Tyrion Lannister cursed his luck: There was no wine to be found in his room that morning. It was the day he needed it the most, and no doubt it wasn't a mistake.
His Lord Father must have commanded he was sober on this important day, to keep his younger son from making a fool of himself in his own wedding day.
Called by most the Imp behind his back, and by few to his face, was dressed in his finest attire: a velvet, bright red doublet,
adorned with gold stitching; tall boots to add two more inches to his height and black pants, which tied the entire ensemble together.
This was his wedding day, a supposedly joyous occasion. He was, after all, getting ready to marry a beautiful girl, heir to the Stark throne. She was young and she was fertile...
what could possibly go wrong?
Oh, so many things! For one, the poor girl loathed his family, and for good reason.
For another, Tyrion knew Sansa was not a blushing bride aching to kiss her husband, but rather a terrified young woman fearing for her life.
There was, however, no refusing his father, whether you were the Queen mother, the King himself or his dwarf heir.
Tywin Lannister made it clear in no uncertain terms, Tyrion was to marry, and Sansa was the best option available.
It was clear that should he refuse, there were plenty of other, far more humiliating options for him to chose from.
And what about Sansa? She'd marry someone crueler. Someone like Joffrey.
No. This was a bad situation, but it could be far worse should Tyrion refuse.
So Tyrion walked out of his chambers, with heavy steps. His sister reminded him constantly that he was an ugly man, but he knew himself to be intelligent, educated, and quick-witted.
He also fancied himself kinder than the rest of his family. He could be a good husband to the young Stark girl... if she gave him a chance.