"Our own," Lucrezia said, serenely. She took Jeremy's hands in hers and turned to him.

"Jeremy, there are so many times that I have felt that I should give up on love. You have taught me to believe again. In the few short hours we have spent together, I have experienced real peace. With you by my side, I believe that I can fly, that I can touch the sky. I think about it every night and day. I vow to be yours, totally and utterly, until death do we part, and that I shall never dip into my stash of cantarella, which is currently in the ancient heirloom sugar bowl which I stole from the Lannister family, no matter how difficult the times ahead may be. I love you, and I cannot wait to be your bride."

"My darling," she said, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him with fervor.

The priest had not asked him to kiss the bride yet, but that was okay, because technically, the bride was kissing him.

This was growing into the sort of ardent kissing that might seem improper in a church, if one didn't know that the priest in question seemed to use it as his own personal hook-up station already.

Lucrezia finally realized that she should pretend to some sort of modesty and end the kiss, her lips still ghosting over his.

"And now, my lord husband," she breathed, "I would say we are well and truly married, are we not?"

They'd said vows, they'd kissed, that counted, right? And they could go find a dark closet or confessional booth and consummate the marriage. Lucrezia Borgia Sforza Wayne Lannister della Rovere possibly-Luthor Wayne Darling was classy like that.

See? They were a perfect match. It was a real shame that he was going to be dead in a few hours. She would remember him fondly in the years to come. Probably.

"Come, my husband," she said, coyly, tugging on his hand and leading him over to the confessional booth.

Her father was the Pope. That meant it wasn't blasphemy. Besides, they were married now!