In the months following their wedding, Tyrion and Sansa formed a delicate amicability. He wouldn't use the word friendship but it was more intimate than an acquaintanceship. A familiarity, he thought. He was familiar with how radiant she looked in her sleep clothes, brushing her long, crimson hair until it shone. He was familiar with her tastes for food, clothes, books, and music. Lemon cakes were her favorite and he made sure the cook made them frequently. He was familiar with her rare smiles and even rarer laughs that he had yet to coax out of her with his usual witty repartee, but others usually Lady Margaery or Podrick could. He was familiar with the shape of her form under the blanket and the weight of her in the bed she insisted they share after a fortnight on the settee had nearly crippled him. He was familiar with the tears she shed silently late in the night when she imagined him asleep that had become a nightly occurrence after the horror at the Twins which was now being labeled the "Red Wedding."
But mostly she was an enigma. A gossamer manifestation in the shape of a young woman that he had as great a chance of reaching as a spirit.
Her scar was healing, the only true secret of their marriage. Shae had been the only other person that knew, but not to the full extent. Tyrion had ended their relationship the day before he married Sansa to Shae's displeasure. She didn't understand why, if he was sending Sansa away, they couldn't be together. Or why she couldn't go with them to the Rock and continue to be his mistress. She just didn't understand his strange devotion to the child bride that despised him. He had booked her passage to Braavos and hoped that was that.
But Tyrion knew that his job was to protect Sansa, which was only reinforced by his soulmark for the third time in his life blazing the work Wife across his skin as he cloaked his young bride. Despite all appearances, he had only drunk enough wine to be half as inebriated as he pretended because deep into his second flagon, Bronn had sidled up to him whispering in a clipped tone of the threats Joffrey had made to Sansa of forcing his way into her bed.
Tyrion had stopped drinking after that.
Their wedding night consisted of a barred door, a stilted conversation, a promise, and a rejection. But that night Tyrion dreamt of his mother, his head in her lap as she gently ran her fingers through his hair. She whispered in his ear that she was proud of him and he was doing just as the Gods intended for his new bride. It wasn't the loving embrace one would hope for on their wedding night, but gave him a sense of joy and calm that everybody else that saw him assumed was from taking his husbandly rights with his nubile young wife.
Sansa's wrist injury had been explained as a minor burn in the days before her wedding, that required a bandage. To cover it up the rest of the time Tyrion had custom made soulmark covering bracelets, a not uncommon practice among arranged marriages where one or both partners had a soulmark. On the outside they were embroidered with the Lannister Lion and bejeweled in red and gold. On the inside they were made of the softest leather, so as not to irritate her self inflicted scar, and to her great surprise an intricately embroidered Direwolf sigil of House Stark.
Her husband was a thoughtful man like that. Always bringing her small gifts, a book, some colorful thread, or a sweet from the market. She thought at first he was trying to ingratiate himself so she would agree to consummate the union. But the gifts were left without comment, he neither waited or expected any sort of thanks. He did these things simply to please her. In turn she did her best to be a dutiful wife as trained by her mother and Septa. She arranged their meals, kept track of their social engagements, and even mended his clothing (although the maids insisted that this was their job.)
She found in time, she didn't even notice his dwarfism anymore. Instead she noticed other things like the furrow of his brow when he was deep in thought or the quirk of a lip when his book amused him. She noticed the tightness around his eyes when his legs pained him and the gratitude he displayed when she brought him liniments or ordered a hot bath for him on those days. She noticed the surprising amount of warmth his small body generated in their bed and how tempting it was to be drawn towards it as the weather started to change.
He was just simply Tyrion now. Her husband. A kind, considerate man that wouldn't hurt her. A rare thing she was beginning to think in this world.
Too bad he was a Lannister.
True to his word, Tyrion had arranged for them to go to the Rock after the wedding. He owed it both to Joffrey's untoward behaviour towards Sansa, and his Aunt's scheming. She had insisted that Tywin needed to come home and deal with some matters she was ill equipped to take care of. Since Tyrion knew there was literally nothing Gemma couldn't handle, he went along with the plan and made a show of reluctantly agreeing to go in Tywin's stead. Mace Tyrell would take over as Master of Coin which would ensure some Highgarden gold ended up in the King's coffers. It was all together a pleasing plan that Tywin believed he came up with all on his own.
When he told Sansa they were to go by ship to Lannisport with stops in both Sunspear to visit with Myrcella and the Arbor to visit the vineyards, she gave him the first genuine smile of their marriage. It was akin to the first warm sunny day of spring after a long dark winter. Tyrion hoped he would see many more in the months to come and selfishly he hoped that he could be the cause of a few. He intended to keep his promise to her, to help her find the soulmate she no longer believed in. But he couldn't help his own feelings for his lovely, brave, young wife that were becoming more complicated by the day.
Tyrion's only regret was leaving his brother, so recently returned to the family fold. He had appeared in the capital emaciated, bedraggled, minus a hand, and accompanied by a woman so statuesque she must be a descendant of Ser Duncan the Tall. Tyrion was the only other person who knew the truth of Jaime's soulmark saying Warrior Woman and he couldn't help but wonder if this woman was one in the same. But between the life changing injury and his tense relationship with Cersei, Tyrion knew better than to interfere. Jaime was on his own journey.
It was with an air of excitement, that Tyrion and Sansa packed their belongings. Their ship would depart with the outgoing tide that evening while the King was elsewhile occupied with his own new bride. Tyrion figured they would be well past Tarth before Joffrey began to notice they were gone.
By nightfall they'd be gone from this dreadful place.
He would only be half right on that score.
The royal wedding was an all day affair and with the prospect of being away from this vile place by the next morning, it felt all the longer to Sansa. She already had a headache by the time they reached the feast and her scar, long healed, had begun to itch like mad. She longed for the evening when it would be just her and Tyrion on the ship in the privacy of their quarters and she could remove the bracelet for the night.
It was a peculiar thought, she realized, to look forward to spending alone time with the husband she hadn't wanted. He had mentioned that they would only need to share a bed until they got to Casterly Rock where they would both be afforded their own quarters. She found herself not as initially thrilled about the prospect as she would have thought. It was oddly comforting to share a bed. The thought made her tummy flutter. She might never need to share a bed with Tyrion again. That was what she wanted...Wasn't it?
Nerves settled in her stomach as she picked at the 77 lavish courses the Tyrells had insisted upon. Tyrion's appetite mirrored her own. He looked as exhausted as she felt.
"Are you well my Lord?" she asked in genuine concern.
The tone of her voice must have surprised him as he looked somewhat shocked at her concern for him. Was she really that terrible of a wife? "I am well my Lady. Just somewhat tired as my dreams of late have been unsettling."
"I know what it's like to have bad dreams." Sansa replied.
"I know you do." Tyrion said and Sansa blushed feeling the intimacy of the moment. It was one thing to share a bed, another to acknowledge in the daylight the private goings on in that bed even if the subject was not of the carnal variety.
Sensing her discomfort he continued. "I dreamt of my mother. Not a bad dream, but I feel as if she was trying to tell me something. Something terribly important, but I can't recall what she said." He scratched at his own soulmark absentmindedly. "A warning perhaps? I'm not sure but I feel off. I'm sure it's just a bit of nerves and I'll feel better tonight." He said his eyes darting to Blackwater Bay where their luggage was being loaded on the Redwyne ship under the supervision of Podrick as they spoke,
Sansa felt it a bit queer for Tyrion to dream of his mother. Didn't she die in his birthing bed? But she knew what it was to dream of a mother who was gone. He reached his hand towards her slowly and she let him put his hand in hers. He smiled at her and she realized that Margaery was right, he really was a good looking man and she wouldn't trade her husband for Margaery's for all the gold in Westeros.
"Thank you for your concern Sansa." he said and the tone of his voice, gravelly and deep, said almost more than the words themselves at how touched he was by her simple words of care.
"Of course, my Lord. I am your wife and it is my duty to care for you." she said primly.
"Yes, of course. You are a fine and dutiful wife Sansa. I couldn't ask for better." Tyrion replied sincerely but some of the warmth had left his voice.
He started to pull his hand from hers, but she held in firmly. "More importantly you are my friend."
He looked shocked and pleased at her words and a smile lit up his face. "As you are mine." Tyrion said, causing Sansa to smile shyly.
Neither knew that this would be the last words they would exchange for years and the conversation would often haunt them both.
Tyrion held Sansa's hand through the entirety of the monstrous tableau of the War of the Five Kings portrayed by the dwarven actors. He knew the entire display was for his humiliation but he could care less about himself. However, the stricken look on Sansa's face as she watched her dead brother being mocked was more than he could bear.
So he fell into Joffrey's trap, and let the act provoke him even if it was not for the reasons the King had intended. Words fell sharply from his tongue awakening the boy king's ire. This was not the plan. They were supposed to keep a low profile and leave as quickly as they thought they could without being noticed.
It was only when Joffrey started choking that they realized how far their plan had gone off course. And also when both of their soulmarks blazed back to life.
The burning pain caused Sansa to unsnap the cuff as the word LEAVE screamed at her running vertically down her arm instead of across as it usually did, undeterred by the letters she had carved herself. Panic filled her as Ser Dontos grabbed her hand, the disgraced knight now fool whose life she saved who had so sweetly given her the necklace she wore now in gratitude. "If you want to live we have to leave." he implored her and she instinctively knew he was right as at the same moment Cersei started screaming for Tyrion to be arrested.
They ran sure-footed, swift, and quietly from the feast, Sansa wrapping her distinctive hair in a cloak the fool provided. They fled down deserted alleys and switchbacks as the bells tolled out and she knew they were sounding the alarm. They were looking for her.
He took them to a rowboat and urged her on board. She turned her head for one last look back at the city that had robbed her of everything. But in those final moments all she could think of was the husband she had abandoned. "Forgive me." she whispered into the fog as they rowed off to whatever destiny awaited her next.
Tyrion's soulmark had been less vehement than his wife's in that moment. All it had said was Watch. So he did. He watched his nephew choke to death and the blood pour from his nose. He watched himself pick up the wine cup, poisoned he could now conclude. He watched his sister turn to him, her eyes full of rage, screaming for his arrest. He watched his brother run to save his King, his nephew, his son. He watched his wife flee, without a glance back, leaving him behind. He watched the Gold Cloaks (the City Watch he mused to himself) slap manacles on his wrists and haul him to the Black Cells.
And because he was a Lannister, he was not taken to the darkest cells but one with a window on the bay. Where he watched as the moon rose, the ship that was to be the means of his and Sansa's escape sail over the horizon without either of them on board.
And thus his Watch was over.
