The bitter winds whipped through the encampment as the daylight hours began to wane. A raven soared overhead, swooping through a makeshift prison cell where a guard stood, particularly annoyed by the prisoner's rambling, and into the charcoal grey tent. Lady Catelyn took a scroll from the bird's leg and read it over.

Lady Catelyn Stark,
It is with the greatest pleasure that I, Lord Tywin Lannister, do hereby announce, on behalf of the Lannister family, the wedding of Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock to the woman whose words are marked into his flesh, binding their souls for all eternity, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This union should prove to be most fruitful and the happy couple is to be wed at once. It will be a joyous occasion to behold. She truly is a lovely girl and it will be a joy to have such an innocent, bright young thing in our pride. Sansa Lannister will truly be a happy addition, as will any heirs she will bring us.
Regards,
Lord Tywin Lannister

Over and over, she read the letter. Over and over, she tried to put together just what he was playing at. And then she remembered one day on the road to the vale and the kindness she'd been shown. How looking into her eyes gave Tyrion the grit to fight where she'd been too afraid; Her eyes that she had passed on to her daughter. She decided that it must have been true. Sansa must be Tyrion's soulmate. She broke into tears and bolted from the tent into the encampment.

Robb, who had seen the raven and been on his way to her stopped, seeing his mother's distress. "Mother, what is it?" he asked, grasping her by the arms to steady her.

"Sansa," she said, gesturing with the parchment. Her pause terrified him. "She's been married."

A sigh of relief escaped his lips. "You knew that was going to happen," he replied, trying to comfort her. They'd talked about this. They knew it was coming. He hated it and had done everything he could to stop it. He didn't like the boy from the start, but now... What could they do?

"Not to Joffrey," she cried, burying herself in his shoulder.

He pulled back, searching his mother's face for answers. "Then, who?"

Catelyn gulped, trying to lower her voice so that the prisoner and guard mightn't overhear. "Tyrion Lannister," she answered.

"The imp?" Robb barked, undoing his mother's intent entirely.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the muddy man pull against his post, trying to draw closer to their conversation, urging the guard to eavesdrop for him. She sighed, realizing she should have just killed him when she had the chance. "Indeed," she confirmed, drying her eyes.

"We need to-"

"No, Robb. We don't," she said, finally smiling. Her sobs had not been those of fear or anger or sadness, but relief. "She's... she'll be safe. I firmly believe that."

Bewildered, all he could manage was a frustrated "Why?"

"Because I know," she said, a sense of finality to her words coming off as more of a snap than she'd intended. Her stare softened, jarring her son emphatically. "She's safe. Robb, Sansa is safe. They can't hurt her."

"What are you-"

Catelyn sighed, smoothing the fur on the collar of his cloak. "Just after you saw him at Winterfell, I, perhaps, made an error in judgment." Placing her hands on his shoulders, she continued. "I imprisoned him, meaning to take him to task for Bran. He didn't do it, of course, I know that, now. But our party was attacked and he saved me. He said that my children needed me and that he would protect me, and Robb, he did. He looked me in the eyes and seemed so sure. A voice in my head was screaming at me to believe him. It must have been Sansa." She pulled him into a tight embrace, running her hands through his curls as she did when he was just a boy. "She's safe. She's loved and she's safe," she whispered.

"Alright," he said, conceding to his mother. "So, we focus on Arya, then."

The wedding of Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock and Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell was set to be quite the event, even at its hurried pace. The Lords and Ladies of Court all seemed absolutely beguiled by the fact that a girl as sweet as Sansa was the soulmate of the dreaded Imp. There wasn't much time for gossip to grow, though, and on the morning of the wedding, no one could deny the charge in the air.

As expected, the couple were spotted surreptitiously trying to catch a glimpse of each other the whole morning. Lady Sansa seemed nervous, but all of her handmaidens claimed that it was more of the crowd and the fuss than the impending marriage. If she could just see him pass by, she'd be able to focus on the fact that she was marrying a man who truly cared. What she didn't tell them was that she'd spend so much time dreading marrying Joffrey, she was having trouble getting through all of the preparations without lapsing back into the fear that it would be the King waiting for her.

Lord Tyrion, likewise, was on edge. For him, it was the very real fear that someone was playing an elaborate practical joke on him, and they had put Sansa up to this, or worse, harm her. He didn't trust his father as far as he could throw him, especially having heard his father's plans for what he had intended to do if Tyrion had married one of the whores he'd bedded frequently in his youth. Were Sansa to just cross in front of the window, he'd be able to see that all was well and settle his anxieties. The Gods, or perhaps the royal family, seemed largely opposed to this, though, as they weren't even in the same buildings. When Tyrion reached the sept, he was quickly ushered inside.

A few minutes later, when Sansa and her ladies arrived, the girls were brought in, but Sansa was made to wait on the steps of the sept. She focused on the door, trying desperately to block out the echoes of the last time she'd stood in the square, some months prior. The only thing she wanted to hear at the moment from the ghostly voice of Ned Stark was that she was going to be alright, that Tyrion was a good, strong man and that he approved. If she looked back at the statue of Baelor, she wanted to be able to see Arya at his feet, heading toward her, telling her how beautiful she looked and that she'd give Tyrion a lesson in Needle work if he ever hurt her. But that wasn't going to happen, so instead, the door would be her focus. Inside of the sept awaited Tyrion. If she could just force herself to get through this part.

The great blue doors swung open to reveal King Joffrey's conniving smile and Sansa had to fight not to flee. She took a step forward and whispered, "What are you doing?"

Tyrion's heart leaped at the sight of her. She was beautiful and here and, as he suddenly realized, trapped by her tormentor. He clenched his teeth, ready to make a dash for him if he so much as looked at her in an untoward manner.

Knowing exactly what he'd done, and having gotten the reaction he'd wished for, the monarch smiled threateningly, "Well, you have no father, Aunt Sansa," he reminded her. "As Father of the Realm, it is my duty to give you away."

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said, voice cold as ice and sharp as steel.

He offered an arm to her which she diffidently took, if only to have him no longer in front of her face, granting her the glimpse of Tyrion she'd waited for all morning. "You'd do well to remember this kindness," he sneered. "Perhaps I'll make a final visit to your chambers tonight, if you find he's not enough man for you, we'll make sure he knows how to make you behave. I'm not yet a married man and would only be too happy to make a cuckold of the old imp."

"I am loyal only to Lord Tyrion, Your Grace," she said, finally glad to make such a statement freely and honestly, even if this time, it was accompanied by the most snarling tone she could manage.

They moved down the aisle, Sansa fighting her every urge to slough him off and bolt to Tyrion's side. She caught a glance of Margaery at the front of the crowd, smiling encouragingly, then locked eyes on Tyrion who hadn't looked away from her once. She gave him a shy, grateful smile which he returned, nodding. When she finally reached the front of the sept, she took a deep breath and swallowed hard. This was it.

In one parting blow, King Joffrey reached down and removed the stool that had been meant to make it easier for Tyrion to reach Sansa for the ceremony. He was mortified and looked up at Sansa apologetically. She smiled, giving a small shake of her head as if to say, 'Don't worry.'

The High Septon cleared his throat. "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," he prompted in a booming voice. Without a second thought, Sansa knelt before her husband, the skirt of her golden gown pooling around her legs, and cast an encouraging nod to him over her shoulder. He smiled, letting his fingers rest a moment too long on her shoulders before she rose to her feet, offering her hand to him instinctively. Any fear Tyrion may have had about this being a practical joke flew out the window with her gesture. In that smallest of gestures, he found hope that maybe she might care for him, too, or at least grow to, someday. "My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. Let it be known that Lady Sansa of House Stark and Lord Tyrion of House Lannister are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Tyrion led their paired hands forward, allowing them to be bound by the Septon's white ribbon. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity." The pair took a few sideways glances at one another, hearts racing as they waited for the High Septon to finish undoing the ribbon that signified their metaphorical ties. "Look upon each other and say the words," he guided.

When they finally turned to one another, Sansa finally calmed. This was it. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," they said in unison. "I am his," Sansa started, realizing for the first time that there was no one else in all of Westeros to whom she'd rather be saying these words. Even if she didn't love him, she knew that she could, at least, be happy with him.

"And she is mine," he said, tears welling in his eyes as he spoke the words to her that he'd never thought he'd say to anyone, least of all his soulmate. "From this day, until the end of my days," they vowed together. Sansa smiled and knelt once more, unprompted. "With this kiss," he said, grasping her hands a little tighter, "I pledge my love." He leaned forward, kissing her rather chastely. The butterflies in her tummy went wild as the celebrants applauded their union. She beamed, rising up. Tyrion thought to himself that he could only hope to make her feel more a queen at his side than she ever could have at the Kings. She certainly radiated the part to him.

The carriage ride from the Sept to the Keep was brief, but it granted Tyrion and Sansa their first moments alone as man and wife. They sat for a moment in stunned silence before she started working through the words that kept banging around in her mind.

Sansa turned to Tyrion and opened her mouth for just the sparsest of times before saying, "We're married," as if she'd only just realized what the huge ceremony implied.

Heart jumping at the thought, Tyrion kept his expression even, not wanting to scare her with his enthusiasm. "We are," he confirmed.

"You are my husband," she said, marveling at the thought. She still hadn't quite grasped the immensity of the process, but hearing herself say the words ignited some excitement in her that she hadn't expected to be there so soon.

"It appears so," he answered, lifting his brow slightly and nodding. He could scarcely believe it. Tyrion rested his hand atop hers, between them on the seat. "You are my wife."

His gentle touch sent a chill up her arm. If memory served, this was the first time they'd touched freely. He'd offered a helping hand, a polite greeting, she'd treated the wound on his face and offered a steeling grasp as he'd recovered, they'd dutifully performed their marriage rites, but this was different. This was new. Casual and intimate and lovely. "So it seems," she said, absently tracing her thumb along the outside of his hand. There were so many things she wanted to say, but she didn't want to chance any of them upsetting the mood, so she settled on a brief, whispered, "Thank you."

"For what?" he asked.

Sansa inched closer to him, carefully moving her fingers to catch his between them. "For saving me."

Shaking his head, Tyrion gazed at her softly. "I should be the one thanking you."

"Why?" she asked, baffled. In her mind, she'd done absolutely nothing deserving of any gratitude.

"I would never have..." he said, going over his thoughts carefully. "They forced you to bend the knee, Sansa. That's not what marriage is." Seeing her shake her head beside him, he continued. "Perhaps to some men, but not me. Not with you."

Heart aching for him, Sansa reeled at the thought that what she did was so bewildering and seemingly troubling to him. "I knelt out of devotion. Isn't that what taking the knee is at its core?"

"Yes, but-"

"Who better to be devoted to than my husband?" she said, eyeing him seriously. "I didn't kneel to pledge my submission to a King. I knelt to prove that I was willing to work with you to mold this marriage into something that's ours. No matter what came before, it's you that I'm loyal to." She leaned her head against his shoulder and Tyrion would have sworn his heart stopped.

"Gods, I want to kiss her," he thought, resisting the urge in his desire to let her set the pace. Still, he couldn't shake the desire. "She is my wife and oh, gods, do I want to kiss her."

Sansa gazed at him expectantly for a moment before beginning to survey parts of his face she'd never been close enough to notice before, thinking, "That was an invitation to kiss me, Tyrion," she thought, looking carefully at the strong lines of his hard set jaw. She didn't love him. No, definitely not, but she was bound and determined to be the best wife she could be. And he was kind and gentle and inspired all sorts of feelings within her that they now had all the time in the world to discover. But it wasn't love.

In King's Landing, the wedding feast was as much a part of the wedding as the ceremony itself. The revelry was to be second to none, Sansa was assured. After receiving their guests and hearing speeches in their honor, the couple sat at the head table, talking quietly with one another. Sansa was seated to her Tyrion's left, a custom indicating the nearness of the bride to the groom's heart. She supported her weight on her right elbow, her left leg draped over her right toward Tyrion, blocking herself off from the crowd, focusing only on him. Noting that Tyrion was drinking more from his water goblet than his wine, Sansa stated, impressed, "You're not drinking."

"Neither are you," he said, raising an eyebrow as he gestured to her untouched wine. He knew she wasn't much for the drink, but he'd expected any woman forced into marrying him would want to be as drunk as possible. "I want to remember this, Sansa."

She leaned closer to him, lowering her voice. "But... when you were talking to your father, you seemed-"

"He expects certain things of me," he sighed, remembering the contents of their earlier conversation. "It's easier, sometimes, to let him talk. Especially when he doesn't seem to understand the implications of what he's saying." Somehow, despite the heft of his words, his expression remained calm and gentle.

"Interesting," she said, taking his words as advice for handling her new father-in-law. She took his hand in hers, drawing his attention to her. "Tyrion, I just wanted to-"

Sansa didn't have a chance to finish her thought as Joffrey left his seat, addressing the crowd. "My Lords. My Ladies. The hours grow late. It appears that my Aunt and Uncle grow weary of our continued presence," he said, gesturing toward their modestly intimate posture. "It is time, I think, for the bedding ceremony!" he cheered.

"There will be no bedding ceremony," Tyrion said, voice low as a first warning.

Joffrey bounced on his heels, strutting in front of them performatively. "Oh, come now, Uncle. Your passionate declaration, the rush to wed, clearly you're in a rush to get to this part," he said, licking his lips as his eyes flicked to Sansa. She gripped Tyrion's hand tighter. She hadn't realized this was to happen so soon. Her mouth dried as she imagined what was to come next. "Come now, lads, dispense with her gown. She won't be needing it much-"

Stiffening in his chair, Tyrion repeated louder and stronger than before. "There will be no bedding ceremony."

"There will be if I command it," Joffrey barked.

With a loud bang, Tyrion brought his free hand to the table in a fist, clattering some glasses upon the surface with the jolt. "Then you'll be fucking your own bride with a wooden cock," he said, picking up the dinner knife by his hand and pointing it at him menacingly.

"What did you say?" the king said, quietly, a little startled by his uncle's second threatening outburst in a week. He grew more and more angry with every passing beat of silence. "What did you say?"

From where he stood at the end of the table speaking to a seemingly impressed Lady Olenna Tyrell, Lord Tywin stepped in. "I think, given the circumstances, we can all rest assured that the bedding will happen, Your Grace. Your Uncle is very drunk," he said, narrowing his eyes at his grandson before casting a sidelong glance to his son.

Catching his breath, Tyrion finally let out a dark laugh, switching effortlessly into the role of The Drunken Imp, leaving Sansa's head spinning at the sudden change. "Indeed, your grace," he slurred, "very drunk indeed. I wouldn't dream to threaten The Family Jewels. But, as you've so nobly pointed out," he added, giving Sansa's hand a squeeze before sliding out of his chair and gesturing for her to follow, "I do have the most beautiful young woman in all the seven kingdoms to attend to and my own impish needs to be met so perhaps, My Lady, we should to bed." She nodded obediently and fell in behind. He paused, waiting for her to catch up and offering his arm to her which she hesitantly accepted. "I can tell you of all of my shortcomings. That should certainly set the tone," he laughed, face showing not the slightest trace of humor.

The couple walked in silence back to their chambers. Sansa didn't understand. What had just happened? Tyrion had spared her the bedding ceremony when that was the part of the wedding all men eagerly awaited. She was terrified of it but had resigned to the hope that nothing Tyrion would do to her could possibly have been worse than what she'd already endured at Joffrey's hands. As they stepped inside and shut the door, she turned to him, bewildered. "Why did you do that?"

"Would you have rather the alternative?" Tyrion asked, truly baffled by her. Had she expected that to occur? "Sansa, it's a barbaric custom. I've already told you, I will never hurt you." He closed the distance between them, taking her hand and guiding her inside. "This afternoon, you knelt before me and I wrapped you in my protection. I will not share your bed this night. Or any night if you do not wish it."

Sansa was stunned. "Why not? You want to," she asked, avoiding his eyes and worrying her hands.

Tyrion drew his lips into an understanding frown. "You don't."

"But you do," she shrugged, withdrawing her hands to begin undoing the laces on her dress. "You are my husband," she said. The back of her gown opened, revealing her shoulders and she let the heavy fabric slough off of her until she stood in naught but her slip. "It is your right." She stepped to the bed and turned to face him, a petrified look in her eyes. "It is my duty," she said, voice cold and unfeeling as she moved her hand to undo the shift as well.

"Sansa, please stop," Tyrion urged, taking her hand in his to stay her. "Listen to me. No man has a right to your body," he insisted, leading her to the bed and motioning for her to sit while he stood before her, eyes locked on hers. "In any way. No matter what you've been led to believe."

She could hear the King's threat ringing in her ears. She knew perfectly well that he was likely to make good on his words and the thought frightened her. Tyrion didn't need to know all of that. It would only hurt him. But if Joffrey were to stop by, and with how angry he'd been at Tyrion's threats, she could only imagine how badly he'd hurt her this time. Shrinking into her panic, Sansa shifted uncomfortably, feeling very exposed. She needed to convince him, no matter how much she didn't truly want it. "But you love me. And we're-"

"No," Tyrion said, tone flat and final.

Voice raising in pitch alone out of an urgent sense of flustered desperation, fearing the worst should they not, Sansa replied. "Your father said that the bedding would happen and-"

Groaning in frustration at the situation and the level of discomfort he felt at the discussion of his Lord Father, he growled. "If my father is so desperate for someone to get fucked tonight, I'll tell him exactly where he can start." Sansa jolted. A stunned silence washed over her. Taking a deep breath, Tyrion continued. "I would rather the Gods strike me down right here and now than impose upon you any further." He stepped back, granting her space to take in his intent. "I will not share your bed. Not until you want me to."

After a few moments, she finally asked, realizing fully that he was giving her the chance to take over control of how she felt about her part in their marriage. It would take time, she thought, but it could be nice. "What if I never want you to?" she asked, mind fleeing to the worst case scenario for both of them. It wasn't that she didn't want him. She didn't know him well enough to say that. But after Joffrey, she wasn't sure that she would find herself particularly willing to invite any man into her bed, no matter how kind, or caring, or devoted, or charming.

"And so my watch begins," Tyrion answered in resignation, thinly veiled behind his sardonic wit, bowing his head to match the solemnity of the Night's Watch.

The newlyweds readied for sleep. He headed dutifully to the settee, she solemnly to the bed. She lay there for a long time as the silence threatened to suffocate her.

Eventually, Sansa had to say something. "Tyrion?" she said, voice soft and low.

Jarred from his own thoughts, Tyrion propped himself on his elbows, struggling to see in the dark. "Yes, Sansa?" Hearing her stir and rise from the bed, he followed her silhouetted form's path as she stopped beside him.

"Goodnight, husband," she said, leaning across him and hugging him gently.

She was afraid it might have been too forward, too much too soon, until he sat up, returning the embrace tightly. "Sleep well, wife," he said fondly as she retreated across the room, both able to find sleep shortly after.