A Dragon's Dawn

chapter four; as husband and wife

SHE WAITS WITH DEAD blue eyes as he fastens the cloak around her neck. He clips it to the shoulders of her dress and she stands up when he is done. Her face is as emotionless as her eyes, a mask of emptiness that doesn't show anyone her true thoughts.

A part of him want to know what she's feeling. Whether she hates him or this ceremony - anything. But he knows that if he asked her, the response will be a lie.

All together, the ceremony goes by in a blur. He's been to countless weddings and never once has he paid attention to the vows.

He makes sure to remember these ones.

It the least he can do for her, but he doesn't know why he bothers. Perhaps he wants to be a better man, a decent husband to this lost little girl.

He scarce hears the priest's words as he speaks in a slow, aged drawl. She doesn't seem to concentrate either, her eyes fixed on her right sleeve. She's waiting patiently until the priest asks them to say the vows.

When the time comes, she says hers softly, and he says his the same way, only his voice is a little more alert, a bit more alive than hers.

When the priest lets him kiss his bride, he slowly places a hand under her chin and tilts up her head. She allows all this, like a doll - a porcelain one, he thinks as he looks at her. Yet she's not at all fragile. He places the other hand at her back and feels her shiver. But when he places his lips to hers, it's him shivering. Her lips are as cold as snow, no matter how red they appear to be.

The kiss is emotionless and icy, and he can only press his lips to hers for a split-second. The guests clap and cheer, but he's much to focused by his little bride to notice. A breath leaves her little lips slowly - a weary sigh. He takes her hand in his and leads her down the aisle.

The feast is a large affair, much to Jaime's annoyance. The hall is decked with fine platters of food and the kitchens are brimming with staff, and each guest pours into the hall. It soon becomes a sea of bannermen, soldiers, lords and ladies; much like the night of her welcome feast.

She sits next to him upon the dais, and eats even less than the night of her welcoming. She is as stiff as a board when they dance, and he wonders why he isn't - he's being subjected to the same marriage as she is.

But he isn't the one who's going to lose their maidenhead by the end of the night.

The feast drones on and on, and when everyone is too deep in their cups to care, he grabs her arm and silently pulls her up the stairs to his chamber. He closes the door and bolts it shut, turning around to face his little wife who stands in his room like a sheep in a wolfs den - but really, she's a dragon in a behemoths den.

He wants her to show a bit of fire, defiance - something. Anything.

She shifts on her feet and glances around the chamber with wide eyes. Jaime sighs to himself. He ignores the iffy feeling in his stomach as he reaches for the pitcher of wine on the small table. It is the only thing that can help him now.

He downs half the goblet when his eyes set on her again, toying with the idea of waiting to bed her. It's best to get it over and done with, he thinks to himself. He not one to postpone the inevitable.

"M-may I have some," the girl asks timidly. "My Lord?"

He nods and hands the cup out to her. "Call me Jaime," he adds. He looks her up and down - not peevishly - and thinks sadly that she's much too young to be married.

Society, though, disagrees with him.

She grasps the goblet with both hands. He can see them shake uncontrollably and a few splashes of red hit the floor as she holds it.