Author's notes: takes place directly after their marriage in A Storm of Swords. Ser Dontos was killed by Joffrey in A Clash of Kings. I have borrowed quotes from Martin several times here. Anything you recognize is his, not mine. I am but a humble fan who makes no profit off her silly stories.

Bright light streamed through the diamond-paned windows. Sansa sat up slowly. She was alone in the large bed, naked except for the moonstones around her neck. Her head was pounding. She reached up to rub her temples, and tried to smooth her matted hair. Blinking in the harsh light of a midmorning sun, she tried to recall the previous night. My wedding night, she thought. It was nothing like she'd imagined her wedding would be. Her husband was supposed to be tall, and handsome, and strong. The Imp hadn't even been able to wrap the bride's cloak about her shoulders without a boost. She wasn't supposed to cry through the ceremony, or suffer threats from her former betrothed. They hadn't even led the dance. That had been left to Joffrey and Margaery. Her husband had preferred to sit by himself and drink.

She looked around the bedchamber that had been granted them for the night. Her wedding gown, all white silk and silver-gray lace, lay tangled in a heap on the floor. A chair had been knocked on its side, the Imp's black and gold doublet strewn across it. What had happened after they had retired to their chambers? Sansa furrowed her brow, trying to remember. Her head hurt so much, it was difficult to think. She was sore between her legs, too, and the sheets felt curiously damp beneath her.

She remembered a flagon of fine Arbor gold. They had had it refilled at least twice in an attempt to make the night easier. Sansa hadn't really known what was supposed to happen after the wedding feast. All her mother had told her was that her lord husband would perform the act, she need only lie back. Tyrion hadn't moved. So Sansa had tried to be brave. She put her hand on his thigh. For a moment he just looked at her. Then he had leaned in to kiss her. She remembered closing her eyes, and the smell of the wine on his breath. His chain of rubies had been heavy and cold in her hand when she had removed it. The wine had made her clumsy, and she had knocked over a chair when she had risen to move to the bed. She had kicked off her doeskin slippers, and started to undo her laces. She remembered his small hands tangled in her hair, and the shadows the candles had cast over his scarred face. Sansa had turned away from him when he tried to hold her after.

She was now a woman wedded and bedded, wife to Tyrion Lannister. And not even the High Septon himself could set it aside.
****************************************

Sansa did not see her husband again until that evening, when they supped together in their new apartments above the Kitchen Keep. She did not know what to say, so she kept her eyes on her plate. Unbidden, her thoughts turned to her mother. Would she ever see her again? Would Lady Catelyn even want her daughter back, now that she was wed to the enemy? Sansa felt tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes.

"Sansa?"

Startled by the sudden sound, she jumped a little in her seat. "Yes, my lord?" She would not have him see her tears, so she forced them away.

"Tyrion. My name is Tyrion."

"Tyrion," she repeated. "What did you say, my lord? I missed it."

He studied her with mismatched eyes. She thought there may have been concern in the green eye, but she couldn't read the black. Finally he said, "You do not eat."

She reddened under his scrutiny and dropped her eyes to her salad. "I am not hungry, my lord."

"Sansa," he said again. "Look at me."

Sansa looked. Her husband was sitting in front of the western window. The setting sun had turned his pale blond hair a bright gold, touched with red. His wild tangle of a beard had been neatly trimmed. His garments would have been quite handsome on another man, and he wore a gold ring wrought in the shape of a lion clenching a ruby between its jaws. But nothing could hide his bulging brow, or his queer eyes, and his beard did little to distract from the enormous facial scare he had gained on the Blackwater. The stump where his nose had been was red and raw. He was still the ugliest man Sansa had ever seen. How had she sinned to deserve this?

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he said, "I know I am ugly-"

"No, my lord," she started to protest.

"Don't lie to me, Sansa. I know I am ugly. I am small, malformed, and scarred." He took a draught of wine. "But in the dark, I am no different from other men. In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers. 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." He smiled cynically at that. His face grew somber again as he continued, "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."

Could he be as frightened of this marriage as she was? Sansa knew he was waiting for a reply, but she could think of nothing to say to him. When he saw she had no answer, he simply said, "I see." He poured another cup of wine. Sansa picked at the skin of her duck. It had gone cold, and sat in a pool of congealing grease.

Nights were fast becoming a torture for Tyrion, and this one was no different. The candles had been blown out before he entered the bedchamber. His wife was already abed, blankets pulled firmly up to her chin. Moonlight flooded the room, and bathed her in soft silvery light. Tyrion undressed quickly and donned a linen sleeping shift. He could no longer bear to sleep naked, as had been his custom. The revulsion was plain in Sansa's eyes whenever she chanced to look upon his body. He knew she did her utmost to avoid looking on him at all.

When Tyrion climbed into bed, he brushed against his wife's back for the briefest of moments. She stiffened, and moved discreetly away. This was the wife they had given him, for the rest of his life, and she hated him. Nothing could make him fair in her eyes, or any less a Lannister. I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. He smiled bitterly to himself. Yes, and I want to be as tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too, for all the bloody good it does.

He thought of Shae. He had wanted to tell her of his marriage himself, but she had already known.

"Some page was telling Ser Tallad about it when I took Lollys to the sept. He had it from this serving girl who heard Ser Kevan talking to your father. I don't care." Shae pulled her dress over her head. "She's only a little girl. You'll give her a big belly and come back to me."

Some small part of him had hoped for less indifference. Had hoped, he jeered bitterly, but now you know better, dwarf. Indifference is the best you can ever hope to get. Varys was right. He had acted a complete fool. For what? For love? Shae had never loved him. She had loved his gold, she had loved the silks and jewels he had given her. He would dismiss her on the morrow. Return the pretty things she loved so much as payment for her services, and send her away.