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Lyanna wears the single one of her dresses that is made of white fabric. It’s light enough to wear comfortably this far South, given the season. She doesn’t remember buying it, but she must have. Its purchase must have been a flash of insight from start to finish, given she’d spent the travel time before the Ashford tourney embroidering direwolves to chase each other around the dress. It’s a beautiful dress, one that wouldn’t have been considered out of place for a northern bride to wear.
When she had wed Rhaegar, she’d worn a simple dress in the style of the South, the only thing Stark about it was the grey interwoven with the white. She’d hated it, but it was all they’d had at such short notice. Her cloak had been white fur, no direwolf to be seen, she hadn’t had the time to make it. Her marriage had needed to happen quickly, to protect her, to protect them, to protect their future, or so they’d thought. She’d thought at one point, that it seemed like trouble was five steps ahead of them and they were only scrambling to catch up. She’d been right, of course.
She still doesn’t know how Varys learned that she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, the only ones who knew were Benjen, Howland, Rhaegar, Ser Arthur, and Elia. None of those people seemed the type to go telling tales. Yet, somehow, Varys had found out and he’d told Aerys, right at the worst moment.
This time, her marriage is rushed, of course, but only because she agreed for it to be so. She doesn’t doubt that if she’d asked, Baelor would have agreed to wait. The immediacy had only been due to the presence of the weirwood grove between Ashford and Summerhall, but there are other weirwoods. She’s sure there are still weirwoods further to the south. House Dayne has one, last she knew. Many of the Stony Dornish still did, at least that’s what Ser Arthur told her.
During the days following the Trial, and their journey on the road, she’s been sewing their cloaks. Her needlework had improved by leaps and bounds the day Elia had pointed out that a woman of sufficient sewing skill could stitch men’s wounds closed in a pinch. She doesn’t expect to need the skill, but it is one she’s happy to have in her wheelhouse. That reminds her.
“Prince Maekar,” she says, turning towards the tent flap, knowing her soon to be goodbrother will hear her. The sound of the flap lifting follows soon afterwards, proving her assumption correction.
“My Lady?” Maekar asks, eyeing her with intrigue. She smiles at him and turns to ruffle through one of her chests, finally coming up with the fine black fabric.
“Please bring this to Baelor,” she says, running her fingers over the fabric even as she holds it out towards Maekar. He raises an eyebrow at her but takes the bundle without question. “It’s his cloak.”
“Ah!” Maekar exclaims, his eyes lighting up with understanding, tucking the bundle under his arm. “I will take it to him at once. How much longer do you think you’ll need? He wanted to give everyone some time to gather in the grove.”
“Perhaps another half hour,” Lyanna answers, frowning. “Northern brides really don’t get dolled up too much.”
“Good,” Maekar mutters, turning on his heel. “I’ll tell him we can call them now.”
“Of course, thank you,” Lyanna answers, though she thinks maybe her voice is too quiet for him to hear. She turns back to getting ready, hastily throwing her hair into a Northen style Crown braid. It swirls around her head, then falls down over her right shoulder. She has little to no jewels to pin through her hair, but she doesn’t mind. Northern brides so rarely ever do.
She reaches down to pick up her maiden’s cloak and runs her fingers through the fur of the direwolf. Grey on white. Her father would have been happy to give her away. Well, to anyone from the North. Beron is so different to Rickard. Rickard had always, always been looking South. Beron always looked North. Just one of the great differences between the two fathers she has known. Still, neither of them would have been happy to give her to a Dragon.
It’s why, in the letter she’d sent to Beron, she stressed that it was a love match. Stressed that she’d introduce Baelor to the culture of the North so he could understand. So that the North would have a Northen minded King for the first time since Torrhen knelt. She stressed she would not lose herself to the vipers of the capital, but that she’d do her best to ensure the North’s voice was heard. She stressed that she had gone the weirwood willingly.
In her letter to Rickard, she’s stressed that she was safe. That she would pave the way for the Northern voice to flourish south of the Neck. That in wedding Rhaegar, she ensured their next King would know the North, as they did. She offered to wed a daughter of hers to a son of Robert’s, as a peace keeping venture between House Stark, House Targaryen, and House Baratheon.
Her letter for Rickard had never made its way into his hands. She’d sent four copies of the letter for Beron, apologising for the duplication but needing to be certain her words made it to his eyes.
She’d had stop herself from filling Beron’s letter with only three words. The three words she never got to say to Rickard ever again. I love you. I love you. I love you. I lov-
She sent four copies to Beron. She’d sent them off at different times in the days that followed the tourney at Ashford, determined her words would reach her father and he would not ride to war for her. Determined that in this life, he will not burn for her.
“Lady Lyanna?”
She lets out a strangled shriek at the voice behind her and turns to find Maekar standing awkwardly at the entrance to her tent. She flushes, pressing a hand to her heart and shakes her head.
“I apologise, my prince. I fear I was… very lost in my thoughts,” she says, reaching down to grip the cloak, before she swings it around her shoulders and ties it securely. “I’m ready, if everyone else is.”
“Everyone else is very confused, but ready,” he answers, amusement shining in his eyes. “Come now, my lady. Can’t have a wedding without the bride,” he says, offering her his arm. Last time, it had been Ser Oswell. They were related through their Blackwood relatives. She shakes her head, putting her past behind her as she steps forward to take her soon to be goodbrothers hand.
Her past is gone. She must let it go, to embrace her future.
Baelor stands at the heart tree an absolute bundle of nerves. He hasn’t been able to stop bouncing on the balls of his feet since Maekar had brought the cloak to him. It was superb work and, to be perfectly honest, he had forgotten a cloak would even be needed. He’d never had to organise cloaks. Not for himself, not for Valaar, and certainly not for Matarys. But his beautiful, smart, soon to be wife had taken care of all of it.
It wasn’t a traditional Targaryen cloak. The fabric was black, of course, and there was the three headed dragon of his house, but that was where tradition ended. The body of the dragon was still red, but each head had a different colour. There was a black head with red outline and red eyes. Its flame was also that red outlined black. The second head was bronze, with greenish-blue outline and green eyes. Its flame was green. The third head was silver, with golden eyes. Its flame was silver.
He’d wondered for only a few moments why the change before he’d understood. Balerion. Vhagar. Meraxes. His darling wife was showing her knowledge of Targaryen history, while also reinforcing her point. The three headed dragon on the sigil had always represented the Conquerors, but as far as his lovely wife was concerned, the true Conquerors were the dragons, not their human riders.
“Interesting choice,” his brother had muttered, when he’d seen the sigil, before he’d shrugged and turned around, off to go pass the command for everyone to gather in the trees.
Ever since then, Baelor has been a nervous wreck. He did not feel this way about Jena, but then he and Jena had already had months to learn each other by the time they met in the Sept. He and Lyanna have only had weeks and, worse, Jena never had a princely spouse to compare him to, but Lyanna?
Sometimes Baelor wishes she’d never mentioned the other prince to him, because all he can do is wonder why she chose him. Why she didn’t just simply wait for this other prince to come. Then he always gets bogged down in wondering if in saving him, Lyanna had ensured that other prince would never find her and then he feels guilty. Then, of course, he feels annoyed for feeling guilty. Gods, he hasn’t felt this all over the place since he was a nervous teenager figuring out how to communicate with girls without nervously throwing up all over them. Lady Velaryon had forgiven him that indignity, but she’d never spoken to him ever again.
“Kepa?” Kiera calls as she comes to stand in the trees. “Kepus said you called us?”
“Kessa,” Baelor answers, looking at his darling good daughter. She has always been a blessing for their family, and he loves her like she’s his own. It hurts his heart to think of her mourning Valarr alone in just a few short months, without any children to hold a piece of him after the pyre burnt out. Without Baelor himself there to be a shoulder for her to cry on. Without Matarys there to reminisce about Valarr’s various stupidities. Gods, but he’s going to fix that. “Patience, daughter,” he says, forcing himself to look away before his nerves have him blubbering at her like a babe, especially when Valarr steps up beside her with a knowing look in his eyes.
He’d not even had to tell Valarr that he was going to remarry. He’d stepped into his son’s tent earlier that evening, and his son had clapped him on the shoulder and told him it was about time. Apparently, he and Matarys had been running out of noble ladies to shove across his path, not that Baelor had ever noticed. Thinking of his youngest son only causes the possibility of becoming a blubbering mess to rise higher, so he breathes in and turns to look at the laughing tree.
He is saving them. All of them. The Old Gods have given him this chance and he will embrace it with everything that he has.
“Uncle?” Egg asks, and he turns to find his youngest nephew looking up at him with large, confused eyes. His hair has barely started to grow back in, but Baelor knows he’s going to shave it all off again before he and Ser Duncan hit the road for their solo trip through Dorne, after they all make it to the Water Gardens, that is.
“Go on, Aegon, wait with the others,” Baelor says, pointing his head towards the trees. Egg huffs at him, but Ser Duncan gently prods him off into the trees with a hand on his shoulder.
One by one they arrive, including his new nemesis, Lyonel Baratheon. He hadn’t expected any but his family to have been rustled up, but apparently their Storm Lord traveling companions couldn’t resist the temptation when they saw the royal family disappearing into the grove. Lyonel smirks at him, his eyes glinting in the torchlight, Baelor huffs and looks away from him. Trust Lyonel Bloody Baratheon to recognize a wedding under the Old Gods when he sees one.
Uneasy quiet has fallen in the grove for perhaps ten minutes before he hears the rustling at the entranceway and he turns to look, his breath catching in his throat as he sees first his brother, then his dear Lyanna. She looks like a maiden from out of the stories. So very beautiful, and soon to be his.
“Oh!” he hears Egg exclaim from somewhere, but Baelor barely acknowledges it, his eyes only for Lyanna.
Maekar comes to a stop barely inside the grove, Lyanna smiling where she holds his arm, both of them looking at him expectantly. It takes him a moment to remember he has to start his own wedding and he clears his throat.
“Who comes before the gods this night?” he asks, ensuring his voice is loud and clear and that it absolutely does not shake, thank you very much. He’s certain this bit of ceremony is for the benefit of the witnesses, not the gods who watch from behind him.
“Lyanna of House Stark comes here to be wed. She is a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to seek the blessing of the gods,” Maekar says, his voice just as clear, just as loud as Baelor’s had been. “Who comes to claim her?”
“Me,” Baelor answers, feeling lightheaded at even that short utterance. Though, he’s so grateful that he doesn’t squeak it, like Matarys is still so prone to doing. “Baelor of House Targaryen, Hand of the King, Prince of Dragonstone. I claim her,” he says, forcing himself to breathe, to not embarrass all of them by fainting like a maid. Well, that might be an insult to maidens, actually. He’s never even seen Lyanna so much as swoon. “Who gives her?”
“Maekar of House Targaryen, her very, very distant cousin,” Maekar says, shooting Baelor a look that in his heightened state almost has Baelor bursting into laughter. His little brother is so not amused. “Lady Lyanna,” Maekar says, turning to look at Baelor’s bride. “Will you take this foo- I mean man?” Maekar asks, causing laughter to ripple from the trees and from the lady herself.
“I take this man,” Lyanna says, pulling her arm from Maekar’s as she steps forward to place her hand into Baelor’s own. It’s in that moment that Baelor realises his hands have gone all clammy and he flushes, but Lyanna says nothing, even as she guides them to turn and face the laughing tree, and then… well, then he gets to take back his earlier thoughts because Lyanna swoons. Her face has gone so unnaturally pale in the torchlight and he actually has to shift so he holds her up, even as there are concerned murmurs from the trees.
“Lyanna?” Baelor murmurs, his heart pounding away in his chest. Has she been poisoned? Did someone learn what they were planning and try to stop them?
“I’m alright,” Lyanna says, pulling herself upright and reaching to take his hand again, squeezing his hand in reassure. “I’ll tell you later,” she murmurs, and he nods, squeezing back, as they both kneel before the tree, bowing their heads.
Gods of my wife, I pray that you will not let me stray. Let me keep and protect her, love and cherish her for all the days left in me. Let me bring her happiness and rarely ever sadness. Let me give her strong, healthy, happy children. I vow that hers shall be the only bed that I seek. Her heart all that I wish to hold against my own. I shall think of her always, whether she is with me or far away. Never shall I seek to harm her. I will protect her and that which she loves. Judge me harshly, gods of old, should I break these vows.
Lyanna squeezes his hand, and after a moment, he squeezes back. The symbol, she’d told him, that they are ready to proceed. He smiles softly, before he releases her hand as he climbs to his feet. Lyanna remains on her knees; her head bowed before the laughing face of the tree as he steps behind her and undoes the knots of her cloak. Carefully, he hands it to Maekar, before he sweeps his own cloak from his shoulders and places it upon his bride’s.
Once properly under his protection, he bends down and swings her up into his arms, his smile growing at the sound of her laughter as she curls her arms around his neck. He cradles her close, shuddering as he feels her lips pressing a kiss against his chin, and he turns to walk back out of the grove.
A married man once more in the eyes of the gods.