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When he saw you standing there, wedding gown pooled about your feet and shaking like a leaf in you silks, Tyrion laughed.
"You needn't be frightened of me, my lady" he said as he walked past, his gaze already drawn to the nearby sideboard set with decanters "This lion has no intention of savaging you"
"I am most grateful to you, my lord" You replied. Despite his reassurances, you could not keep the tremble from your voice "But a wife has a duty. A man has needs"
"A man has had too much to drink" Tyrion replied, though that did not keep him from filling a hefty golden goblet to the brim with more red. "This would be no more of use to you than tits on a boar"
Your husband punctuated that colourful turn of phrase by grabbing firmly at his trouser lacings, leaving no uncertainty that "this" meant his Lannister pride, or rather lack thereof.
You blushed in spite of yourself, the crudeness of the gesture surprising you. Your betrothed was no Septon, this you knew. However, some small part of you had hoped that the "licentious, wine soaked craven" your grandfather had described to you had been nothing more than his resentment talking.
Your marriage had been arranged to reaffirm Walder Frey's loyalty to the Lannister house, and therefore to Joffery, in the wake of Eddard Stark's execution. Though the offer of a dwarf for a bridegroom had been a blow to your grandfather's pride, the money and land promised by Tywin in return had been to good for even that stubborn old goat to pass up.
Before you knew it, you were being packed up and sent off in a red and gold wheelhouse to King's Landing. As all that was familiar and dear to you slipped away from behind velvet draped windows, you found yourself with nothing but the company of your anxious thoughts and more than enough time to entertain their incessant chattering.
In the end, you decided, that the prospect of marrying a dwarf was not what truly bothered you. Watching your grandfather and his endless parade of wives and bed warmers had taught you that comeliness often had little to do with what went on between a man and woman. If Tyrion was as ugly as everyone said, well, there are worse things a husband could be.
That was the thought that kept you awake at night, that whittled your appetite down to nothing and drew the color from your cheeks. You knew as little of the youngest Lannister as he did of you. He could be brutish, cruel, or stupid. Any of those things, alone or in combination, would be far worse a fate than ugly.
Like it or not, you were marrying a stranger, and you expected him to remain so until you were brought to the sept for the wedding itself. But, as you would come to learn, your betrothed was full of surprises
There had been no time for a courting period, not when arrangements for the feast had begun and money had already changed hands. Still, that hadn't kept Tyrion from trying his best. You'd met the man for the first time only a fortnight ago, on a trip to the markets chaperoned by Tyrion's man at arms, a sell sword with dark hair and cunning eyes that made you uneasy.
Whether Tyrion had known about your discomfort or he'd had some other designs in mind, you could not say. However, the sell sword seemed to vanish into the crowd almost immediately after your arrival, muttering something about "business" he had to do elsewhere. Next you knew, you found yourself sitting next to the dwarf on a public bench, with enough space between the two of you that a mounted knight could've ridden through and still had room to spare. You'd talked about nothing in particular, the weather, the history of the city, a little about your family here and there though he said next to nothing about his own.
The whole experience would've been entirely unremarkable, except at some point Tyrion had produced a bag of sugared almonds from a pocket in his cloak and offered them to you. You'd studied him closely, staring at his face much longer than you knew was proper, trying to get a sense of his motives. His mismatched eyes had met yours without wavering, bright, earnest, and dare you say even a little hopeful. Those had not been the eyes of a man, a whore monger, and a drunk, but the eyes of a boy. One with a heart perhaps a little softer than would serve him in this hard, hateful city.
It was difficult to see that boy now, however, in the man that was draining the dregs of a second goblet of wine with quick, noisy gulps. Loathe as you were to admit it, what you had thought you'd seen in the marketplace could have easily been the passing fancy of a nervous bride. Perhaps your grandfather, and the rest of the court, had been right. Rumours so oft began in truth, didn't they? At least a little of it.
As though he sensed your disapproval, Tyrion turned his gaze away from his now empty cup and cast those eyes, alight with drink, upon you once more. He took in your slumped shoulders, the pinkness still about your cheeks, and the way you plucked nervously at the trim of your chemise. His gut roiled in answer, both with guilt and the three extra bottles of good, fortified red he'd had at dinner.
Bloody little fool.
The voice sounded like his father, but Tyrion knew all too well that was his own mind chiding him from where he'd tried to drown it in his cups. He knew, kind as you had been, that he was no maiden's fantasy. And yet, that hadn't kept you from making the best of things, literally baring yourself to him as you tried to be a good wife, perhaps in hopes you'd get a good husband in return. Though in order for that to happen, there had to be a good man here to begin with.
"I'm sorry" he blurted suddenly, his words only a little slurred "That was...rude."
"I ask no pardons of you, My lord" you replied, still not able to draw your eyes away from the gold scroll work pattern on the carpet. Of course he didn't want you, and more the fool you were for thinking otherwise. Yes, you now bore the title of wife, but putting a cloak around your shoulders and a ring on your finger didn't make you any less of a political pawn. Not any more than shoving your tits in the poor man's face would make him love you.
Unwittingly, a tear slipped down your cheek, quickly followed by another, just as unwelcome as the first. You swiped at them angrily with your knuckles, hoping somehow Tyrion wouldn't see. The Others take it, why couldn't the floor just swallow you up already? Or better yet, some merciful god strike you dead where you stood.
"My Lady. Look at me. Please"
Slowly, you brought your eyes up to where they met Tyrion's and were surprised to see that the dwarf's were just as wet and red-rimmed as your own, though whether this was from tears or his drunkenness you couldn't say.
"I'm sorry" he said again, holding up a hand to stay your voice when you opened your mouth to protest "Truly. I'm certain you were told by many that you were doomed to wed an ill-mannered, perverse little sot, and here I am, making it the truth."
The deftness with which he had cut to the heart of your private thoughts was more than a little startling. It seemed that even well in his cups, your husband was much more clever than anyone had let on. The shock must have been evident in your face, but when you made no move to interrupt, Tyrion continued.
"You and I have been given parts to play, made pieces in this political disaster created by our families, and any thoughts we had on the matter stating otherwise have been cast into the pyre of their ambitions. I cannot imagine that this arrangement was your dream, any more than it was mine, but that does not mean we need to make it our shared misery either."
"I will do whatever pleases you, my lord."
The words sounded hollow as they left your lips, as though spoken by a stranger. It wasn't your meaning, to be so cold with him, but as pretty as his words were, he said them all with what was to be his third goblet of wine in hand. Would they be forgotten come morning, as he took his aching head out on you with fists?
"Seven hells, woman" Tyrion snapped, his voice suddenly turned coarse and harsh by frustration "If I wanted to be told lies and had my arse kissed, I would've gone to the brothel."
Your silence stung more than any curse or insult ever could. Tyrion watched in guilt ridden agony as your eyes, your beautiful, gentle eyes, welled for the second time with an onslaught of tears. He was reminded of another pair of eyes in his life, so long ago, eyes that looked at him with just as much hurt and betrayal as you did now.
At least that one got paid to put up with you, dwarf.
No, no. He wasn't going to think of her tonight, even if he had to drink his way through every cellar in Kings Landing to make it so.
Disgusted with himself, Tyrion turned away from you, back to the one loyal love he'd ever had. He regarded his face, reflected upside down for him in a wavering, crimson mirror over the brim of his goblet. Neither the colour nor the new angle did him any favours.
"Perhaps it would be best if I...found other accommodations for tonight, my lord"
Your voice was hardly more than a whisper, but Tyrion heard every word clear as a bell. He half laughed, half snorted into his cup, which upset its contents and sent a healthy stream of wine past the edge of his lips and down to his jaw. He paused for a moment, chasing the errant droplets with the tip of his tongue before reaching again for the decanter.
"Please," Tyrion said, now having set his cup aside all together in flavor of sipping directly from the bottle itself "I am not so cruel as to cast a bride from her own marriage chambers. Let me at least drink myself into a stupor, and then you may call Bronn to drag me out when you grow sick of looking at me."
If things had gone to plan, that would've been exactly how Tyrion spent the rest of his evening. He would've woken up in his own bed, in his own chambers, with a throbbing head, dry mouth, and blissfully ignorant of any foolishness he'd blundered through the night before.
After, he would have marched into the great hall, driven the toe of his boot directly into the Hound's balls in front of the whole court, and welcomed the great sword that would cleave his idiot skull in two with open arms. He would have died as he lived, stupid and probably still a little drunk, and you would be a wealthy widow with no shortage of prospects.
It would have been perfect, except for one thing. Tyrion had forgotten, as he usually did, that the gods hated him.
What had started off as nothing more than a mild churning in his gut had turned into a roiling, torturous boil that was threatening to make a reappearance. Tyrion had not surrendered the contents of his innards to drink in many a year, but it seemed as though his stomach was determined to give him a wedding present.
"Excuse me" he mumbled, trying to climb down from his chair and save the fragile, shredded remains of his so called dignity. What frail hope he'd had of that, however, up and vanished the moment his boots touched the carpet.
You watched, more than a little horrified, as your betrothed bent double, retched, and proceeded to empty his guts on the floor in a massive, appalling barrage. You'd been to enough feasts to know what happened when your brothers, cousins and their ilk couldn't hold their wine, but this? A lifetime of being married to this?
You turned away from the whole hideous, stinking spectacle, concerned with nothing else but your body's instinct to flee. And you would have, if not for the small, broken voice that suddenly reached your ears.
"Help me. Please"
Against your better judgment, you looked back over your shoulder, face a mask of disgust in preparation for what might await you. The mask fell away in an instant, however, in light of the tragic scene before you.
Tyrion lay, well coated in vomit, and struggling to rise from his prone position on the floor. His wet hands could not grasp the rungs of the nearby chair or the table any more than his twisted, wobbling legs could bring him to stand. His face, half hidden by the white blonde locks that had fallen in his eyes, spoke only of the purest pain and humiliation
As you started to approach, a part of Tyrion wished you hadn't heard him. You shouldn't even be near him, beautiful creature that you were, a vision of white silk aglow in the candlelight. Him, no better than a pig, marinated with drink and half choked in his own sick.
He tried to speak, to tell you that he hadn't meant it, to go back to your grandfather and tell him to find you someone, anyone else and leave him to die here, swallowing his bastard tongue that refused to work.
The best he could manage was a groan, the sound barely making its way past his lips as darkness began to cloud his vision.
The last thing Tyrion was aware of, before sweet, sweet drunken oblivion welcomed him in, was a cool, soft hand against his cheek, and a gentle, far off voice calling his name.
***
I loved a maid as fair a summer, with sunlight in her hair.
For a moment, Tyrion was a man lost to time. It seemed as though he'd slipped through the years and back into the cottage of his boyhood, back into the arms of Tysha and those golden days they'd spent together in wedded bliss. He reached for her, almost on instinct, to kiss her as he had hundreds of times before waking in their marriage bed, his lips and hands knowing the way before his eyes even opened.
"My lord?"
The second he awoke, the dream burst, as lovely, delicate and fleeting as a soap bubble. Instead of the cottage, Tyrion found himself staring up at the stone ceiling of a proper castle, with a throbbing head and a mouth like cotton wool.
"Wha-"
"Are you well, my lord?"
Tyrion turned his face toward your voice, which sounded distant and muffled over his heartbeat roaring in his ears. The movement, small though it was, made his head throb further in protest, as though he had been run over by the entire Kingsguard last night as opposed to being in his cups for too long.
He winced slightly, and tried to focus his bleary gaze on you. The room, and his eyes, however, did not want to cooperate and the sight of the tilting bed frame just a few feet ahead nearly had him emptying his guts all over again. With a nauseous belch, he breathed deeply and looked once more, trying to find you but eventually settling on a tapestry depicting some battle he couldn’t quite recall the name of.
"Where am I?" It took great effort on Tyrion's part to push those words off his parched tongue and over his cracked lips, leaving his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
"Your chambers, my Lord" you replied as you rose to stand and headed for the sideboard where someone had cleared away last night's wine and replaced it with a pitcher of water.
Trying to follow you with his eyes made Tyrion woozy again, and so he made the pragmatic choice to shut the damned things until they decided to obey. For a moment, the dark was utter bliss, safe from tilting walls and faces in the tapestries that seemed to judge him. However, the loss of sight meant his other senses became far more attuned, and the sound of you pouring a cup of water hit him like the roaring of the ocean. It was all he could do not to whimper, though it seemed at this point his throat was far too dry and sore to even consider making another sound.
"My lord?"
When he opened his eyes again, Tyrion was startled to find you were much closer than he expected. Your face was level with his, the distance between the two of you shortened by the fact that you were kneeling at his bedside. You realized, even in spite of yesterday, that you'd never been this close to your Lord husband before. Yes, he kissed you in the sept but that had been so quick you hadn't gotten a proper look at him.
He wasn't as ugly as everyone said, here in the early dawn light that pushed through the curtains. True, the proportions of his face were unusual and yes, his beard was a little unkempt but you found that was quickly forgotten when you noticed the wonder of his eyes. Those eyes, one flashing dark and one true Lannister green, were unlike any eyes you'd ever seen. They spoke of intellect and curiosity, a mind that was constantly turning, turning, a mind that could build or break a kingdom in the span of hours.
””Here.” You said suddenly, thrusting the cup in your hands towards Tyrion, cheeks ablaze. Hopefully, he was too unwell to notice you'd been staring.
“My thanks” Tyrion said, pushing himself half up onto one arm to take the cup. The glass, glazed Lannister crimson, felt cool pressed against the palm of his hand. He leaned back on his pillows and took a long, appreciative gulp. Water had never tasted or felt so good.
It was only when a few stray drops, spilt in his eagerness to drink, fell against the bare skin of his chest that Tyrion's brain finally seemed to lurch awake. Slowly, so as not to draw your suspicions, he reached down to pluck the edge of his blanket and cast a wary eye to what lay beneath. Sure enough, someone had gone through the trouble of stripping him down to his smallclothes, and had most likely scrubbed him from neck to navel by the look of it.
"Did...did Podrick come in last night, my lady?" Tyrion tried to keep his voice from squeaking, hoping against hope that you'd had the sense to call his squire after he'd gone into a swoon. The alternative wasn't one he wanted to consider.
"No, my lord" you said, with a small shake of your head "There was none within this evening past, save for us two."
"Then who-?"
"Well, I did, my lord"
Memories floated to the forefront of Tyrion's mind, unwanted and unbidden. You, helping him to his feet and escorting him to the bathroom. Your hands, working to open his doublet despite it being covered in sick. The distant sound of a door opening as you called for warm water, a washcloth being tenderly run over his face as you sang to him.
I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair
"But...why?" That was hardly clever, Tyrion knew. He was all but gaping at you like a fool, and yet he could think of nothing else to say.
The question seemed to embarrass you, which surprised him. You couldn't quite meet his gaze, plucking nervously at the pearl necklace that had been a bride gift from your grandfather, cheeks growing redder the longer the moment went on.
"I...I'm your wife." you finally managed, your voice little more than a whisper "I'm meant to take care of you. I...wanted to take care of you."
If Tyrion hadn't known his breath was rank with vomit and stale wine, he would've kissed you then and there. He settled, instead, on taking your hand from where it rested atop the covers and bringing it slowly to his lips, brushing them chastely against your knuckles. Not once did he let his eyes stray from yours, waiting for the slightest flinch, the tiniest suggestion of disgust. But it never came.
If anything, your flush somehow grew deeper, making for a pretty contrast with the string of pearls about your neck. Emboldened, Tyrion gently set your hand back down on the bed and decided to see just how far this newfound luck could take him.
He reached for you, his hand surprisingly steady, and brought his fingers to your temple where he brushed an errant lock of hair back behind your ear. Again, you received the touch without protest, closing your eyes and letting out a soft sigh by way of response. For a moment, Tyrion considered bringing his palm down to cup the side of your face, but thought better of it. Things were going favourably enough, leave it to him to ruin the moment by pushing you too far.
"I'm sorry. About last night. Truly. That was...an abominable way for me to behave."
You opened your eyes, finding yourself once again caught in Tyrion's piercing gaze. It was all you could do not to squirm beneath it, your skin already uncomfortably warm and tingling where he'd touched you.
"It's alright" you said, giving him a shy smile. "You were frightened...weren't you?"
Tyrion swallowed, then nodded in assent. Clearly, you were a lot more clever than you had let on.
"Yes" he replied "But, well, it's no excuse. I’d like to make it up to you, perhaps when when know each other a little better?”
"I'd like that."
Gods, you were beautiful. Even now, tousled from a restless night and trying to hide a yawn. There was something about you that just glowed, like the sun after a long winter. You were warm, bright. Nurturing. And Tyrion knew, even now, that he would do anything to keep basking in your light.
"You must be tired." he said, suddenly taking notice of the dark rings around your eyes. "And I doubt you joined me abed last night, either."
You bit your lip and shook your head, not wanting to admit to your betrothed you'd slept on the cramped settee in corner.
"It's alright" you said, trying to not to sound as exhausted as you were "I'm sure my Lord has important matters to attend to at court. I would not wish to keep you from them."
Tyrion was about to protest, when you stifled yet another yawn, further proving his point without him having to say a word. With a slight smirk, he shuffled towards the other side of the mattress, which left more than enough room for two. When you hesitated, he reached out and patted the spot where he had once laid, then crooked a finger to bid you closer.
"Come on. Those pompous bullfrogs can do without me for a day."
You did as Tyrion wished, climbing into bed. The mattress was still warm with the heat of him, and it seemed to envelope you like a second blanket as you settled in next to your husband.
It felt like a mere instant before the hands of sleep began tugging at you, the castle and all its distant waking sounds fading away. You had nearly dozed off completely, when you felt the mattress shift next to you. Upon opening an eye, you saw Tyrion quietly trying to sneak from beneath the covers and making as though he was about to climb out of bed on the other side.
"Wait."
He turned to look at you, bearing no small resemblance to a rabbit in a hunter's sights. But, unlike a rabbit, he didn't bolt. He sat, waiting as you’d asked.
"Will you...stay with me?"
The expression on Tyrion's face was unreadable, but for a moment it seemed as though he would flee. However, much to your delight, the moment passed and he turned, bringing his body back beneath the covers next to yours.
It was all you could do to mutter your thanks before sleep threatened to overtake you once more. With the last of your waking effort, you reached for your husband, and threw your arm across his middle, effectively trapping him in place.
Tyrion laughed, in spite of himself, and watched as your face grew lax with slumber. He was reminded of another woman, in another bed, in a life he'd all but forgotten. However, this time, when the song began to echo in the halls of his mind, it didn't pain him as deeply as usual. Placing a hand upon your head, Tyrion began to stroke your hair. And as he did, he sang.
I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair...