One
of the Aegons did too. The third one, or the fourth. He had lots of
whores and lots of bastards.” As they whirled to the music,
Joff gave her a moist kiss. “My uncle will bring you to my
bed whenever I command it.”
Sansa shook her head. “He won’t.”
“He will, or I’ll have his head. That King Aegon, he
had any woman he wanted, whether they were married or
no.”
Thankfully, it was time to change again. Her legs had turned to
wood, though, and Lord Rowan, Ser Tallad, and Elinor’s squire
all must have thought her a very clumsy dancer. And then she was
back with Ser Garlan once more, and soon, blessedly, the dance was
over.
Her relief was short-lived. No sooner had the music died than
she heard Joffrey say, “It’s time to bed them!
Let’s get the clothes off her, and have a look at what the
she-wolf’s got to give my uncle!” Other men took up the
cry, loudly.
Her dwarf husband lifted his eyes slowly from his wine cup.
“I’ll have no bedding.”
Joffrey seized Sansa’s arm. “You will if I command
it.”
The Imp slammed his dagger down in the table, where it stood
quivering. “Then you’ll service your own bride with a
wooden prick. I’ll geld you, I swear it.”
A shocked silence fell. Sansa pulled away from Joffrey, but he
had a grip on her, and her sleeve ripped. No one even seemed to
hear. Queen Cersei turned to her father. “Did you hear
him?”
Lord Tywin rose from his seat. “I believe we can dispense
with the bedding. Tyrion, I am certain you did not mean to threaten
the king’s royal person.”
Sansa saw a spasm of rage pass across her husband’s face.
“I misspoke,” he said. “It was a bad jape,
sire.”
“You threatened to geld me!” Joffrey said
shrilly.
“I did, Your Grace,” said Tyrion, “but only
because I envied your royal manhood. Mine own is so small and
stunted.” His face twisted into a leer. “And if you
take my tongue, you will leave me no way at all to pleasure this
sweet wife you gave me.”
Laughter burst from the lips of Ser Osmund Kettleblack. Someone
else sniggered. But Joff did not laugh, nor Lord Tywin. “Your
Grace,” he said, “my son is drunk, you can see
that.”
“I am,” the Imp confessed, “but not so drunk
that I cannot attend to my own bedding.” He hopped down from
the dais and grabbed Sansa roughly. “Come, wife, time to
smash your portcullis. I want to play
come-into-the-castle.”
Red-faced, Sansa went with him from the Small Hall. What choice
do I have? Tyrion waddled when he walked, especially when he walked
as quickly as he did now. The gods were merciful, and neither
Joffrey nor any of the others moved to follow.
For their wedding night, they had been granted the use of an
airy bedchamber high in the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion kicked the
door shut behind them. “There is a flagon of good Arbor gold
on the sideboard, Sansa. Will you be so kind as to pour me a
cup?”
“Is that wise, my lord?”
“Nothing was ever wiser. I am not truly drunk, you see.
But I mean to be.”
Sansa filled a goblet for each of them. It will be easier if I
am drunk as well. She sat on the edge of the great curtained bed
and drained half her cup in three long swallows. No doubt it was
very flne wine, but she was too nervous to taste it. It made her
head swim. “Would you have me undress, my lord?”
“Tyrion.” He cocked his head. “My name is
Tyrion, Sansa.”
“Tyrion. My lord. Should I take off my gown, or do you
want to undress me?” She took another swallow of wine.
The imp turned away from her. “The first time I wed, there
was us and a drunken septon, and some pigs to bear witness. We ate
one of our witnesses at our wedding feast. Tysha fed me crackling
and I licked the grease off her fingers, and we were laughing when
we fell into bed.”
“You were wed before? I . . . I had
forgotten.”
“You did not forget. You never knew.”
“Who was she, my lord?” Sansa was curious despite
herself.
“Lady Tysha.” His mouth twisted. “Of House
Silverfist. Their arms have one gold coin and a hundred silver,
upon a bloody sheet. Ours was a very short
marriage . . . as befits a very short man, I
suppose.”
Sansa stared down at her hands and said nothing.
“How old are you, Sansa?” asked Tyrion, after a
moment.
“Thirteen,” she said, “when the moon
turns.”
“Gods have mercy.” The dwarf took another swallow of
wine. “Well, talk won’t make you older. Shall we get on
with this, my lady? If it please you?”
“It will please me to please my lord husband.”
That seemed to anger him. “You hide behind courtesy as if
it were a castle wall.”
“Courtesy is a lady’s armor,” Sansa said. Her
septa had always told her that.
“I am your husband. You can take off your armor
now.”
“And my clothing?”
“That too.” He waved his wine cup at her. “My
lord father has commanded me to consummate this
marriage.”
Her hands trembled as she began fumbling at her clothes. She had
ten thumbs instead of fingers, and all of them were broken. Yet
somehow she managed the laces and buttons, and her cloak and gown
and girdle and undersilk slid to the floor, until finally she was
stepping out of her smallclothes. Gooseprickles covered her arms
and legs. She kept her eyes on the floor, too shy to look at him,
but when she was done she glanced up and found him staring. There
was hunger in his green eye, it seemed to her, and fury in the
black. Sansa did not know which scared her more.
“You’re a child,” he said.
She covered her breasts with her hands. “I’ve
flowered.”
“A child,” he repeated, “but I want you. Does
that frighten you, Sansa?”
“Yes.”
“Me as well. I know I am ugly—”
“No, my—”
He pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t lie, Sansa. I
am malformed, scarred, and small,
but . . . ” she could see him groping
“ . . . abed, when the candles are blown
out, I am made no worse than other men. In the dark, I am the
Knight of Flowers.” He took a draught of wine. “I am
generous. Loyal to those who are loyal to me. I’ve proven
I’m no craven. And I am cleverer than most, surely wits count
for something. I can even be kind. Kindness is not a habit with us
Lannisters, I fear, but I know I have some somewhere. I could
be . . . I could be good to you.” He is as frightened as I am, Sansa realized. Perhaps that should
have made her feel more kindly toward him, but it did not. All she
felt was pity, and pity was death to desire. He was looking at her,
waiting for her to say something, but all her words had withered.
She could only stand there trembling.
When he finally realized that she had no answer for him, Tyrion
Lannister drained the last of his wine. “I understand,”
he said bitterly. “Get in the bed, Sansa. We need to do our
duty.”
She climbed onto the featherbed, conscious of his stare. A
scented beeswax candle burned on the bedside table and rose petals
had been strewn between the sheets. She had started to pull up a
blanket to cover herself when she heard him say,
“No.”
The cold made her shiver, but she obeyed. Her eyes closed, and
she waited. After a moment she heard the sound of her husband
pulling off his boots, and the rustle of clothing as he undressed
himself. When he hopped up on the bed and put his hand on her
breast, Sansa could not help but shudder. She lay with her eyes
closed, every muscle tense, dreading what might come next. Would he
touch her again? Kiss her? Should she open her legs for him now?
She did not know what was expected of her.
“Sansa.” The hand was gone. “Open your
eyes.”
She had promised to obey; she opened her eyes. He was sitting by
her feet, naked. Where his legs joined, his man’s staff poked
up stiff and hard from a thicket of coarse yellow hair, but it was
the only thing about him that was straight.
“My lady,” Tyrion said, “you are lovely, make
no mistake, but . . . I cannot do this. My
father be damned. We will wait. The turn of a moon, a year, a
season, however long it takes. Until you have come to know me
better, and perhaps to trust me a little.” His smile might
have been meant to be reassuring, but without a nose it only made
him look more grotesque and sinister. Look at him, Sansa told herself, look at your husband, at all of
him, Septa Mordane said all men are beautiful, find his beauty,
try. She stared at the stunted legs, the swollen brutish brow, the
green eye and the black one, the raw stump of his nose and crooked
pink scar, the coarse tangle of black and gold hair that passed for
his beard. Even his manhood was ugly, thick and veined, with a
bulbous purple head. This is not right, this is not fair, how have
I sinned that the gods would do this to me, how?
“On my honor as a Lannister,” the Imp said, “I
will not touch you until you want me to.”
It took all the
courage that was in her to look in those mismatched eyes and say,
“And if I never want you to, my lord?”
His mouth jerked as if she had slapped him.
“Never?”
Her neck was so tight she could scarcely nod.
“Why,” he said, “that is why the gods made
whores for imps like me.” He closed his short blunt fingers
into a fist, and climbed down off the bed.