[I have a lot of feelings about it, and I have to speak regardless of how long ago the series ended. Also, it doesn’t help that I’m re-reading the books because I’m trying to avoid writing my thesis but that’s neither here nor there. AND PETER DINKLAGE IS HOT, OKAY?!]
I believe that TyrionTM (the TV series, the Book series is a reprovable/heavily questioned ass but also valid, ya know?), would most definitely marry someone ridiculously quiet and observant. Or should have married someone quiet.
(In my head, I’m always thinking about Tyrion before the whole Joffrey incident and his travel to Volantis. A Tyrion before King’s Landing. Roaming around Casterly Rock).
He would marry a quiet little thing, a Beesbury because I always think of how steadfast and dutiful this family is. (At least the characters mentioned belonging to this house: Lord Lyman Beesbury I see you! )
But Tyrion would marry this quiet little thing. Probably a young daughter from a smaller branch of the House. She’s most definitely the youngest out of numerous other siblings so her father is marrying her off because SEVEN! Is house Lannister, and Gods know I cannot afford her a better marriage!
And Tywin is a dickhead, so he’s marrying Tyrion off to get rid of him as his “disappointment”. (Is canon in the books too! That he’s tried to do so multiple times, but without success. Because nobody wants to marry “the Imp”).
So, there he goes, marrying this quiet thing from the Reach. Soft-spoken dresses that are simpler and silkier than the grand fashion of the Westerlands which is often made up of strong and solid corsets, and heavy jewelry, and layers, and reds, and wines, and pinks, and deep velvety greens, and gold, sooo much gold.
And curls strung up high! Higher still since Cersei has been queen for a long while.
They sit together, and Tyrion doesn’t know how to speak to her because he’s already resigned to the reality that no woman so soft, and so, so pretty could ever want him.
But she’s so pretty, but not pretty like the fierce beauties of the Westerland, with high brows, and sharp eyes, but pretty with soft beauty marks (maybe freckles, maybe not, you can imagine Reader as you please tbf), chub in right places, soft hands, a glint in her eyes that doesn’t betray a hint of hardship.
She’s just soft. And Tyrion doesn’t think himself soft, worthy of such softness. But he cannot stop the hope and the giddiness in his chest because this is the one thing that has been granted to him that has been somewhat willing. (Because she was willing, right?)
I imagine that their courtship days are awkward. He makes the effort, but she feels foreign and unwanted. Her father has just married her off to “THE Imp”, right? And everybody has hear of his debauchery and his cruelty, so she’s skittering around, trying to avoid it, him. And it only adds to the awkwardness because Tyrion feels inadequate, but the truth is that it isn’t him. And it’s neither her fault.
The wedding is a far more sober event than Cersei’s, than any Lannister really. But Tyrion cannot even be bothered, never having expected his father to even bother splurging a single golden stag on him when the moment came.
But it is still a Lannister wedding so that means that it is grand, red, and gold (Have I mentioned that the Lannister's like their gold?) With many high born in attendance, and many an entertainment before the main event that shuts many a mouth. I imagine petals in the air, and a carriage path towards the great halls of Casterly Rock.
Tyrion would wear a velvet doublet. Something white, with gold details all over it, fitted to his figure. And the little Beesbury bee (I might call her Bee, HE MIGHT call her Bee. Because she's buzzing about getting used to Casterly Rock. But that's another headcanon) would wear a wedding dress so soft and sweet, just like her.
A Balzo headdress with pearls and golden details, and pompous sleeves on a dress almost a creamy white. She looks a vision really. (cue Lucrezia in the Borgia’s series and her wedding dress because it fucked me up and I have never been able to move on from that dress).
The exchange of cloaks is a moment of tension, everybody looks on expecting the moment to cue in the laughter because it is ridiculous: A daughter of a low family, barely a dowry to her name. And then Tyrion, small enough to not be able to reach her shoulders.
It is an actual surprise that Tywin would allow such a union. But at this point the real shame and disappointment is the fact that every other noble house has scorned Tyrion's hand in marriage. He's simply glad that he can rid himself of the stain, really.
But she kneels without another word. And they exchange cloaks, and press their lips together.
Something peachy (or not at all because not all skins show flush the same way), barely there. And it's just soft.
She's just so soft. From her hands to the dress, to the feel of her hair. And now he knows what her lips feel like, pillowy and tasting of honey like the name and symbol of her house.
She sits beside him quietly, and he cannot help but look at her throughout the wedding. Her every mannerism and sweet disposition.
She even smiles at him, all quiet, and soft, and just- His.
But she's tense still. He notices that she keeps more still than usual, barely engages in conversation unless spoken directly to. She laughs at his japes genuinely, but even at times she's distracted.
They don't dance like most married couples do. It would add salt to the injury of Tywin's pride. It would be a mockery.
But they do toast, intertwining their arms and clinking their cups together. And it is pleasant. Tyrion can imagine himself living like this. Pleasantly.
Up until this point he wasn't even capable of imagining himself with a wife (another wife). One that looked so pleasant, and that looked at him so pleasantly. And was so soft, and pretty, and quiet, and...
He feels sick by the time the bedding is called. And he understands that, that is precisely what has been going on in her mind.
Tywin is cruel, and dull (Tyrion doesn't know or has no memory of ever seeing him laugh or smile really, of having fun), and even then he doesn't allow for the typical undressing and cheering that occurs when the bedding is called. But he does call Tyrion to himself as his Beesbury wife, no! As his Lannister wife is being dragged away, wide eyed and worried, glancing on his direction as aunt Genna leads the bride and bridesmaids away.
Because truly, who else if not Genna? Had Joanna been alive it would have been her. Because it cannot be Cersei, that much everyone knows. She's too spiteful of the girl, the disdain she has for Tyrion bleeding into his wife simply by association. So really, it has to be Genna.
Tywin is this unmoving mountain of cold and hatred that he has had to deal with since childhood. The fatherly figure whose approval and affection he has been fed by licking sharp knives, by being useful to not be discarded.
And he stands before him with that same cold gaze as he gives him advice: "You will wed her, bed her, and put a child in her."
Duty, Duty, Duty... The words seem almost like a dejavu, like he might have said this in another time, in another life, about another girl.
But he's saying this with a sneer that cannot be anything but the disdain and disgust he feels for him. His very existence a reminder of everything he had lost and fought against.
And he leaves him by the doors of the chambers that belong now to his lady wife. His lady wife, that is but a few doors down separated from his own chambers.
Marriage swung over his head like a swinging axe now. The words of his father on his head, his sister, the courtiers laughing. His Beesbury girl so agreeable, and quiet, and sweet, who had never spoke a word of distaste to his face or behind his back about him should have had far better prospects than him. And the taste is bile on his tongue, because even when things look bright, it feels as though his family is meant to turn them dark.
He enters the shared chambers and she's already there. Sitting by the end of the bed with her hair undone and a nightgown of myrish lace, and nothing but a small nervous smile. And that smile is probably the most expensive thing of the entire attire.
"My lady", he greets her - his wife - and he cannot help the tension in his voice. He anxiously awaits, clenching and unclenching his fists. Duty, Duty, Duty, Family, Bed her, Put a child in her...
"My lord", she greets back, eyes following his every feature. Her hands clenched atop her lap. Sligtly wide-eyed like a doe. She's scared, he thinks to himself. So he does what he does best...
They sit and he makes a space for himself in a chaise, in her little nook to read. And they talk.
About their lives, about their tastes, their dislikes.
He finds she has siblings. And she likes them, which is absurd to him. He's only liked Jamie, and barely tolerated Cersei. So he listens, and he admires, and craves.
She speaks and he craves, and a small pit of bitterness grows. Because there is good in Westeros, and it is found in this little Bee sitting by the edge of their wedding bed. And it's hers, and she's there.
When the night grows darker still, and even the musicians seem to be softer in their playing she asks: "Aren't we meant to be... bedded?"
Tyrion hesitates, and shrugs: "Is that what you would want? To be bedded?"
The silence is enough of an answer. Silence has always been an answer in itself for those who knew how to listen to it. And Seven know Tyrion has had more than ample moments of silence.
He fills himself another cup, and lays back down onto the chaise. Swirling the wine, a delicious, fragrant auburn drink with a grimace before taking a deep gulp.
They don't have to be bedded if they don't want to. It's his decision then. For all that matters, they don't have to ever be bedded.
A small infraction, a little rebellion. And he notices to his hammering heart's small delight (Hope, even, a dangerous thing for a dwarf like him - a monster his father would say - to have), that she hesitates.
Hesitates before opening the blankets of her bed - their - bed and invites him. "The chaise is only agreeable for a few hours of reading. Not as pleasant for a night".
And he moves. Tucked against bedsheets that have been thoroughly washed, white and lavender to see the proof of their union.
Tyrion has never remembered ever sleeping as content as he did that night...
