Chapter IX: The Young Wolf and the She-Dragon
As soon or as late as some might have hoped, the day of the wedding of the Princess Daena Targaryen, daughter of the late king Aegon the Third, and that of Jonnel Stark, second born son and heir of Cregan Stark, came at last. He had woken up with a headache, and dearly wished to sleep an hour or three more, but his father had all but marched him into the hall to break his fast.
Jonnel Stark could hardly eat anything when he broke his fast the morning of the wedding. Neither the meat, or bacon or eggs, the fruits, or the wide variety of cakes served seemed to please his tongue on this day, though the flagons of mead and wine seemed to wink out at him. But it was unwise to get drunk on the morning of the wedding, and even more so under the ever watching eyes of his father. Such things were suitable closer to dusk rather than dawn. The wedding breakfast was one of the two. It seemed that the groom's party were to break the fast in one hall and the bride's party in another. So he had only his father, his elder sisters and younger brothers for company, with the bannermen of his father, joined by some other Southron lords and knights. He could count among them Bloody Ben Blackwood, and Oscar Tully, the Lord of Riverrun's uncle and newly named castellan of Harrenhal. They were his father's friends, from the days when the dragon's danced, they where his brother's friend, who he had made when he rode with Daeron in Dorne, and who had come rather in honor of his late brother, than his wedding.
Jonnel knew not why all wedding guests could break their fast together, but thought it just another queer southron customs. And it was Southron customs that would be the bane of him this day, for Baelor had insisted that they wed under the sight of the Seven, a wedding ceremony of whose customs he was blisfully unaware. His father had done his best in drilling him on his expected behaviour, but niggling worries still remained in his thoughts.
He hardly knew his future wife, on account of the swiftness of the King's marriage negociations with his father and his arrival in King's Landing scarcely a forthnight before the wedding. They had met briefly a few times, but their conversations had not went as well as he hoped, being stilted and ackward on his behalf. She had seemed altogether to flightly and wild for his liking. And he believed she herself did not like him that much, for she looked half displeased whenever she saw him.
He knew though the importance of this union, the culminance of his father's ambitions stretching back thirty years. It was the Pact of Ice and Fire, though not the same that was put forth so much time ago. Then, it was his brother's due to have a dragon princess for a wife. But now, Rickon was dead, and Jonnel was to have the wife, the castle, and the lands that where his elder brother's due.
He had always looked up to his brother, though he had not given him much attention. Rickon was two and thirty when he died, a great gap in age to his own six and ten, now seven and ten. There was scarce to be had in common with an elder brother so … elder. He was no childhood companion that he could frolic around with in the godswood and play the game of youth. He was no companion in lessons with the masters. He was no comrade in arms, for his brother preffered men of his own age for friendship. The most moments they spent together were when he had the inclination to supervise his lessons in arms, and gave him council on how to use a sword, or the rare moments when he dragged him for a week or two in the Wolfswood, with nought but the clothes on their back and their weapons, to teach him hunting and "how to be a man". When Rickon died, Jonnel grieved more an uncle rather than a brother.
Jonnel never imagined himself as lord of nothing. He contented himself to serve his father, then his brother, in whatever manner they would chose to use him. He thought to do his duty, and enjoy his life with hunting, which he enjoyed well enough, and songs, which his sister sung quite well, and the legends that Old Nan was so found of. It was those legends that gave him a purpose. He often traveled to Castle Black to consult the old books and scrolls there (and his father had sent him to accompany maester Kennet when he investigated the barrow fields, graves and tombs of the North. And when they returned home, it was he who penned page after page of the
Passages of the Dead, for the maester's eyesight was poor. It was a present and a future he would have been content with. And it seemed the gods had decided to laugh at him.
It seemed he had much more in common with his future goodbrother than with his soon to be wife. He had asked about the contents of the library at Castle Black and had deigned to give him advice on the excavation of barrows and tombs, and well-thought advice at that.
Once all of his party finished their breakfast, his father gave him the wedding cloak he would rather put around his bride. He thought it much unlike Daena's maiden cloak, for it was in truth a fur. The fur had been taken from a direwolf, more than a hundred years before, by Lord Alaric Stark's wife, a Mormont lady, who had hunted the beast herself and had its skin sewed into a cloak. Unlike some others, there was no house sigil embroidered upon it, for it was easy for any man to see to wich house it had belonged. Instead, it was to be fastened by a brooch of silver, with the head of a direwolf engraved upon it.
Soon he would be wed, and hopefully, as the years went by, some semblance of mutual understanding would arise between the two of them. He had no wish for a home full of quarrells, and he would do his best to avoid such. And if those were unavailable, he could always venture forth and dig up a tomb or a barrow for a turn of a moon or two, until his wife's wrath or displeasure would dissipate.
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Daena had grown up, all but knowing she was destined to marry one of her brothers. It was ever the tradition of House Targaryen to marry brother to sister. If that wouldn't do, then to an aunt or an uncle. And if that was not possible, a cousin could always be found.
And when se grew up more, she always imagined herself to be the future queen, wed to Daeron. After all, Daeron was always preferable to Baelor. Baelor, who was always with his nose in a book, or praying in the sept, or having long and boring conversations with his pet septons and maesters. It was Daeron who she dreamed of, brave and valiant and gallant. Daeron with his dreams of conquests, of glorious deed and fame everlasting. For the greatest king, she could only be his greatest queen.
When her father died, she was sure that Daeron would wed her as soon as the mourning would end. But he had war foremost in his mind, rather than domestic felicity. And he had other plans for her, meaning to marry to a Sealord of Braavos. The wife of a Sealord was not a queen, but with time she grew complacent to her fate. After all, if her husband was the ruler of a Free City, she would have the adoration of all its people.
When Daeron died in Dorne, she thought her brother would do the duty of a king, and wed her and bed her. But he had choosen not do so, and even broke whatever tentative agreement was made with the Sealord. Instead, she was to wed the Lord of Winterfell's heir, a boy scarce an year her elder. The boy was boring, on account of his youth, and quite shy, and cold in face and demeanour, though not as cold as his father, the man they called the Old Wolf. He had not fought in Dorne, was no famed warrior or gallant knight to sweep her of her feet. He was honourable, and dependable, and polite, and all the qualities that any lord hoped to found it his heir's behaviour. To repeat herself, he was boring. He had complained to her brother that he was more interested in ancient artefacts rather than her, but he had replied in his usual dismissing manner: "But sister dearest, such a man is the best husband any woman can have; the older you get, the more interested in you he shall became".
It was twice now she had lost the chance to be queen, twice now that her brothers had thought her not worthy of such. And now she was to be sent to Winterfell, to the frozen and barren wastelands of the North, to shrivel and die there. All because that was her brother's desire. And she was not to be the lady of the keep even. Lord Cregan was hale and healthy, and could live even to the end of the century. And he was wed, so not even the househeld would belong to her, always having to defer to her goodmother.
First she had thought that Baelor would marry Rhaena in her stead. Dutiful, pious Rhaena would have been the perfect wife for Baelor. But as time passed, and her jealousy and resentment of her sister grew, she began to see that her brother had no such intention. Then she thought of her other sister, Elaena. After all, maybe Baelor desired an equal in intellect, not in piety. But she had seen how Baelor made Elaena and Daeron play together, had seen that their lessons be held at the same time, with the same tutors. Then her thoughts drifted to her cousin Laena, the Oakenfist's daughter. But Baelor had paid her no close attention in all the days she attended court.
It seemed to be that her brother meant to be both septon and king. And great warrior besides. He meant to go to war with Pentos and reconquer Dorne. Dorne, who Daeron lost. And Baelor thought he could do a better job than the Young Dragon. He, who had barely taken a sword in hand before becoming king. He, who had always had his note in a book, or a musty scroll from Old Valyria, or his knees in prayer for hours on at end. Daena wagered she was a better warrior than her brother, and whatever host her brother gathered would have better luck if she was the one to lead it.
It seemed to be that her fate was not of her own desire. At least Baelor had not decided to give unto madness, and lock her in her chambers to keep her a maiden forever more. She looked upon her maiden cloak, made of satin and embroidered with the three-headed dragon of her house, with a clasp made of ruby. Soon she would shed that cloak, and become a Stark of Winterfell, though Baelor allowed her to keep the rank and title of a princess. She would leave all she knew and loved, and go live in a strange land, with strange customs and even stranger weather. At least Jonnel seemed a husband she could rein in well, though perhaps not before his father's passing. She had no desire to see Cregan Stark's cold gaze descend upon her.
Maybe she could even instill some adventureness in him, or do something to make him less boring. If she could not be a queen, she should at least not be bored for the rest of her life. Mayhaps she could even prove herself the best lady of Winterfell that ever was, and prove to her brother she could have been a finer queen than Alysanne herself.
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At last, the sun took its pity upon Jonnel and it was midday, and the Stark party made its way to the Royal Sept, where the wedding ceremony was to take place. He had been dressed in the best of clothes House Stark could afford, that is the best that could be found or made by the tailors in the kingdom. He wore a doublet of grey cloth, the bridal coat of fur clasped upon his shoulders.
The princess Daena was dressed more ostentatiously, to show in her luxuorios garments all the power and might of her house. A white dress, made of ivory silk, and embroidered with cloth of gold and rubies, with a golden diadem on her head glittering with gemstomes – ruby, emerald, onyx, jade, opal and pearl.
Soon, they were to take their vows, as bid so by the High Septon with his crystal crown. They swore vows that their union shall bring forth children and that their every quarrel shall end up in peace, as to please the Mother; that such children shall be brought up in fear of the One-Who-Is-Seven and their Holy Name and taught right from wron, so that they might not displease the Father. He swore an oath that he would defend his wife and children, with the might that the Warrior shall give him, and Daena swore that her children shall be brought up to be brave. And then it was the turn of the Smith, in whose name they swore that their shall build a home and a hearth and their every quarrel shall end up in peace. They swore in the name of the Maiden that their broughter shall be brought up in all innocence, and that neither shall defile their marital bed with perversions or adultery. They swore an oath to the Crone, that they shall temper their marriage with wisdom. At last, they swore upon the name of the Stranger, that their union shall last until the end of their days and none shall tear it asunder.
And then it was the turn of the High Septon to bless them with seven blessings:
"O One Almighty, Eternal and Everlasting, send thy blessing upon these man and this name, and may they be blessed in thy Name."
"O God bless, preserve and keep them, look upon with favour upon them."
"O One-Who-Is-Seven be merciful unto them, and bless them, and bestow upon them your light."
"O Seven-Who-Are-One, bless thy servants, so they may in their every deed fulffill your commands, that by obeying thy will, they shall always abide under thy love and thy protection."
"O Holy Name, we beseech thee, that you may bless these man and this woman with children trueborn and brought up in faith and virtue."
"Look upon them with thy Divine Eye and fill them with benediction and grace, that they may so live together in this life."
"Let them be blessed so that they may perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made."
"And may the will of God be one, in the Seven Heavans, in the world, and in the Seven Hells."
And Jonnel and the princess spoke then as one: " I take you to have and to hold. I promise to be true to you in sickness and in health. I take you for better for worse. I take you for rich or for poor. I promise to love and honour you all the days of my life. I pledge to you my faithfulness. And this promise I shall hold until the Stranger would us part."
After the promises, they were to listen to the wedding song, sung by a choir of septons. And they stood in front of the High Septon, while around them sacred melodies rang forth:
Who shall find a woman of virtue… The heart of her husband trusteth in her…Strength and fairness is the clothing of her… and the law of mercy is in her tongue… Her sons rose up, and preached her most blessed.
It was then time for the challenge to be heard, for any man who had any knowledge, of any reason, of secular or religious law, that he and the princess should not wed, to speak forth and make his case known. Men from both the groom's kin and that of the bride would speak forth and summon forth any man who had such claims. For this wedding, from the princess' kin came forth the king. For him, came his own father. Two men than no sane folk would decide to challenge. The challenge went unanswered.
King Baelor removed his sister's maiden cloak and Jonnel approached her, unclapsed his direwolf fur, and tenderly draped her and fastened it with the silver direwoldf. And with that, she came from the protection of House Targaryen to that of House Stark. Amd they knelt in front of the High Septon and spoke the last words: "With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife. With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband." And then it was the High Septon's turn:" Here in the sight of god and men, I do solemnly proclaim Jonnel of House Stark and the princess Daena of House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."
And they were wed.
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And then came the feast, with its multitude of food and drink. Such variety had rarely visited Winterfell's own tables. Jonnel had chafed under the heat all day, so he had welcomed the chilled wine and ale, and most of all, what the king had come to call "sweet-snow". Baelor had asked his father to send a ship's worth of ice from the North, which had been stored in the cellars of the Red Keep. Combined with cream and sugar and a variety of fruits and spices, it was an enjoyable way to keep the warmth of the sun at bay.
And the hall was full of merriment. There were drummers and piper and fiddlers and countless other singers and bards, there were jonglers and tumblers and fools making their fun. Among them, most peculiar was the fool Bastyen, a former solider who had found himself in royal employ in a very different line of work. The king had allowed him to bear arms, and he carried a rapier, a blade with which he has quite skillfull. He had the custom of dueling whatever lordling or knight that found offense with his humour, and he never lost. For the occasion the jester had dressed himself in the manner of the king, and ventured forth between the guest with the manner of a king, giving his hand to the ladies to kiss.
Some lord who had not the good sense to leave his petition for another day sought to speak with the king, bemoaning whatever indignities his neighbors had brought upon him. The jester was quick to make himself known: "My lord, it seemed that you know not the true king from the false. You speak with Bastyen, my jester." Baelor took it with good humor, being quite fond of Bastyen's wit.
Beyond the merriment, the whole feast seemed to a statement of the royal house that they were still at their full strength, even dragonless, and a warrior king dead in Dorne. There were a thousand guests attending, lords and ladies from all the Seven Kingdoms, envoys from most of the Free Cities, save Pentos and Lys. The hall was draped with long silks in Targaryen red and Stark grey, embroidered with cloth of gold.
He busied and amused himself by watching the crowds, having little apetite for food, and being wary of too much wine. His wife instead seemed to indulge herself in food and wine, the spirits easing her manner. At least the food was not that much. The lord Hand insisted that seven and seventy courses be served, to show the wealth of the royal house, but neither the king nor his lord father were inclined to such extravagance. They settled for seven courses for the bride, and seven for the groom, fourteen in all. The money that would have been spent on the others had been used, at Baelor's command, to provide a feast for the smallfolk of the city. It was not the first occasion when they had benefited from the king's generosity – on every day of rest he had a hundred and forty four from amongst the poorest of the city given a meal of bread, and wine and meat in a lesser hall of the Red Keep, sometimes waiting upon them, to teach himself humility. He had fourteen old men and criples dine at his own table every day, who partook of the same dishes as he.
Soon the wine and ale worked their charms and the men became rowdy. Soon they would call for the wedding. Jonnel knew that Baelor did not favour such display, and as he looked he saw the men-at-arms and the Kingsguard clenching their fists. It seemed that the king wished to instill piety and modesty in his subject with the strenght of his men's arms. After all, it would not do for steel to be drawn at the wedding – in Westeros they were more civilized than the horselords of the Great Grass Sea. The king has spoken with him at length about this plan – he abhorred bedding ceremonies, and the loose morals that surrounded it, and thought to teach a lessen to each man who thought to put his hand on a princess of his house.
And when they came , drunk and lecherous, to put their arms around his wife and undress her, telling bawdy jokes, the men sprang forth. The lewd lords were pummeled by the fists of the guards. And when the northmen and crownlanders saw that the usual fun was not the be had, they thought to please their leige lords, and have a different kind of fun, slinging their feest at lecherous riverlander, libidinous westermen, lustful valemen, salacious reachers and debauched stormlanders. It looked quite much like a melee. The women did not venture forth to have their fun with him, for fear of some stray fist ruining their beauty.
The younger children, the few who had attended the feast, saw the merriment and thought to make their own battle, running and hiding between tables, slinging food and cakes and each other, drenching one or the other. Meanwhile the king had made his way from the days, and climbed upon the Iron Throne, where he looked upon the crowd and laughed, while his jester gave news of what happened in the hall, as if he was regaling tales of some tournament. It was an interesting lesson in morality, and one that would stick better than the dry sermon of a septon.
Tommorow, the king would sent small gifts to every guests, showing that he meant no harm to them, but at the same a subtle acknowledgemnt that the "melee" at the feast was of his own doing, and they had better straighten their morals, and lessen their sins. They would go home knowing that their king was no sermonizing septon, but a man who wielded the authority of his rank at the fullest extent, and to whose house they owed their utmost respect. Older lords and slower men, who had not the occasion to swarm the bride before the fists started swinging, would think themselves the better of the lot, and laugh at their peers, and praise themselves for their good behaviour.
And uncumbered by the guests, he and his wife made their way to the bridal chamber, though he sensed some resentment from Daena about how Baelor decided to distract the guests's attention from the newlyweds. Perhaps she felt overshadoweded by her brother even at her own wedding.
NOTES:
As you can see - Jonnel ended up being some wannabe archaelogist and folklorist - which makes his budding friendship with Baelor quite easy - since Baelor was a student of history in his former life. He's quiet, unassuming, dislikes conflicts and would rather do his own thing. If I could describe him - he's closer to Mr. Bennet, from Pride and Prejudice, but withouth the scathing wit and disdain of others. He's not eager to rule - he doesn't know how lucky he is - since I'm making Cregan's rule last a whole hundred years (he's got more than sixty years left to live) - Jonnel will die of old age without having to bother himself with it.
Meanwhile - we have Daena, who is a mix of the description of her canon self, with queenly ambition, dissapointment, resentment, a bit of jealousy and a desire to prove herself. And she's a bit pissed that Baelor is dismissive of her and seemingly prefers his goodbrother to her. There's probably going to be some character development - offscreen, since this is not her story, but Baelor's.
Baelor - is quite well-meaning, but he's not perfects, so some of his ideas fall flat in some parts. As much as Daena did not want to feel lecherous men pawing at her, trying to tear her clothes off, she's not amused by the way Baelor decided to handle the matter. If it was someone's else wedding, she would have joined Baelor in laughing at the lot of them - but not at her own wedding.
Jonnel's and Daena's marriage is going to get better - though Baelor is resolved to pray for Jonnel's peace of mind quite often.
And the latest of my expies is introduced - the jester Bastyen. As usual, I'm going to let people guess at whatever work I pilfered him from, before I reveal the inspiration for him.
