Sansa smiled with a joy she rarely showed, carrying out every part of the ceremony with gentle obedience. Prayers, vows, and hymns echoed through the hall as a hundred tall candles burned and a hundred guests cheered.
Her face glowed red in the torchlight, and beneath the moonstone hairnet her hair shone brighter than the red and blue of her gown.
For that gown, Brynden Tully and Greatjon Umber had quarreled fiercely. The Blackfish insisted the main colors must be Riverrun's red and blue, while Greatjon declared the Stark gray and white were mandatory.
In the end, with Aunt Genna mediating, both yielded a step: the gown was Tully red and blue, while the cloak was a long white velvet piece adorned with countless pearls, embroidered with a fierce direwolf in silver thread.
Tyrion found it amusing. How could Greatjon, a mere bannerman, presume to dictate anything about the lady's wedding? But then he understood—few Northerners were present. Without a direwolf, people might think the alliance of fish and wolf had ended, to be replaced by fish and lion.
His groom's cloak was thick and heavy, crimson velvet embroidered with countless lions, edged in gold satin and rubies.
The ruby-and-lion-head necklace around his neck was a wedding gift from his aunt. Ice rested on the table's most prominent place, as though with the Starks absent, only this solitary Valyrian blade remained to bear witness.
Thank the gods I'm not a dwarf, he thought.
He looked around. The hall of The Twins wasn't small, though it couldn't compare to Casterly Rock or King's Landing. All guards and soldiers had been replaced with his own Lannister men-at-arms and the forces Aunt Genna brought. The Riverlands lords, the mountain clansmen, and the Flea Bottom beggar army all remained encamped outside the walls.
A roaring fire blazed in the hearth. Torches in iron sconces along the walls burned with ribbons of black smoke. More heat came from the guests—so many people, so few benches, elbows touching whenever someone lifted a cup.
The food was varied, though most of it—eighty percent—came from Highgarden. Tyrion was genuinely grateful. If he could choose a rose to attend his wedding, he would choose Ser Garlan, a dependable warrior.
Edmure Tully and Brynden Tully had the largest crowds around them: Jason Mallister, Clement Piper, Janos Bracken, Tytos Blackwood. As former Wardens, House Tully still held unmatched influence in the Riverlands—one of Tyrion's most essential sources of strength.
Daven, Bronn, and Timett sat together, watching the dance floor. The dance was now led by Greatjon and Brienne—whoever thought of that idea must have been cursed. They looked like two bears fighting. Timett roared with laughter; if he had two eyes, he would've cried from both.
Greatjon bellowed something about bears and maidens.
A bear there was, a bear, a bear!
All black and brown, and covered with hair.
The bear! The bear!
Oh come they said, oh come to the fair!
The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!
All black and brown, and covered with hair!
And down the road from here to there.
From here! To there!
Three boys, a goat and a dancing bear!
They danced and spun, all the way to the fair!
The fair! The fair!
Who was the bear and who was the maiden? Tyrion thought that with any ordinary man, Brienne could be the bear—but next to Greatjon, she remained the maiden.
Sansa laughed, having drunk several more cups, her face as red as her hair. Tyrion kissed her cheek.
"Aunt, everyone's enjoying themselves. Sansa and I plan to slip away without farewells—it'll spare us a lot of trouble." He stood, taking his wife's hand.
"Oh, you impatient little rascal! Don't want to be dragged into the bedding ceremony!" Aunt Genna's plump face gleamed. "Go, go—I'll cover for you!"
She clapped her hands, and the fools, musicians, and singers broke into a wild performance, singing The Bear and the Maiden Fair at the top of their lungs. As the Lady of the Crossing, no one dared disobey her.
The performers lined up neatly on the raised platform, forming a human wall. With everyone's attention fixed on the dance floor, Tyrion bent low, took Sansa's hand, and slipped behind the wall.
...
The bedroom fireplace crackled warmly. Sansa, her face flushed, turned away from him as she loosened her gown. Tyrion bolted the door, then fell backward onto the bed while fumbling with his trousers.
"Tyrion, won't you help me?"
He snapped out of his daze and rushed over. Her undergarments were silk, the gown itself woven from ivory brocade and silver thread, lined with silver satin.
The V-shaped corset plunged nearly to her navel, made of ornate Myr lace in dove-gray.
He had seen countless girls before, but at that moment, Tyrion felt breathless.
He saw only Sansa unfastening something from around her neck.
"What is this?"
"A small act of kindness bears rich fruit." Sansa smiled, holding up a key. She took Tyrion's hand and led him to the fireplace, lifting the key. "Do you know what this is?"
"The key to your heart?" he thought—clumsy. The real key to a woman's heart hung between his legs. Out loud he said, "No."
On the small table beside the hearth sat a wooden box with the direwolf sigil. He hadn't noticed it earlier—his attention entirely on his bride.
"Robb's wife, Jeyne, gave me the key and box before returning to the Crag," Sansa said. "She told me I was kind, for giving her back her crown."
Sansa slid the key into the lock. The lid clicked open, revealing two letters.
"Jeyne told me Robb gave her these before leaving Riverrun. If she became pregnant, she was to burn them. If something happened, she was to give them to the Northern lords."
"She gave them to you." Tyrion picked up one letter, already opened. "You've read it."
"I'm not a child," Sansa said. "Our vows bind us. I shouldn't keep secrets from you."
Tyrion unfolded the letter. The first declared Jon Stark the rightful heir to the North.
"This letter is here?" Tyrion frowned. Robb Stark had been a boy, and though Jeyne was his queen, how could such things be entrusted to a young girl?
He lifted the second letter—Robb, as King in the North, legally legitimizing Jon Snow and lifting his bastard status.
"So…" Tyrion ventured carefully, "the North should fall to Jon…"
Sansa did not speak. She took both letters, the box, and the key, and tossed them into the fire.
Sparks burst upward as the papers curled and blackened in the flames.
"The North is ours."