Lord Husband

Chapter 8

You're clinging to Daemon as you're brought up the aisle, clutching his arm like he's a piece of driftwood that might save you from drowning. Perhaps it's more like a child clinging to her mother's skirts, about to be ripped away by slavers. There's so many unfamiliar faces in the audience, so many people who will be your subjects in a sense. You're cold as you reach the front, almost shivering.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" You don't recognize the man who stands at the front. He must be some sort of relative to your betrothed.

Daemon speaks for you, saying your name, "of House Velaryon, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" You wish at the very least that you could say the words yourself but of course, that would be silly to think.

"Cregan, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Who gives her?" His voice is firm and steady. You know he's looking right in your eyes as you look over his shoulder to avoid eye-contact.

"Daemon, of House Targaryen, husband to her mother."

"Princess, will you take this man?" The officiator speaks again.

Now you look in Cregan's eyes. You can see the pleading in them. It's so hidden and almost overshadowed by his clear pride but it's there, no matter how much he doesn't want it to be. You don't know if he pleads for you to not embarrass him or if he pleads for you to want him. It's of no consequence.

"I take this man." Now is it relief in his eyes or pity?

He takes your smaller and much colder hand in his, sending a flush of warmth through you before you both kneel in front of the heart tree. Everything is silent for the prayers that are meant to be between you and the Old Gods. You suppose you should say something to the gods that you now claim but you can't think of a single thing.

You and your husband rise now and he removes your Velaryon cloak to place one of House Stark over your shoulders. He cringes at the way you practically wince. You already miss the loss of colour. He then takes your arm, people clap and you're led to the feast.

"You're colder than ice." He murmurs, taking your freezing hands in his to try and warm them.

This is the first thing he says to you?

"Is the snow a bad omen?" It's the only thing you can think about right now. You can't get the idea of it out of your head.

He didn't seem to think you were going to say that. "I would not have thought that you cared much for northern omens."

You're just silent in response.

"It's good luck." He says. The answer doesn't necessarily please you. "You look wonderful today, wife."

Wife.

"I don't think i've seen a woman so beautiful in my whole life." You gaze up at him as he says it and he's just staring straight ahead. It's like he's stating just pure facts and not an opinion.

"You look... very nice as well." You reply, hating how his comment made you blush.
He takes you to the main table in the hall, holding out your chair for you like a proper gentleman. All the other guests file in. You're more than glad that you don't have to talk to them until after the feast. Though, you're not sure if you'll be able to down a single bite, finding more comfort in your wine goblet instead.

The Queen stands and raises her glass. "To Lord Stark and his beautiful wife, my lovely daughter." All the northerners cheer. You notice how well your brothers and stepfather seem to enjoy the rowdy bunch. You, on the other hand, are trying to keep the bile down.

Cregan places a hand on your upper back, rubbing gently. "Perhaps some food to go with your drink?" His eyes have no judgement in them, only worry. He noticed right away that you're eating like a mouse.

"If I want food, then i'll eat." You snap at him slightly and he just sighs. The wine is starting to go to your head more and more.

"I know. I know you can take care of yourself. I just take my duty as your husband seriously." You hate the tenderness behind his words. It's hard to be cruel to a man so kind. So, you say nothing.

The feast comes to a natural end and clearly people want to dance and celebrate so you don't protest when Cregan takes your hand.

You feel like a fairy, floating on air as you dance. Your head is empty and your body is light as your husband lifts and twirls you. You look so peaceful to him at the moment, calm and angelic. He wonders if he should have been more firm about discontinuing your wine consumption but he's also so pleased about how content you look.

You dance the whole evening away, exhausting yourself as you take the hand of almost every man who asks. You don't even feel real. It's like you're above the clouds when you move.

It's Daemon who halts the fun. After you dance with him, he brings you back to the table. "Are you trying to drink yourself into the ground, sweetling?"

"Yes." You say bluntly.

"Hmm." He sighs. He understands why you behave this way. "Understandable, but I won't see you with another goblet for the rest of the night."

You have to hold in your eye roll but you still obey.

You slowly start to sober up over the next hour and it's sickening. Your melancholy seems to grow as the alcohol leaves your system and your heart drops when someone calls for the bedding. You hope it's nothing like a southern bedding ceremony even if you doubt that your mother would allow such a barbaric tradition to befall her daughter.

Cregan makes his way through the crowd to you. He speaks once he is by your side, "There is this tradition in the North, as a symbol of protection and strength, the groom will often carry his bride to bed on their wedding night. Will you allow me to carry you?"

"I would not deprive you of tradition." You try to keep your words from slurring.

Everyone is watching as your husband takes you in his arms. There's no goodbyes as you're whisked away for your wedding night.