The marriage chamber smelled faintly of rosewater and fresh rushes, as though someone had tried to disguise the scent of obligation. Tyrion knew the truth, though—one could drown the room in perfume and still smell the politics in the air. The flicker of candlelight caught on gold-threaded curtains, spilling a warm, flattering glow over the bed that had been made ready for them. It was all very proper, very respectable. That alone was enough to put him on edge.

He was not accustomed to being respectable. Respectable did not want him.

Tywin Lannister's choice of bride stood near the hearth, her presence as carefully arranged as the room itself. Noble blood. Appropriate lineage. The match his father could announce without lowering his voice. A match meant to tie ribbons over the ugly truths of his family and hide the bastard knots beneath. She was not Shae—gods, no—and the knowledge cut deeper than he expected. He poured himself wine from the flagon, the dark red catching the light like clotted blood.

"Well," he said at last, his voice low and smooth, the edge of a smile curling where it didn't belong, "here we are. The dutiful husband and his... politically convenient bride." He raised the cup in mock toast. "May the Seven bless our union, and may Father choke on his smugness when he hears we didn't kill each other by sunrise."

The bed loomed behind him like an executioner's block. He thought of Shae's warm and sharp laughter; Sansa's delicate avoidance, her small hands folded in prayer. Thought of how both had looked at him in the end—with fear, pity, or contempt. Sometimes all three.