"And you might come to love your wife, someday."

Alis rolls his eyes. "Yes, because that happens so often in highborn marriages."

"Do not close yourself off to the possibility." He pauses for a moment, then adds: "Not for me. Alis, I will not be jealous of your wife. Even had you stayed a second son of a great house, it would be too much to expect you to stay unwed. And I will never ask you to break your vows, you know that. I do not take vows lightly and neither do you. I wish for you to enter this partnership with your heart open to what it may become. Even... even if that means you and I can never be together, again."

"Zak, I..." He clears his throat. "It is... not uncommon, for..."

"My love, you know as well as I do that it would be a weight on your soul to ever do anything more with anyone else while lying to your wife about it. And yes, most noblewomen do not expect perfect fidelity out of their husbands, but you are still yourself."

He closes his eyes again. "I've missed you so. And I shall miss you more."

"As have I, and as will I, my heart."

"Maybe I could... ask her..."

"Maybe you could, but please do not make that a condition for your happiness. Let your relationship with her exist."

"And your happiness? You talk so much about mine, but what about you? Are you going to be perfectly happy, then, without me?"

There's a note of bitterness and hurt, there. He knows it's not rational, but the way Zakary talks about it, as if, as if it didn't really hurt him—

"Alis, it will tear me apart. But even when I was to wed your sister, I have always known it would not last forever. I have... I have made my peace with it. The world is what it is. Wherever I am, whatever I am, whoever I am, I will always love you. And that will... have to be enough. For both of us."

"Then kiss me, Zakary, and make love to me like it could be our last time." Pause. "And maybe explain to me how to do this with a woman."

Zak grins again. "I am as ever your faithful servant."

Elsewhere, someone lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling. She has the urge to cry, but the tears don't seem to come. This isn't a surprise, she ran out a while ago, but it does seem terribly unfair. She can't even cry properly anymore. Most things in her life have seemed terribly unfair lately, so it's not like this is a surprise, either. It's just the way things are, and she must adjust and try to do the best with what she has.

The godswood plot was a good idea, as much for her as it was for Lysa. The backbone of this wedding (and feast's) planning had been for her wedding, to a man who is now dead. And while it's been months since his (horrific, unjust, stupid) death, she did not particularly want to wear the dress she had lovingly embroidered over months for a wedding with a different man. Lysa has all of her blessings for it. The alternative would have been to find a way to ruin it so she could get a replacement without it looking too suspicious. It's the only reason the dress has survived this long at all, really, the thought that she could give it to Lysa and let the pretty thing she made bring some joy to someone, somewhere.

Gods, poor Lysa. Jon Arryn seems a decent, patient man, and maybe his steadiness will give Lysa some support and help her grow up a bit. He'll probably be kind. For a rushed wartime wedding, there could certainly be worse husbands fathers could sell their daughters off to. Of course, there could also be better ones, ones not, what, three times her age? Widowed twice over, with a dozen heirs that didn't make it out of infancy or off the battlefield? He might not be literally overtaken by the flames of cynicism and bitterness, but she doubts he hasn't been charred by then. And it'll hurt her sister to be in a loveless marriage. She knows how much Lysa needs warmth and brightness and sweetness. She knows how much she wanted someone else. Enough to do something incredibly stupid with him, to try and strongarm their stubborn father into accepting the match by way of self destruction. Well. They see how that worked out for her, don't they. Petyr Baelish thrown forever from her father's halls, moon tea forced down Lysa's throat to kill the child inside her, and her poor sister married off to an old man.

And her married off to a stranger, in a strange ceremony she barely knows the vows for, in which most of her family will not be attending. Not her father, not her sister, not her brother. She made the last one swear to go to Lysa's, herself, and while she doesn't regret it, his absence will still hurt. Her uncle will come, almost entirely out of spite, because it's not like he and her father have got on particularly well, after her uncle didn't go along with father's dogmatic marriage plots. He is unmarried to this day, and he and everyone who knows him expects him to die that way. Would that she could do the same. But then she'd be stuck here, like a child, eternally under her father's thumb. Or, perhaps swearing herself to the Silent Sisters, to never speak again and deal only with the dead. Better than staying here forever, certainly, but not better than picking someone vaguely acceptable and sent off to the other side of the continent. At least she had an understanding with Brandon, could see how to make it work between them. At least she knew him.

She does not know his brother, and his brother is the one who will be bedding her tomorrow. It'll... probably go well enough, even if the prospect is terrifying. It's not like much is asked of the woman in the equation. Plenty of brides spend their wedding or their bedding in tears, it's nothing new.

And fortunately for her, she's long since run out of tears.

The next morning is a whirlwind of preparation and getting everything in place. Two young women to be dressed up into beautiful brides, food to prepare for the later feast after the ceremony, seating to be arranged. It is very easy to get swept up in it all, and Anavett is more than happy to. Her plan to not wear her original dress was known by some of her servants, if not by her father, so they had a bit more than a day's notice to scrounge something up for her. It's pretty enough, though Lysa looks the better bride, from a mix of the really lovingly embroidered dress, and her elder sister's fussing over her hair. She even brings out a tiny jar of dark kajal, all the way from Dorne, which she carefully applies around her baby sister's eyes to darken her lashes and lids. Jon Arryn probably won't care, but Lysa does, and she is delighted at the beauty in the mirror. Once it's done, Anavett presents her the jar for later use with a smile and a kiss. Another present, between sisters. All hers, no need to share.

(Her original plan had, of course, been to surprise Brandon by wearing it, but that idea is now as dead as he is.)

Then her sister is hurried off elsewhere for further preparations and last minute seam stitching to get the fit of the dress just right, and Anavett is left alone. She cleans the remains of kajal from her fingers, dons her maiden cloak, and rereads her own notes on the ceremony she's about to participate in. They're incredibly short, and they do little to assuage her fears of causing offense, but they're a little comforting. Technically speaking, there's much less involved than with a ceremony under the Faith of the Seven, but also nothing is handed off to a septon or anyone else. The only speaking parts are hers and her groom's. It's a bit funny that this results in her having much more to say and do. Sort of puts into light how little her planned wedding was going to have anything to do with her, doesn't it. Ultimately, this is preferable, even if the prospect is scarier. She's always been more at ease doing something instead of not, especially when she's feeling complicated things. Which, she is. Of course she is. This doesn't feel real, this doesn't feel fair, but it is real and it's never been fair and she must carry on regardless.

        "You all right, little spark?" asks her uncle, who has come to check on her. How long has she been sitting here, all alone in thought? Probably too long. Damn.

Anavett smiles a little, sadly. "No. Not really. But I've better things to do than mope, don't I? And if nothing else I will get some degree of pleasure of giving my own hand."

        "I'll bet. But I still will, if you need me to."

At that, she stands, and she hugs him. She loves him so. The rest of her family, too, but her love for her uncle is much less complicated than any of it. "I know. Thanks. I can do it." Her mouth then twitches with a more sincere half-smile. "I'm not like to burn the godswood down, you know. You can stop fussing."

        "Ah, but then the whole north might end up ablaze."

"Ha! Give me some credit, I hear there's still a lot of snow up there. It couldn't get too out of control so soon into spring."

        "Your careful planning at work, I'd wager. C'mon, moping doesn't suit you. A young Lord is expecting his Lady."

She gives another little smile, a nod, and then off they go. Him first, into the scattered witnesses tucked away into the shadows of the edges of the godswood, with a nod to let everyone know that it's about to begin. Then, after a final deep breath before she takes the plunge, her. To the heart tree at its center, as the bride.

There wasn't a set time for this to begin—well, there was, but a wedding will happen when the bride and the groom are both ready, and not a minute sooner—so Anavett is not late. But Alisander, all concealed nerves and anxiety glares, has been in the godswood since much earlier than he strictly needed to. Before anyone else, really. And the guests started trickling into the woods one by one, Zakary of course being the first one, not wanting to be outdone by any others, but they, too, were not expecting very specific times. All of Stark's bannermen are there, and a good fraction of their own men besides. Some of the more curious Southerners came earlier, too, but most of them left before now, and Zakary himself is the only Baratheon left.

The time has been spent quietly speaking—one does not raise their voice in a godswood, even the Northmen most like to start a drunken brawl know this—or in silent contemplation and prayer. Alis thinks even the birds got the message, and despite the extra people the woods feel much quieter than they were last night. The overcast sky adds to it, making it feel much more real. And the fact that a proper wedding is to happen makes the insulting makeup of this garden pale into the background. And, well, some of the Northmen (Alisander is sure he did not see who) did in fact act a little bit too carelessly around the manicured flowers and Alisander thinks Lord Tully will be finding this place a much more acceptable godswood—to the Northerners—than it was before they came.

When Brynden Tully arrives, what little conversation was ongoing fades to silence almost immediately. Alis notices this and gets back to his feet from his kneeling position to await his bride. He is wearing the colours and sigil of House Stark—the silver direwolf racing on a white field—and Zakary is holding a similar cloak, standing closest to Alis as something akin to a Southern best man, though not quite.

Alisander waits, then, his face the mask of the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Here is his bride, clad in a (relatively) simple white dress and the cloak of her house around her shoulders, red and blue waves with her house's sigil in the middle. The cloak itself is a bit gaudy for traditional northern sensibilities, they tend more towards monochromes of browns, greens, yellows, and reds when they tend towards colors at all, which many of them don't. Blue and red together is just.... too loud. Not something that would occur in nature, even in battles where rivers become red with blood.

But for all the cloak makes her look like a stranger, Anavett Tully herself is holding her head up like a proper northern woman, proud and brave. She is stepping into this deal knowingly and willingly, not like a meek and terrified little child-bride the southerners often marry off for politics. There can be no doubt from looking at her; this is a woman grown, not any kind of child in a woman's dress, wearing colored facepaints to look like something she isn't. With her bare face and simple dress, she's more appropriate to their traditions than she knows.

And if she's not mistaken, the first set of lines are his.

They are indeed. And though he has not witnessed many such weddings himself since coming to the Eyrie he knows the words by heart.

"Who comes?" asks Alis, and if there was any doubt that the old gods were watching it might be dispelled right now by the stillness of the air, the silence of the wind, the feeling of the world holding its breath. "Who comes before the gods?"

Right. Name and house. Reason for being here. She can do this. She knows all of the lines.

"Anavett of House Tully, I come here to be wed." Her guide for her lines had gently and politely insisted that she not lie, here in the godswood, not even for the silly southern sensibilities of virginity, but she doesn't need to trade one word for another in her next line. "I am a maiden grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, and I come to beg the blessings of the gods."

(Her expression, the glance around the godswood at the onlookers of 'And if anyone calls me a liar, I will fight them myself, right here and now,' is also very appropriate, but she doesn't know that either.)

And then she smiles a little, because, okay, she does see the appeal of these northern vows. They set the mood better than promising to love someone with a single kiss, which was a romantic notion but also pretty, pretty lies.

"Who comes to claim me?"

The Northerners do agree that it's appropriate, and many of them are starting to think that maybe Brandon Stark was onto something with this one.

Alis notices it as well, and though he does not smile, his eyes are warmer—or perhaps warm is the wrong word, in the godswood, but they reflect approval and respect. "Alisander of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I claim you." He looks her in the eye for this next line: "Will you take me as your husband?"

"I will take you," she agrees softly. Despite the volume, it echoes in the deafening silence of the godswood. Then she reaches out her hand to take his, and gives it a little squeeze. The godswood has never felt so terrifying and foreign, in all her years of living here. Fortunately, that's all of the lines she needs to say, so if she's feeling a little shaky, at least it won't leak into her voice for all to hear.

He gives her hand a squeeze, too, and offers her another non-smile before guiding her to face the heart tree and kneel before it, so they can pray for the gods' blessings.

Anavett kneels beside him, and lowers her head in submission before the heart tree, and then she is out of script to follow. Her northern guide just said that the vows would be followed by a moment of silent prayer, which does not give her any hint about the specifics of how. She feels very much like a small child who has been tossed alone into the deepest woods, and told to find her own way home. At least it's silent, so no one (except the old gods, presumably, and right now it seems very much like they're listening) can hear the clumsy fumbling of her thoughts. Stumbling and frightened, as if she's wandering blind in the dark, she's still going to do her best.

She wants... her marriage to be a good one. Happiness would be nice, love would be nice, but ultimately, she wants it to have led to the improvement and strength of them both. Their Houses, too, of course, but mostly them. They're the ones getting married, they're the ones that will be having children together, so really, this should be about them. Yesterday, when she'd proposed this idea, it seemed like he understood the why of why she asked for it, and she wants so badly to not have been seeing things there. Let the old gods let this marriage be like that, let them trust each other, and believe in each other, and be just as honest as they're being here. She wants to be useful, wants her efforts to come to fruition, wants to have a partner to build a better realm with. They have a lot of power, compared to most other people in the realm. Let them use it well. Let them raise children that will do the same.

That's probably something in the realm of a blessing she can ask of the old gods. Right? It seems very reasonable to her.

(... How long are they supposed to stay here, her guide also didn't tell her. Will they just be here forever if she fails at praying properly?)

Alis always finds the godswood soothing, even an artificial one like this. He can sort through whatever's going through his mind so much more easily here than anywhere else. Sometimes what he needs is advice, but sometimes it's silence and the feeling of the gods' watchful gazes upon him. And it feels a little bit presumptuous, to ask the gods for help with his small, petty problems that he should have been able to solve himself, but he figures that if the gods did not want to help them they wouldn't be helping.

Today he's not in need of help, though. He's dealt with what he needed to deal yesterday, between prayer and his time with Zakary. He has... hurt and fear and sadness, about that, but he also has hope, and the only thing he asks of the gods is that whatever happens to them be good for them and their people. Ideally all people.

Be it coincidence or magic or miracle, he stirs at about the same time she does, and places a hand on her shoulder, offering the other as help to get to her feet.

Oh, good. She isn’t going to be here forever, and probably didn’t mess that up too badly. His offered hand is taken, and she stands with his help, feeling uncharacteristically wobbly. How can a godswood she’s loved all her life now be so intimidating?

The next step in their ceremony is the last, but it causes her to flush all the same. It’s just the removal of a cloak, why does it feel so intimate? Why is she suddenly too shy to meet his eyes?

(Because it means she’s stepping out of her father’s protection and into his. That’s why. Kissing him would, honestly, be easier and feel less meaningful.)