"Come now, wolf," Joffrey Baratheon hissed, "Time to be given away to your new husband."
The king snatched Sansa Starks arm, and gripped it like a vice. The girl winced, but only for a moment. She returned to the mask of the emotionless blank slate she became accustomed to, hiding her and pain. Sansa resolved not to weep, even through all of the torture she had suffered through at the hands of House Lannister.
She wanted to run, push her way through the crowd, escaping the sept. She envisioned herself running, until King's Landing appeared as a dot on the horizon. Winterfell would lay before her in no time, her mother, father, brothers, and even Arya would be at the gates to welcome her home. Her direwolf would bound into her open arms, and Sansa would bury her face in Lady's thick coat, breathing in the scent of the godswood, of home.
"Hurry now," Joffrey leaned in, and whispered gleefully, "We don't want to keep the man of your dreams waiting."
He yanked her arm, dragging her toward the altar. The girl stumbled, but found her footing, walking with the dignity and grace that would have made her septa so proud. All eyes turned toward her and their monster of a king, smirking like a pompous fool. It was a long walk.
I wish they would just kill me, then I could be with father again, she thought. Sansa swallowed back the lump forming in her throat, and kept her gaze steady, as she was lead toward the man whom she would soon be calling her lord husband.
Tyrion Lannister, stood beside the septon, dressed in the finest clothing Lannister gold could buy. None of this finery improved his appearance however; no matter how he adorned himself, Tyrion would always remain a brutish, stunted dwarf. The Battle of the Blackwater had only added to his unfortunate looks: a multitude of scars and a missing chunk of his nose.
He did not hide his displeasure over their arranged marriage. Before the ceremony began, on the steps of the sept, Tyrion explained himself to Sansa: how he had taken no part in their match, if she preferred marrying his cousin, Lancel, instead. Sansa knew it would make no difference which Lannister she wed, and insisted their union take place. Tyrion gave a solemn nod in reply, and headed inside, as Joffrey and his guards surrounded her.
Sansa had nowhere to turn; with her father executed, and her brother deemed a traitor to the crown, she had become a mere pawn, a prisoner of war. But she still held fast to that small flicker of hope, the vision of escaping into the past and having everything the way it used to be; a part of her could not let go of that fantasy. Run, run, run, run, run…
She stood before the grotesque half man, and the vows she had been perfecting since she was a little girl spilled forth. These words were never meant for a dwarf, they were meant for a proper man. My knight in shining armor…
The septon recited the blessings and the time came to remove the maiden's cloak. Joffrey stripped the cloak off of Sansa's back with flourish, and stepped aside. He would erase the Stark name from history, if he could, she thought, feeling more vulnerable without the direwolf sigil of her house. Tyrion held the replacement cloak of Lannister colors to drape over the shoulders of his new bride. She turned her back to him and waited. She now faced Joffrey, a devious grin creeping onto his face. Her heart hammered in her chest. Run, run, run, run, run…
She felt a tug at her skirts, but did not move. A few moments passed and then a sharper tug. Again, she refused to kneel. Stifled laughs could be heard, as Tyrion tugged for a third time.
"Uncle, it would seem as though you are having some difficulty cloaking the bride," Joffrey stated, as laughter now rippled through the onlookers.
"It would seem that way, your grace," Tyrion replied through gritted teeth, color rising up his face.
Sansa dropped to her knees, kneeling not for Tyrion, but to prevent Joffrey from receiving any satisfaction from a situation he had set up from the start. The king's expression morphed into a sneer, but he said nothing. Sansa, now cloaked in crimson and gold, stood and left the sept a Lannister.
Sansa Lannister sat rigid in her seat, showing no emotion. The feast had been carrying on for a few hours, with flowing wine, exuberant dancing, and raucous laughter filling the hall. The guests enjoyed themselves at the bride and groom's expense. Tyrion sat beside her, speaking only when requesting a refill of wine from a passing servant girl. He requested a whole carafe to himself, and the girl obliged. When not guzzling wine, he sat in silence, dour expression matched only by his father. Tywin Lannister would take the occasional glance over at Sansa, but did not speak a word.
Joffrey leered at her from the opposite end of the table, making obscene gestures, but nobody seemed to take notice. Cersei Lannister spoke a few words, grasped her his hands and placed them down on the table. Mother and son stared at Sansa, smirk plastered across both of their faces.
Sansa knew it would soon be time for the bedding and another way for the Lannisters to assert their authority. The thought of being stripped by these drunken men, and carried off to her marital bed, was almost too much for her to bear. Her heart started pounding again and that all too familiar lump in her throat had returned.
"It is time for the moment you've all been waiting for!" Joffrey announced, as he rose from the table, "It's time for the bedding!"
Hollering and whistling erupted, and Sansa froze, lungs seizing in her chest. Run, run, run, run, run…
"There will be no bedding…"
"Come now, gentlemen! I am sure she cannot wait to that dress off!"
"There will be no bedding."
"Ladies, I apologize for my uncle's monstrous appearance-"
"THERE WILL BE NO FUCKING BEDDING!"
The dagger slammed down in a flash, point buried into the oak table, and quivered where it struck. The hall fell silent.
Before Joffrey could sputter out a response, Tyrion jumped down from his seat and grabbed Sansa's forearm.
"Come, wife," he shouted, slightly slurring his words, "Time for me to smash your portcullis."
As he dragged his wife away to their martial bed, no one dared to follow.