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One day more! Any theater nerds out there? I'm singing One Day More from Les Mis as I post this chapter. "One more day before the storm!"

Chapter Fifty-One: The Stark Who Knelt

Davos

His mind was reeling. So much had happened in the last hour that it was impossible to wrap his head around it all. No more than an hour before he had been sitting in his cell, sure that any day now his King would order his death. Instead Stannis had sent for him and introduced him to a boy who looked much like the old King Robert. He had the same dark hair, the same silver grey eyes. There was no doubt that the boy was a bastard son of Stannis' brother.

Davos had asked his King why the boy was at Dragonstone, but his king had no answer for him, at least not yet.

Instead he had made Davos kneel before him and when he rose he was no longer, Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight. He rose as Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the King.

Surely this was a mistake, Davos thought, stunned. I woke this morning in his dungeon. "Your Grace, you cannot ... I am no fit man to be a King's Hand."

"There is no man fitter," Stannis told him, sheathing his sword Lightbringer. He held his hand down to Davos and pulled him to his feet.

"I am lowborn," Davos reminded him, in case the king had forgotten. "An upjumped smuggler. Your lords will never obey me."

"Then we will make new lords," Stannis promised him.

"But ... I cannot read ... nor write."

"Maester Pylos can read for you. And write too. All I ask of you are the things you've always given me. Honesty. Loyalty. Service."

"Surely there is someone better ... some great lord ..."

Stannis had snorted at that. He asked Davos who he would name for Stannis' Hand, but Davos could think of no one he trusted to give the king wise counsel. "I trust none of them as I trust you, my Lord of Rainwood," Stannis told him. "You will be my Hand. It is you I want beside me for the battle."

Another battle will be the end of us, Davos thought. "Your Grace asked for honest counsel," he reminded Stannis before he spoke his mind. "In honesty then ... we lack the strength for another battle against the Lannisters."

"It is the great battle His Grace is speaking of," a woman's voice answered him from behind. Davos did not need to turn to see who was speaking, he could hear it in the accents of the east. It was the Red Woman. She did not need him to turn to look at him though, she continued to speak. "These little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power, Davos Seaworth, a power fell and evil and strong beyond measure. Soon comes the cold and the night that never ends." She moved around him and picked up a small silver dish from the table in front of Davos. "Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire."

Davos kept his eyes on his King, but Stannis watched the Red Woman as she moved around him, carrying the silver dish in her hands. He heard her ask the young man, Gendry he believed Stannis had named the bastard boy, to sit down. There was a struggle, the sound of ripping fabric, the boy begged her not to touch him. Davos turned slightly, seeing the boy tied to his chair, his shirt torn from his chest. The Red Woman was lifting the lid of her silver dish when Stannis spoke again, pulling Davos' attention back to his King.

"She has shown it to me, Lord Davos. In the flames."

"You saw it, Sire?" Davos asked in surprise. It was not like his King to lie about something, especially not something like that.

"With mine own eyes," Stannis told him, nodding, his eyes not leaving the Red Woman over Davos' shoulder. "After the battle, when I was lost to despair, the Lady Melisandre bid me gaze into the hearthfire. I stared, feeling half a fool when she bid me look deeper, and ... all at once it seemed to me that I was watching snow fall. The sparks in the air seemed to circle, to become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down on some high hill in a forest. There were men in black behind the torches, shapes moving through the snow. For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered and when I did the sight was gone. The fire, but a fire again. But what I saw was real, I'd stake my kingdom on it."

"And have," Melisandre mused from behind them.

"I don't understand," Davos told his King, shaking his head. He did not know what Stannis meant for him to take from his story.

"It means that the battle is begun," Melisandre told him. "The sand is running through the glass more quickly now, and man's hour on earth is almost done. We must act boldly, or all hope is lost. Westeros must unite under her one true king, the prince that was promised, Lord of Dragonstone and chosen of R'hllor."

"R'hllor chooses queerly, then," Stannis grimaced. "Why me, and not my brothers? Renly and his peach. In my dreams I see that juice running from his mouth, the blood from his throat. If he had done his duty by his brother, we would have smashed Lord Tywin. A victory even Robert could be proud of. Robert ..." he shook his head, his jaw clenched, "He is in my dreams as well. Laughing. Drinking. Boasting. Those were the things Robert was best at. Those and fighting. I never bested him at anything. The Lord of Light should have made Robert his champion. Why me?"

"Because you are a righteous man," Melisandre told him.

Stannis nodded, a rueful twist to his lips, "A righteous man," he agreed, his tone bitter. "With leeches."

Davos raised his eyebrows as he turned again to see that the Red Woman had set three leeches to drink from the young man's chest. They looked normal enough, but they were already fat with his blood. "Yes," Melisandre agreed as she used a pair of tweezers to pluck one of the leeches from the boy's chest and drop it back into her silver dish. "But I must tell you once more, this is not the best way."

"You swore that it would work" Stannis reminded her. He looked angry.

"It will ... and it will not."

"Which?" he asked.

"Both," she answered.

"Speak sense to me, woman."

"When the fires speak more plainly, so shall I. There is truth in the flames, but it is not always easy to see. Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon."

"I have told you no."

"Only a King's blood can wake the stone dragon," the woman reminded him.

Stannis ground his teeth, "I have told you no. You have the leeches. Do your work."

Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, "As my King commands," she told him as she moved closer to the iron brazier in the center of the room. Davos and Stannis followed her. She reached her right hand up her left sleeve and when she pulled her hand free she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the Red Woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king.

Stannis reached forth a hand and closed his fingers around one of the leeches.

"Say the name," Melisandre commanded.

The leech was twisting in the king's grip, trying to attach itself to one of his fingers. "The usurper," he said. "Joffrey Baratheon." When he tossed the leech into the fire, it curled up like an autumn leaf amidst the coals and burned.

Stannis grasped the second. "The usurper," he declared, louder this time. "Balon Greyjoy." He flipped it lightly onto the brazier, and its flesh split and cracked. The blood burst from it, hissing and smoking.

The last one was in the king's hand. This one he studied a moment as it writhed between his fingers. This time when he spoke it was quieter, as if he regretted this name. "The usurper," he said at last. "Robb Stark." And he threw it on the flames.

Davos watched his King over the fire, he noted the gleam in his eyes. His own gaze flickered to the boy still tied to his chair. Davos did not know what sort of magic the Red Woman had just worked, he only knew that if it proved successful Stannis would use him again, and perhaps this time he would not use leeches.

The needed to get of Dragonstone to be safe. Davos would help him. He would do it tonight and face any consequences Stannis demanded in the morning.

-.-.-.-.-

Sansa

Cersei had ordered her a new gown. She had also ordered that the serving girls fill Sansa's tub with steaming hot water and scrub her head to tow until she glowed pink. The queen regent's own bedmaid trimmed her nails and brushed and curled her auburn hair so it fell down her back in soft ringlets. She was 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, under her chin, and then lightly on her nipples.

It all would have seemed like kind attention from the queen if it weren't for the fact that Sansa knew that Cersei was laughing at her. She would be the most beautiful, sweet smelling bride King's Landing had seen in many years and it would all be wasted on the Imp.

Tyrion, Sansa reminded herself to use his name. The man was not her ideal husband, but he was kind to her. A kind Lannister was a rarity and Sansa would not chase him away, even if she still hated him.

They had spent some time together since he had told her that they were to be married. It was awkward and strained, but there had been a few times when he had been able to make her laugh. But then she would remember who he was and her laughter would die on her lips. He was a Lannister. His family was trying to destroy her family. His nephew had beheaded her father and his sister had done nothing to stop it. She could not laugh with him without it being a betrayal to her family.

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 waist was so tight that she had to hold her breath when they laced her into it.

"You are very beautiful, my Lady," the seamstress told her.

Sansa nodded, smiling at her as was expected, though she did not feel beautiful. And she did not feel as a bride should feel on her wedding day. Instead of joy her stomach was in knots. Instead of wanting to sing, she wanted to throw up.

Cersei was more critical than the seamstress. She studied Sansa for a full minute before she announced that something was missing. "A few gems, I think. The moonstones Joffrey gave her."

"At once, Your Grace," Shae told her with a nod. Her jaw was clenched, Sansa knew that Shae did not like the queen and she was sure that her handmaiden knew just how uncomfortable she was with Cersei in her bedchamber.

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."

"Lord Tyrion is very kind," Sansa told the queen, her voice flat and cold.

Cersei snorted, "Indeed," she agreed. She looked over her shoulder at the seamstress, "The cloak," she ordered. Sansa stood tall and still as the woman brought it out: a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A fierce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. Sansa tried not to cry when she looked at the maiden's cloak, done out in her father's colors. She squared her shoulders and allowed the women to fasten it around her neck with a slender silver chain.

It felt heavy on her shoulders.

Heavy like her father's judgement if he could but see her agreeing to marry the Lannister Imp. Tears began to fill her eyes even as she tried to blink them away. Cersei watched her for a minute, "I understand your reluctance," she told Sansa. "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," Sansa whispered, for the first time speaking out against the marriage she did not want. She had not done so until this point, but it had not been until her maiden's cloak wrapped around her shoulders that she truly understood what marrying the Imp of Lannister meant.

"Of course we can," Cersei told her, reaching out to smooth some of the fabric on her shoulder. "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." She moved away from Sansa and opened the door to her bedchamber. Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Osmund Kettleback 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 thought of running, but the queen's handmaid caught her before she could, as if she had read her mind. Ser Meryn gave her a look that made her cringe, but Kettleback 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 thought to herself. She took a deep breath. I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave. They were all looking at her, waiting for her to cry or scream or run. She squared her shoulders, "I'll go," she told them.

Cersei smiled, "I knew you would."

She did not remember walking from her chamber to the doors of the Red Keep. She did not remember the litter that carried her from the Red Keep to the Sept of Baelor. But she would always remember the sadistic grin when she met Joffrey at the door of the Sept.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, her eyes wide with fear. She did not want to marry Tyrion, she believed that Joffrey would never choose her over Margaery, but she was suddenly filled with the fear that he might. That he might choose to marry her instead. Today. She would have nowhere to run if he did that.

Joffrey grinned at her, "Your father's gone," he told her. "As the Father of the Realm it is my duty to give you away to your husband." He grinned at her again, clearly enjoying himself as he held his arm out for her to take. She sighed, part relief, still part fear as she placed her hand on top of his and allowed him to slowly walk her down the aisle toward the alter that stood between the two tall statues of the Mother and the Father.

A bride always walked slowly to the alter, but it seemed that this walk was slower than most. Joffrey was parading her in front of the Lords and Ladies who had shown up to witness Sansa's humiliation. And there were a lot of them. The Tyrells, many members of House Lannister, many knights, both of the Kingsguard and from the Seven Kingdoms. It was not as large of a crowd as what would attend Joffrey and Margaery's wedding in a few month's time, but it was larger than most weddings she had been to.

Joffrey was quiet for the beginning of the walk down the aisle, but about halfway down he spoke, his voice a quiet whisper, "You shouldn't look so sad. My uncle is an ugly little thing, but you'll still have me."

Sansa turned her head sharply, looking away from the alter at the front of the sept to glare at Joffrey, "You'll be married to Margaery," she argued.

"A King can have other women. Whores. My father did. The Mad King did. One of the Aegons did too. The third one, or the fourth. He had lots of whores and lots of bastards. My uncle will bring you to my bed whenever I command it."

"He will not," Sansa hissed as she turned her head back to the front, as if she could catch Tyrion's eye and silently beg for him to march down the aisle and save her from Joffrey.

"He will, or I'll have his head," Joffrey promised her. He was silent for a moment, "Perhaps I won't wait until after you are married. You're from the North, they still practice the rite of First Night there, don't they?"

"That was outlawed," Sansa told him. "By one of the Dragon Kings."

"Perhaps I will make a special exception for you," Joffrey mused. "A King is allowed to do that after all."

Sansa remained silent, hoping that if she did not respond all his teasing would lose its fun. It seemed to work, he did not say another word as they continued their walk to the alter. As they approached the alter she looked at Tyrion, he would not meet her eye. Instead he turned away from her so that all she could see was his profile. Margaery had once told her that she found Lord Tyrion handsome. Sansa studied him now. She would not go as far as to call the man handsome, but compared to the king she was walking beside now, the dwarf was glorious. She would rather meet him at the alter than the man walking her to it at present.

What a stranger world she lived in now.

Tyrion and the High Septon stood at the top of the dais; Lord Tywin and Cersei a few steps below; Margaery, Loras, and Lady Olenna stood a few steps below them. Beside Tyrion stood a stool that he could stand on to be closer to Sansa's height. Sansa blushed at the thought that he would have to use it. She wished he did not need the stool.

As if reading her mind and hearing her wish, before he walked to stand between his mother and his grandfather Joffrey bent at the waist and grabbed the stool, carrying it down the steps with him.

He returned a moment later to unclasp her maiden's cloak. He did so from behind, his hands coming over her shoulder to fumble with the clasp. One of them brushed her beast and lingered to give it a little squeeze. She flinched. 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. "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," the High Septon commanded as Joffrey moved back to his spot, dropping the heavy Stark colored cloak on his uncle's stool as he did so.

The bride's cloak Tyrion held was huge and heavy, crimson velvet richly worked with lions and bordered with gold satin and rubies. Without his stool Tyrion stood a foot an a half shorter than Sansa. She felt guilty for wishing his stool away. If only she had wished him to be taller, rather than not have the stool.

When she was a girl 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.

This was not to happen at her wedding. She felt a tug on her skirts, and a moment later another one, more insistent than the first. He wanted her to kneel. I won't she thought stubbornly, as if his inability to cloak her would be enough to force this farce of a wedding to come to an end. She was a wolf, not a sheep. They could make her marry Tyrion Lannister, but she would not go so willingly as to kneel for him. 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 laughed the loudest, "Dontos, down on your hands and knees!" the king commanded as if there were not a stool directly behind him, one for this very purpose. "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.

He climbed down quickly and Dontos scurried away. But when Sansa turned to look at him his mouth was tight and his face was as red as her new cloak. She felt ashamed, he had not asked for this wedding. He had not forced her to be his bride. Tyrion was the only Lannister who had been kind to her and she had helped Joffrey humiliate him.

She had never felt such shame and guilt as she did in this moment.

And so, after the vows had been said and the prayers prayed, when it came time for the kiss, she smoothed her skirts and knelt in front of him so that their faces were on the same level before the king could call the fool back. Tyrion seemed surprised by her action, but Sansa could not bring herself to look at him for long. She felt shamed for humiliating him, but it did not ease her own humiliation at having to kneel to kiss her new husband.

"With his kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband," she told Tyrion, not quite looking him in the eye.

"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. Sansa forced herself not to cringe away from him.

The High Septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. "Here in the sight of the Gods and men," he spoke loud enough for everyone in the Sept to hear him. "I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and Sansa of House Star 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.

It was she who was cursed.

-.-.-.-.-

Tyrion

The wedding feast was a sorry affair. Whatever goodwill he had built up with Sansa during the short time before their wedding had been spent it seemed when she knelt down in front of him so that he could kiss her without having to stand on the back of the fool. He was incredibly grateful to her for the kneeling. Though, in a dark, stubborn corner of his heart he was angry at her that she did not kneel the first time when he needed to cloak her in the Lannister colors. They both could have been saved a great deal of embarrassment if he had not needed to climb on the fool's back to be the same height as his bride.

Of course, his blame and censure did not truly belong to his new wife. He had had a stool in the sept, he had planned for their wedding ceremony to be as free from humiliation as possible. But Joff, the sweet king that he was, had other plans. He should not be angry at his wife for not kneeling, he should be angry at the king for taking his stool. At least that was what he reminded himself every time he turned and caught sight of Sansa glaring at him. Her glare made him want to yell, and she did not deserve that.

Neither of them did.

His wife ate very little and she drank even less. Tyrion ate nothing at all, but he drank enough for the two of them. And then some, perhaps.

After the feast had been served and the music started Sansa turned to him and spoke to him for the first time since they had left the sept - for the first time all day if one didn't count her vows as speaking to him; and Tyrion did not, she said her vows to the High Septon and to the Gods but not to him. "Shall we lead the dance, my Lord?" she asked him, her voice shaking a bit.

A good husband would say yes. The new husband and wife always led the first dance at the wedding feast. But both Sansa and Tyrion knew that he was not a good husband. And he was probably too drunk besides. He glanced at the open dance floor, the people were waiting until he and Sansa stepped onto it before they left their seats, and glared at it. "I think we've had enough humiliation for today," he told Sansa.

Joffrey and Margaery led the dance instead. And they did it beautifully. Sansa watched them dance and Tyrion watched Sansa. He wondered what the girl was thinking. He wondered if she was jealous of Margaery for her dance partner or for her upcoming marriage to the king. He could not imagine that the girl still wanted to marry Joffrey, especially not after everything the boy had done to her. But she lied so prettily, and so well, that sometimes he was tempted to believe her.

She felt his eyes on her and turned to look at him. Her blue eyes were narrowed, not into a glare, but thoughtful. She was studying him and for a moment he wondered if she could read his mind. She turned away from him, back to the dancers and the moment was broken. But then she spoke, "I never thanked you," she whispered to him. She was a skilled whisperer, Varys would have loved to make her one of his little birds, her lips barely moved when she spoke. If Tyrion had not been watching her so carefully he might have missed it.

He raised his eyebrows, "For what, my Lady?" he asked her. He was being as courteous as possible, he knew his wife liked to hide behind her courtesies and he would help her build her armor as much as he could. "I can't imagine that I, nor the rest of my House, has given you much to be thankful for."

She smiled a bit ruefully at that and he swore he saw a tear fill her right eye, but she blinked it away so quickly that he could not be sure. "For apologizing to me the day of Joffrey's nameday tournament, you were the first person in King's Landing who felt sorry for me after my father was executed," she paused, looking around as if to see if anyone was listening to them, "even though it was rightfully done," she added, just to be safe. "For stopping Ser Boros from beating me in the throne room that day. For being kind to me, you've always been so kind to me."

She was quiet for a long time after that and Tyrion thought that she was done. He was about to tell her that she did not need to thank him for acting like a decent man when she spoke again. "And thank you for marrying me," she whispered quickly, her words tripping over themselves as they escaped her lips as if she needed to get them out fast or they would not come out at all. "I won't be able to say it often, but I am grateful to you for that. If Lord Tywin had picked a less honorable or weaker man then," she paused and shook her head, "I wouldn't be safe from Joffrey."

"Safe from -?" Tyrion started to ask, and then he shook his head. "What did he say to you, my Lady?" he asked her. She looked like she was about to tell him a lie and say that Joffrey hadn't said anything to her, but Tyrion was having none of that. "As your husband I command you to tell me what he said to you."

She didn't look away from the dancers, but she spoke, "He told me that you would take me to his bed whenever he commanded it," she admitted. "He said that since I'm from the North he might claim the rite to First Night. He said that since he is King he can do that."

She was shaking, his little wife and so scared. Tyrion's fist involuntarily closed tightly around the handle of his knife, he was so angry at Joffrey that he was tempted to use it. Instead he forced himself to let go and drained his wine glass instead, "I swear to you, Sansa, I will not let him touch you."

She nodded, "I know you won't, my Lord," she assured him. She was quiet for a moment, rapidly blinking her eyes, she did not want to cry in front of him, but the blinking was not working. She quickly stood up, her chair legs scraping against the floor. As an afterthought she turned to him, "Please excuse me, my Lord," she begged before she moved from her seat and swept her way through the hall.

Tyrion nodded though she was already gone and poured himself another glass of wine. He drank it in four long gulps and poured another. He was paying so much attention to his wine glass that he did not notice his father's approach until he spoke. "You seem quite drunk, Tyrion," Tywin told him, clearly displeased.

"Not drunk enough, actually," Tyrion disagreed. "Isn't it a man's duty to be drunk at his wedding?"

"This isn't about your wedding," Tywin hissed at him. "Renly Baratheon had a wedding. Your wife needs a child. A Lannister child as soon as possible. You need to give her one."

"And?" Tyrion asked, rolling his eyes.

"If you're going to do that you'll need to perform," Tywin growled.

Tyrion drank some wine, he was not drunk enough yet, "What did you once call me?" he asked his father. "A drunken little lust-filled beast?"

Tywin seemed to be biting back a smile, almost as if he were pleased with his son, "More than once," he cut in.

"Well there you have it," Tyrion gestured up to him. "Nothing to worry about. Drinking and lust, no man can match me in these things. I am the god of tits and wine. I shall build myself a shrine at the next brothel I see."

His father's smile disappeared, he grabbed the wine glass out of Tyrion's hand and slammed it on the table, "You can drink, you can joke, you can engage in juvenile attempts to make your father uncomfortable. But you will do your duty." With a final glare, he walked away.

Tyrion picked up his wine glass and drank some more.

He regretted letting Sansa leave when a few minutes later he watched as Joffrey pulled her back into the room by her wrist. "Time for the bedding ceremony!" the king commanded gleefully.

"There will be no bedding ceremony," Tyrion answered, his voice flat and hard.

"It's for your respect for tradition, Uncle," Joffrey waved him off as he pulled Sansa into the center of the room. He glanced around at the guests, "Come everyone!" he ordered. "Pick her up and carry her to her wedding bed! Get rid of her gown, she won't be needing it any longer." Sansa wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, holding on tightly to the dress.

Joffrey did not seem to notice, "Ladies!" he yelled. "Tend to my uncle, he's not heavy."

"There will be no bedding ceremony," Tyrion repeated himself.

"There will be if I command it!"

The crowd around them seemed torn, no one knew whether to listen to the king or his uncle. Tyrion decided to make it clear who they should listen to. He gripped his knife and slammed the blade into the wooden table top, boosting himself up so that he could glare at Joffrey, "Then you will be fucking your bride with a wooden cock," he promised his nephew.

The hall fell silent. Tywin stood up, glaring at his son. Joffrey turned on Tyrion, "What did you say?" he growled. When Tyrion did not answer he yelled his question again. "What did you say?"

Tywin was the one that answered, "I believe we can dispense with the bedding ceremony, Your Grace," he suggested. "I am sure Tyrion did not mean to threaten the king."

Tyrion turned to glare at his father for a moment before he turned back to Joffrey, forcing himself to laugh, "A bad joke, Your Grace," he told the boy as he removed his hand from the knife handle. "Only because I envy your own royal manhood!" He glanced down at his breeches, pretending to be drunker than he was. "Mine is so small that my poor wife won't even know I'm there."

"Tyrion is clearly quite drunk, Your Grace," Tywin excused him.

"I am," Tyrion agreed, downing the rest of his wine. "But it is my wedding night. My tiny, stunted cock and I have a job to do," he moved from the table and began to walk toward Sansa. He was embarrassing her, and he was sorry for that. But it was better that she be embarrassed because of him and dressed than to have to undergo the humiliation of having the men in the hall tear her dress off of her.

"Come wife," he instructed her, reaching for her hand. "I vomited on a girl once," he told her, his voice loud as he continued his act as they walked from the hall. "In the middle of the act. I'm not proud of it. But I think honesty is important between a man and a wife, don't you agree?" He didn't give her time to answer his question, he kept talking. "Come, I'll tell you all about it to put you in the mood."

As soon as they entered their new chambers he stopped acting drunk. He moved to the table and began to pour himself another drink. "Is that wise, my Lord?" she asked him.

He paused, "Tyrion Sansa," he told her. "My name is Tyrion."

She paused for a moment, "Is that wise, Tyrion?"

He smirked and took a sip, "Nothing was ever wiser," he told her. He studied her for a moment, "How old are you again?" he asked her.

"Fourteen," she answered.

That stopped him. She looked so much like a woman that he had almost forgotten that she was a child. A child of fourteen. He had no business bedding her, drunk or otherwise. He took a clumsy swallow of his wine. "Talk won't make you any older will it?" he asked her. She did not answer. He sighed, "My Lord Father has commanded me to consummate this marriage," he told her. He was explaining their situation to her. He was about to tell her that he would not do it when the sweet girl walked to the table and poured herself her own glass of wine with shaking hands. She drank the wine down in two gulps and turned toward the bed, eyeing it as if it were some sort of monster as she walked toward it on shaking legs.

Tyrion watched her sadly as she came to a stop in front of the bed. It seemed to take her forever and no time at all to take off her dress. But somewhere in between those two options she stood in only her shift. With a sigh and shaking hands she began to take her shift off as well. Tyrion stared at her, his innocent little wife who thought the word shift also meant shit. He couldn't do it. "Stop," he commanded. Her hands stilled and she turned to watch him, eyebrows raised. "I can't," he told her.

He thought she would feel relief, but then he worried that she would blame herself. He shook his head, "I could, but I won't," he clarified.

"But your father -" Sansa started to argue.

Tyrion shook his head, silencing her. "I won't share your bed," he promised her, his voice gentle, "not until you want me to."

She turned to face him fully, "And what if I never want you to?" she asked him.

He closed his eyes fighting back the pain of rejection. He could not blame her, he was ugly and stunted and no more than a week ago the poor girl had thought she would marry Loras Tyrell. Tyrion was a ridiculous substitute for the Knight of the Flowers. But he would be kind to her and he would be patient. She had thanked him earlier for protecting her. And he would continue to do so, he would even protect her from himself.

He opened his eyes and lifted his wine glass to her in a mock salute, "And so my watch begins."

Author's Note:

Poor Tyrion. I always felt like he and Sansa would have worked out if their circumstances had been just a bit better.
And I love the two of them. Seriously, I love them together. They make me ridiculously happy.
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Did you? If you did there's this lovely little box down there that you can fill with your praise! (I'm assuming it will be praise, at least, but perhaps not.)
Thank you so much for adding this story to your favorites and alerts lists. But mostly thank you for the reviews!
They make me happy.

Vulcran: No. Weddings are not always a good thing in Game of Thrones.

TheHuntresss: Ahh! You're going to find out tomorrow. I so badly want to tell everyone, but I won't. I will simply tell you that whatever happens will be fantastic!

ZabuzasGirl: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Here's your new update!

WritingNOOB: Oh my friend! You're the only one who mentioned the dwarf woman's prophecy and I adore you for it. It was one of my favorite parts of the last chapter. As for your ponderings and musings and wonderings I don't want to give too much away. But I will point out one detail that is fairly important. As you noticed the woman at the feast the dwarf described was Lenora. She's got something from each of her houses (a gold dipped lion's tooth for Lannister, doe skin boots and a crown of antlers for Baratheon, and a wolf cloak for Stark). But they also describe where her loyalties lie. The lion's tooth would be more expensive than anything else, but it's also significantly smaller and less useful than, say, the boots and the crown. Which in turn are smaller and less useful than a warm cloak. Wherever Lenora is, whatever happens at the Red Wedding, she's a Stark.

RHatch89: You've only got one more day to be nervous ... just one more day.

merlin1989: Hello! Jesus! 70 other readers in a group! I love it! I'm glad that you guys are enjoying this story and I hope that you continue to do so!
Thank you for stopping by and reviewing.

HPuni101: I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter and I hope you enjoyed this one too. Wear your best ... we're going to a wedding tomorrow!

That's all I've got for now my friends.
"One more dawn! One more day! One day more!"
See you at the Twins tomorrow.
Chloe Jane.