Sansa III

The dress was light and finely crafted, tailored for Roslin before she had discovered her pregnancy. Its soft grey fabric, trimmed with silver, shimmered in the dim candlelight, flowing to the ground in graceful waves that gathered just below Sansa's bust. It was a beautiful gown, modest and elegant, but not the one Sansa had ever imagined wearing on her wedding day. Nor was this the husband she had dreamed of. The promise of Willas Tyrell had seemed like a beacon of hope once, a future she could endure, but that had been taken from her—like so many other things.

Roslin stood behind her, carefully twisting Sansa's fiery auburn hair into a neat, plaited bun, securing it with delicate pins. "You look beautiful, Sansa," she said softly, her voice kind but strained. It was meant to be a comfort, but even Roslin's gentle words could not ease the weight pressing down on Sansa's chest.

Sansa's reflection wavered in the mirror as fresh tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She hadn't truly stopped crying since that awful night—Joffrey's attack haunted her every waking moment, and her sleep, too, was filled with nightmares. There were moments when she thought she had found some semblance of calm, but then it would crash over her again, like an unrelenting wave. She would feel Joffrey's breath on her skin, his lips forcing themselves on hers, his…

Her tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she remembered how Robb had broken the news to her, his face full of sorrow and regret. She was to marry Tyrion Lannister. At first, she had been unable to comprehend it—Tyrion, the dwarf, the uncle of her rapist. It felt like another betrayal from the world, a cruel twist in the tale of her life. She had imagined her future with Tyrion, fearing what that would mean for her—another cage, another fate she had no say in.

Roslin, sensing the weight of her sorrow, paused in her task of fixing Sansa's hair. She stepped closer, resting her hands gently on Sansa's shoulders. "I know this isn't what you wanted," she said quietly, her eyes meeting Sansa's tear-streaked reflection in the mirror. "But Tyrion will protect you. He has promised it. After Joffrey's wedding, Tyrion will take you far from here. He'll take you to Casterly Rock, and when it's safe, you can come home to Winterfell. You will be his wife in name only."

The words were meant to soothe, but they brought little comfort. Sansa knew, deep down, that Roslin was right—Tyrion was her only hope of escaping the nightmare that King's Landing had become. Sansa wiped at her tears, but they wouldn't stop. "What if he... what if Tyrion expects... something more?" she asked in a trembling voice, unable to bring herself to say the words outright.

Roslin knelt beside her, her expression gentle but firm. "Tyrion isn't like Joffrey," she said softly. "He's kind, in his own way. He'll give you time, Sansa. And if you don't want that... you won't have to."

Sansa nodded, though the fear still gnawed at her. She knew Tyrion was different from Joffrey—he had never looked at her with cruelty or lust. But the idea of being married to any man now terrified her. The memory of Joffrey's touch was still too raw, too painful. She felt trapped, even though she knew this marriage, as strange as it seemed, might be her only chance at freedom.

The door to the chambers creaked open, and Robb appeared, his face weary but determined. His eyes softened when he saw her, dressed in grey and silver, so young yet burdened by so much. He approached her slowly, kneeling beside Roslin. "I'm sorry, Sansa," he said, his voice thick with guilt. "I should've protected you. But Tyrion... he will do right by you. I believe that."

Sansa nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. She had no more tears left for apologies, no more energy for sorrow. She would marry Tyrion because it was what she had to do—because there was no other path left for her to take. And though her heart ached for the life she had lost, the dreams she would never fulfill, there was a tiny flicker of hope that perhaps, in time, she might find peace.

The three of them moved silently through the cold stone corridors, descending deeper into the heart of the castle. The quiet echoed around them, a heavy reminder of what lay ahead. Sansa's heart pounded in her chest, her steps weighed down by dread. The secret wedding would take place far from prying eyes, in the crypt-like depths of the Red Keep. If anyone tried to stop them later, they would simply claim that it was too late—that the marriage had already been consummated, and Sansa was no longer a maid. That part, at least, was true—though not by Tyrion's hand.

As they walked, the flickering torchlight illuminated the massive dragon skulls that lined the crypts, their hollow eyes watching as if mocking Sansa's fate. She shuddered, quickening her pace as the eerie silence stretched on. The air was damp and cold, pressing in around her as they ventured further beneath the castle's foundations. The scent of old stone and candle wax hung heavy, and with each step, her anxiety grew.

Up ahead, a faint glow appeared—a distant light that marked their destination. Sansa's throat tightened as the scene came into view. Nestled among the towering columns was a makeshift altar. Candles flickered softly, casting a warm glow over the stone floor. They lined the space in neat rows, even tracing a path down what could only be called an aisle. For a moment, the sight was almost surreal—a wedding ceremony hidden in the shadows, away from the grandeur that typically accompanied noble unions. Yet there was a strange beauty to it, a fragile attempt at something sacred amidst the darkness.

At the end of the aisle, Tyrion stood waiting, dressed in his finest despite the clandestine nature of the event. His expression was solemn, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. Next to him, the Septon stood ready, most likely hastily summoned from a tavern or backroom, his robes slightly wrinkled and his demeanor uncertain. To Sansa's surprise, Shae stood beside them, on the groom's side, her arms crossed tightly as she watched the proceedings with a stony expression.

Sansa's feet felt like lead as they neared the makeshift altar. Every step brought her closer to a future she had never imagined, a life far removed from the dreams of courtly romance she had once cherished. She felt numb, barely able to process the enormity of what was about to happen. This was her wedding day—yet it was unlike any she had ever envisioned. There was no music, no cheering crowds, no lavish feast. Just flickering candlelight and cold stone walls.

As they reached the end of the aisle, Roslin turned to face her. "No one said I couldn't at least try to make it beautiful," she whispered softly, her eyes filled with sympathy. She leaned in to place a gentle kiss on Sansa's cheek, a small gesture of comfort in an otherwise bleak moment. Then, with a reassuring smile, she stepped to the opposite side of the altar, taking her place as a quiet witness to the solemn union.

Sansa stared down at the candles, their warm glow blurring as tears pricked at her eyes. She didn't want this. She didn't want to be here, in this dim, hidden corner of the castle, marrying a man she barely knew—let alone one she could never love. But what choice did she have? The life she had once dreamed of was gone, taken from her the moment Joffrey laid his hands on her. Now all she could hope for was to survive—and to find some measure of safety in the days to come.

Tyrion shifted beside her, his expression unreadable as he glanced toward her. She wondered if he felt the same sense of helplessness. After all, neither of them had chosen this path, yet here they were—bound by duty, by circumstance, and by the cruelty of the world they lived in.

The Septon swayed slightly as he began, his voice slurring just enough to betray how much wine he had consumed before this hasty ceremony. The flickering candlelight cast strange, dancing shadows across the crypt, as if the dragons' skulls themselves were watching. The atmosphere felt oppressive, heavy with the weight of what was about to happen.

"We gather here... to witness... the union of Tyrion of House Lannister," he paused, blinking as if trying to remember the next part, "and Sansa... of House Stark."

His words tumbled out in a clumsy cadence, and Roslin shifted uneasily beside Sansa, clearly noticing the Septon's inebriated state. This wasn't how a Stark should be married. Sansa's hands were clenched tightly in front of her, knuckles white, her body rigid as she tried to keep herself from shaking.

The Septon fumbled through the sacred words, his eyes unfocused. "Do you, Robb... of House Stark... Lord of Winterfell and... and Lord Paramount of the North... give this woman to be wed?"

Robb stood stiffly, his face tight with a mix of frustration and helplessness. The Lord of Winterfell was reduced to this—giving his sister away in a rushed, secret marriage to a man he neither trusted nor wanted for her. He glanced at Sansa, his eyes softening, betraying the anger he was struggling to suppress.

For a moment, Robb's throat worked as if the words refused to come. He had once dreamed of seeing Sansa wed with honour, in the grand halls of Winterfell, surrounded by family and friends. Instead, here they were, in the cold, musty crypts of King's Landing, with only the flickering candlelight and the bones of dead kings for witnesses. It was a far cry from the life he had wanted for her.

He swallowed hard, his voice coming out rough but clear. "I do," Robb said, his voice thick with resignation. "I give her."

Tyrion stood before Sansa, the heavy crimson cloak of House Lannister in his hands. The fabric shimmered in the flickering candlelight of the crypt, its lion sigil gleaming in gold thread—a symbol of power and dominance, the very things that had caused her family so much pain. He hesitated for a brief moment, glancing down at the cloak as if it, too, carried the weight of his conflicted emotions.

"With this cloak, I take you into my House and under my protection," Tyrion said softly, his voice steady but lacking the usual bravado. He took the cloak from Shae, who handed it to him without a word, her face tight with resentment, though she tried to keep her emotions in check.

Normally, this moment would have been one of ritual and tradition, a solemn sign of a woman leaving her father's house to join her husband's. Sansa should have been wearing the cloak of House Stark—grey and adorned with the direwolf of her ancestors. It was meant to represent the safety and strength of the North, the heritage of her family. But the Stark cloak wasn't here. Catelyn Stark had taken it back to Winterfell months ago, to be mended and prepared for Sansa's wedding to Joffrey—a wedding that now seemed like a cruel joke, a distant memory from another lifetime.

Sansa stood still as Tyrion approached, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her face pale. Her eyes were dry, though she had cried so many tears in the days leading up to this that she felt empty now, numb. The weight of everything—Joffrey's cruelty, her family's absence, the twisted path her life had taken—bore down on her shoulders like a leaden cloak, heavier than any fabric Tyrion could drape across her back. She no longer had the protection of Winterfell or her father's name. What she had now was a hollow marriage to a Lannister, a man she hardly knew but whose family had brought her nothing but suffering.

Tyrion stepped closer, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. His gaze wasn't cruel, nor was it filled with desire. Instead, there was something else—an unspoken understanding, perhaps even pity. He was not the monster she had feared in her darkest moments, but that did little to ease the terror that gripped her. This was not the life she had dreamed of, and she doubted it was the one Tyrion had envisioned for himself, either.

As Tyrion reached up to place the Lannister cloak on her shoulders, Sansa couldn't help but flinch slightly. It was instinctual, a reaction she couldn't suppress, though she knew Tyrion meant her no harm. The fabric settled around her like a shroud, its rich, regal weight pressing down on her slight frame. She felt engulfed by it, as though she were being swallowed whole by the lions of Casterly Rock, leaving nothing of the girl she had once been.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for all eternity. Now, repeat the words," the Septon slurred, stumbling over his own speech as the weight of too much wine clouded his concentration.

Tyrion sighed inwardly, but kept his composure. He glanced at Sansa beside him, her face pale and distant, her gaze fixed on some point far beyond the crypt, beyond him. She was barely present, as if her mind had already fled from the reality of this moment. Tyrion couldn't blame her.

Taking a breath, he began the vows, his voice firm and deliberate. "Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days."

Sansa's voice followed his, softer, almost hollow. "Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days."

The words, ancient and sacred to many, hung in the air between them like the final nails in a coffin. There was no magic in them, no spark of love or even hope. They were simply the binding chain in a fate neither had chosen.

The Septon swayed slightly, his head bobbing as he struggled to find his place in the ceremony. "Let it be known," he droned, his rhythm broken and uneven, "that Tyrion of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark are now one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

Tyrion tensed, knowing what came next.

"With a kiss, the union is—" the Septon began, lifting his arm in a half-hearted gesture.

"There'll be no need," Tyrion interrupted quickly, cutting off the ritual before it could proceed to that final humiliating act. His voice was firm but calm, a small mercy extended to Sansa in the only way he could manage. He would not force her into a kiss she did not want, especially not here, in front of the drunken priest, his lover watching from the shadows, and the memory of Joffrey's cruelty still so fresh in her mind.

Sansa let out the faintest breath of relief, though she said nothing. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, but she kept them clasped in front of her, rigid and composed.

The Septon blinked, confused for a moment, but then shrugged it off, too addled by drink to care about deviations from the usual custom. "Ah... yes, well. The union is sealed nonetheless. May the Seven bless this marriage and watch over it."

Tyrion inclined his head politely, though he felt no such blessing had been bestowed. As far as the Seven—or any other gods—were concerned, this marriage was a transaction, a shield for Sansa and a duty for him. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Roslin stepped closer and gently squeezed Sansa's hand, her voice soft and reassuring. "It's over now, Sansa," she whispered, her words meant only for her. "No one can hurt you anymore. I swear it."

She wanted to believe her. But even as she stood there, a newly wedded woman, her mind kept returning to the memory of Joffrey—the cruel twist of his lips, the way he had laughed as he humiliated her. How could she ever truly be safe, when he still sat on the Iron Throne, just a stone's throw away?

Tyrion glanced at Sansa, his tone calm but firm. "After the royal wedding, we'll leave for Casterly Rock," he said. "You'll be safe there. I promise." With that, he turned and walked toward Robb, ready to discuss the next steps with him in private.

Sansa nodded, though she couldn't find her voice to reply. Safe. She repeated the word in her mind, but it felt hollow..

As they turned to leave the crypts, to ascend back into the harsh reality of the world above, Sansa cast one last glance at the dragon skulls that lined the room. Once they had been fearsome creatures, unstoppable forces of destruction. Now, they were nothing but relics of a time long past—like her dreams.

And like the dragons, she, too, had been broken.

Sansa spent the night alone in her chambers, the weight of her new reality bearing down on her with every passing hour. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of a life she had never wished for, a future bound to Tyrion Lannister. As the dawn broke and she stirred from sleep, the realisation hit her like a cold wave—it was today. Their marriage would be announced before the entire court, a moment that would seal her fate.

They had chosen the open court in the hopes that the public setting might temper Joffrey's infamous rage, though Sansa knew better than to count on it. If he lashed out, there would be no telling what chaos might follow in front of all the gathered nobles. The uncertainty gnawed at her, but all she could do was prepare for whatever was to come.

On her dresser, the red and gold gown lay folded, waiting for her. It was finely made, elegant but unmistakably Lannister in its design. Tyrion had sent it, insisting that she wear it to further cement their image as a united couple—untouchable, even under the king's gaze. Shae entered quietly, not even a word of greeting. She moved toward the dresser and began helping Sansa into the gown, her hands working mechanically as if she were dressing a doll. The silence between them was suffocating, and Sansa couldn't bear it any longer.

Shae had been kind once—almost a friend. She had always been there with a small smile or a comforting word when Sansa felt lost or alone in the treacherous world of King's Landing. But now, that warmth was gone, replaced by cold indifference. Shae hadn't spoken to her since Sansa had confided the news of her upcoming marriage to Tyrion. There was something in her eyes—something bitter, like betrayal.

Sansa tried to meet her gaze in the mirror, hoping for some acknowledgment, some sign of the woman she had come to trust. But Shae's face remained hard, her eyes distant. It felt as though another person had turned away from her, another betrayal in a long line of them. Sansa had been abandoned before, by her father, her mother—both lost to the war. And now, it seemed Shae had left her, too, even if she was still physically present.

Her heart ached, but she steeled herself. She had no time for tears now, not with what lay ahead. Today, she would have to face the court, the whispers, the stares, and—most terrifying of all—Joffrey.

The open court always attracted a considerable crowd, but with the excitement surrounding Joffrey's impending wedding, the numbers had swelled to nearly double. The great hall buzzed with the chatter of lords and ladies, their finery gleaming in the light that streamed through the massive stained glass windows. As Sansa stepped into the hall, her heart raced, and she felt a sense of isolation wash over her. She scanned the throng, desperately searching for a familiar face, for Roslin or Robb, but found neither amidst the sea of silk and velvet.

Just as doubt began to creep in, she heard a voice from behind her. "Shall we?" Turning around, Sansa was met with Tyrion, his presence both comforting and unexpected. He wore an outfit that echoed the rich hues of her own dress, a subtle display of their union. His eyes held a kindness that she found reassuring, and she couldn't help but return his smile, even if it felt fleeting in the grand scheme of the day.

Together, they navigated through the throngs of nobility, moving toward the front of the hall where the raised dais awaited them. Each step felt heavy with the weight of their circumstances, but Tyrion's steady presence provided a sliver of confidence amidst her swirling fears. Sansa felt her breath quicken as they approached the front, the whispers and glances of the crowd beginning to envelop them. This was it; there would be no turning back.

As Sansa and Tyrion stepped up to the foot of the throne, the tension in the hall shifted dramatically. Suddenly, a side door creaked open, and Joffrey strode in, a predatory gleam in his eye. Behind him were Margaery and Cersei, both women exuding their own brands of authority and allure. Joffrey took his seat on the Iron Throne, his posture exuding arrogance and entitlement, while Cersei and Margaery flanked him, positioning themselves as his loyal protectors.

As Sansa's gaze shifted uneasily between the trio, her eyes met Joffrey's. He was staring directly at her, a twisted smile spreading across his face. The sight of it sent a wave of nausea through her, and she quickly looked away, her stomach churning at the memory of what he had done. Just the sight of him filled her with dread, a sickening reminder of the cruelty he was capable of.

The atmosphere shifted again as the grand doors swung open, admitting Tywin Lannister. His presence commanded immediate respect, and the hall fell into a hushed reverence as he strode forward, each step deliberate and imposing. His sharp gaze swept over the crowd before settling on the throne where Joffrey lounged, an expression of muted disapproval crossing his face.

Tywin made his way down the long aisle, nodding curtly to the king in acknowledgment before ascending the stairs to the throne. He turned to Cersei, his daughter, and spoke in a low, firm voice. "You're excused, daughter."

Cersei hesitated, her brows knitting together in surprise. She opened her mouth as if to protest, but a single look from Tywin silenced her. With a reluctant nod, she descended the steps and joined Tyrion's side, a flurry of emotions flickering across her face—anger, defiance, and perhaps even a hint of regret.

Joffrey watched the exchange with barely concealed irritation, the king's expression hardening as he surveyed the scene. Margaery, ever the diplomat, kept her gaze fixed on Joffrey, a serene smile on her lips as if to pacify the brewing storm of his emotions.

An announcer stepped forward, his voice booming through the great hall, "Lord Tyrion Lannister to address the King."

Tyrion straightened his tunic and took a step forward, offering a curt bow in the direction of the Iron Throne. "Your Grace," he greeted, his voice steady though tension rippled through the air.

Joffrey leaned forward, a smug grin playing on his lips as he studied his uncle. "Lord Uncle," Joffrey responded, drawing out each word as though savoring his own power. "May I first congratulate you on your recent elevation to heir of Casterly Rock." His smile widened, the underlying mockery unmistakable. "I'm sure you will rise to the challenge."

There was a ripple of laughter from a few of Joffrey's sycophants in the crowd, but the room felt colder in the wake of his words. Tyrion's face remained unreadable as he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Tyrion replied, his tone carefully measured. "I will do my utmost to serve our house, as always."

The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the real reason Tyrion had approached the throne. The tension was palpable as the king lounged back in his seat, curious, yet with that ever-present cruelty dancing in his eyes, eager for something, anything, to ignite.

Tyrion took a breath, gathering himself. "Your Grace," he began, his voice steady though the weight of the moment pressed down on him. "I have come to ask for your blessing."

Joffrey leaned forward, an amused sneer curling at the edges of his lips. "My blessing?" he repeated, drawing out the words like a cat playing with a mouse. His eyes glittered with cruel delight as he glanced briefly at his mother, then back at Tyrion. "And what, dear Uncle, could you possibly need my blessing for?" He sniggered, the sound sending a ripple of unease through the hall.

The tension in the room sharpened, every eye now focused on Tyrion and the king. Sansa, standing beside Tyrion, felt her heart hammering in her chest. She kept her eyes down, not daring to look up, not wanting to meet Joffrey's gaze again and be reminded of the terror he had inflicted on her.

Tyrion squared his shoulders, keeping his composure. "For my recent union," he said, his voice firm but respectful, "I have taken the Lady Sansa Stark as my wife."

The hall fell silent.

Joffrey's smirk vanished in an instant, replaced by a dangerous gleam in his eyes. The smile was gone, but the cruelty was still there, lurking beneath the surface. "You?" Joffrey said, his voice low, almost a growl. "You married her?"

The question hung in the air, and the unspoken insult was clear. A Lannister dwarf, marrying the daughter of the most ancient northern house? It was a match that would infuriate the king, one that challenged his control over Sansa and shattered whatever plans he had for her.

Sansa's heart clenched as the weight of the revelation settled over the court. She could feel the eyes of the gathered nobles boring into her, their shock and curiosity palpable. She dared to glance up at Joffrey, and immediately regretted it. His face twisted with an ugly mixture of anger and disbelief.

"You?" Joffrey repeated, rising from his seat slightly, his voice tinged with venom. "How… amusing." He began to laugh, though the sound held no real humor, only the kind of sadistic pleasure that comes from someone looking for a reason to cause pain.

Tyrion maintained his composure, though the tension in the room felt like it was closing in around him. "Yes, Your Grace," he said, his tone steady but respectful. "I have long admired Lady Sansa's beauty and her grace. I sought her hand in marriage, and her brother, Lord Robb Stark, consented. We were wed last night, and now I come before you, asking for your blessing in front of this court."

Joffrey's eyes flicked to Sansa, cold and calculating. "Did she cry?" he asked, his voice dripping with malice. "Did she beg you not to?"

Sansa's breath caught in her throat, the horror of Joffrey's words washing over her like a wave. She gripped the fabric of her dress, trying to remain composed, but the cruelty of his question, the way he relished in her pain, made her want to flee. She had cried and she had begged him not to - Joffrey not Tyrion.

Tyrion's face tightened, a flicker of anger breaking through his controlled facade. He stepped forward slightly, placing himself between Joffrey and Sansa, subtly shielding her from the king's gaze. "Lady Sansa has been nothing but dutiful and kind," Tyrion said, his voice firm. "And she deserves your respect, as does this marriage."

Joffrey sneered, his fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of the Iron Throne. His eyes burned with a dangerous gleam as he leaned forward, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. "Respect?" he spat, venom lacing his voice. "She's min—"

Before Joffrey could finish, Tywin Lannister, ever calculating and cold as steel, swiftly placed a firm hand on his grandson's shoulder. The gesture was subtle but commanding, a silent warning. His sharp gaze never wavered from Joffrey as he interjected smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "The crown congratulates you on your marriage, Lord Tyrion," Tywin declared, his tone leaving no room for defiance. "This is an excellent match for the realm, wouldn't you agree, Your Grace?"

Joffrey stiffened under Tywin's grip, his mouth twitching with restrained fury. The court watched in tense silence, unsure if the boy king would unleash his infamous wrath or yield to his grandfather's authority. After a moment of hesitation, Joffrey's face twisted into a mockery of a smile. "Yes," he said through gritted teeth, "an excellent match, indeed."

The hall remained still, the nobility watching with bated breath as the exchange between the king and his Hand settled. Sansa felt a weight lift from her chest, though the relief was bitter. She couldn't shake the feeling that Joffrey's anger had only been delayed, not extinguished. Tyrion, standing beside her, offered her a brief glance—reassurance, perhaps—but even he knew that the danger had only been postponed.

"Very well," Joffrey said, dragging out the words with venom, his voice dripping with contempt as he rose slowly from the Iron Throne. "You have my blessing... uncle." The word, though formal, was sharpened with mockery. His lips twisted into a cruel smile, and the air in the room seemed to grow heavier as he sauntered down the steps, his gaze never leaving Tyrion and Sansa.

"The Lord Hand will attend the rest of today's affairs," Joffrey announced, his tone light. He extended his hand to Margaery, who took it gracefully, though her expression was carefully measured. "The Lady Margaery and I have much to prepare for our wedding, only a few weeks away." His voice grew louder, addressing the court as he led his future bride down the stairs.

The crowd parted for them like the sea, but the tension was palpable, and murmurs spread like wildfire through the hall. Tywin, unruffled as ever, ascended the throne in his grandson's wake, settling into the seat of power with a commanding presence that silenced the room. The announcer stepped forward, calling the next petitioner to approach, but all eyes lingered on Joffrey as he strode down the aisle.

As Joffrey and Margaery approached Tyrion and Sansa he stopped, turning sharply to face them. His cold green eyes glittered with malice, his smile twisting into something far more sinister. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low whisper meant only for them. "I hope you enjoyed your wedding night, uncle," he sneered, his words laced with poison. "I certainly enjoyed her."

Sansa felt the ground sway beneath her as his vile words sank in, her skin crawling with the memory of Joffrey's touch, the nightmare that had stolen her innocence. She clenched her fists, willing herself not to break in front of him, not to show any weakness. Tyrion, his jaw clenched tight, glanced at Joffrey with barely contained fury, but he forced himself to remain calm. Publicly, at least.

Joffrey grinned, clearly savoring their discomfort before he turned on his heel, leading Margaery out of the hall as though nothing had happened.