He feels the mirror emotion, there. After this there will be no turning back. She will be his, with all the power and responsibility that entails, and the prospect is more than a little terrifying.

But that, too, is a thought he's already dealt with, so there's no hesitation when he unclasps her cloak from around her shoulders, offers it to Zakary, then takes the one with his sigil from him to replace the one he took.

The gesture feels weirdly intimate, too, though it might just be the context. And the relative closeness of their bodies, and the warmth of his skin where it lightly touches her, and the weight of his gaze on her. "I hope the North will be to your liking, milady," he murmurs so that only she can hear. And he doesn't mean just the geographical location.

"And I hope I will be to its," she murmurs back wryly, trying to scare off her nerves with a quick wit and a little smile. She also doesn't just mean the geographical location.

With his cloak around her shoulders, she feels, well. His. It makes it very final. Everyone's agreed, even the trees. (Especially the trees.) She shivers a little, and it's not from the cold. But her little smile remains, hopeful and nervous and honest. She does actually want to make this thing of theirs work, and meant all of her vows. Every one of her silent prayers to the old gods, too. She feels no regret, just nerves.

And now is the part where he sweeps her off her feet into an aptly-named bridal carry and starts taking her to the feast while the guests stomp their feet on the earthy ground rather than applaud, which doesn't make much noise in the quiet woods but conveys enthusiasm anyway.

!!! Her guide did not tell her about this part!!!! Granted, she's absolutely heard tales about northerners carrying off their brides, and Brandon made a couple comments to that effect, but! But! It's one thing to say it and another thing to just, just do it!

Probably she should have expected this, considering how much they seem to value truth and doing what they'll say they'll do, but she didn't. More fool, her. So when she's swept off her feet, she gives a little squeak. But she's unresisting and soon even gives a self-aware little laugh, and settles into his arms without any further fuss.

And with the Northmen spilling out of the woods they no longer need to stay silent and they are most certainly making up for the lost while with jeering and more bawdy jokes. Someone mentions that he didn't know fish could squeal but he supposes jumping right into the mouth of a direwolf like a nice appetiser will do it, and this causes a lot more laughter than the joke deserves.

Oh, gods, here they go. Why did the Tully sigil have to be a trout. She's been hearing these jokes for literal years now.

But of course, she wouldn't be herself if she didn't join in. She needs to at least make this more creative than 'har har, trout gets eaten by a direwolf, har har.'

"Hey! That's not fair!" she protests, playfully. "Haven't you heard that the Mad King Aerys asks the unreasonable as a matter of habit? Of course my first thought was, 'Oh, damn, I'm going to have to walk.'"

"On my honour as a Stark, of course I couldn't allow this. I should tend to my wife's needs as befits my state."

    "Aye, milord will tend to his lady wife's needs alright, tonight most of all!" accompanied by more jeering.

“I suppose I will see how nice being at the mercy of his mouth is, won’t I,” she says, sweetly.

Even louder laughter. Zak laughs, too, and says, "You might have found a shark hiding in the shoal, brother!"

"I might. So in the end we'll have to see who's claiming whom, will we not?"

“Don’t worry! You’ll be fine. I need you to carry me!”

It is in these spirits that they arrive at the feast. At some point they started improvising a bawdy song with a simple percussive background of clapping and hi-ho! with someone new speaking up every other verse to continue the rhyme and the story. Zakary picks up a couple of verses and ends them with an obvious segue for Alis, who rolls his eyes and shoots him a fond glare before he does say his part, to great amusement of all present.

Including his wife, who is very charmed by her new husband’s singing and cheer. Her worries that her wedding might be too somber of an affair were unwarranted. It’s clear he likes her, and cares for her, and that for all of their bawdy jokes and jeers, his men also like her well enough already. She knew that there’d been concern about their Lord wedding a soft southern bride, and it seems like many of their fears have been put to bed. Good. She wants to be their Lady, not their pretty decorative flower. They seem to treat their flowers poorly, up north, judging by the state of the godswood.

She had no concerns about the feast after, though. It’s hard to be morose with a good meal and a better wine, and many guests skipped both ceremonies in favor of filling their plates and cups early. For all that this is a rushed, wartime wedding, her father didn’t skimp on food or drink. The wedding feast of his two daughters will be a proper Riverlands party, and that means everyone should leave full, drunk, and happy. It’s good for morale, and there’s no telling how many of these men might be dead this time next year.

The other wedding ceremony has yet to end, for all that hers started after. This was to be expected, even with her delay of nerves and navel gazing. The seats of honor at the head table for Lysa and then Lord Arryn sit empty. On the wall behind it are the banners of the couples; Stark silver direwolf on white, two banners of familiar rivers of blue and red for the brides, and blue falcon against white moon and blue sky of Arryn. Sisters together, so she can see to Lysa enjoying at least some of her own wedding.

But for now, there is no little sister for her to fuss over, so she can actually just enjoy herself. Because damn is she hungry.

She's close enough to him throughout this all to notice the subtle strain lines around his eyes and the way he tenses up whenever he feels like he's being directly observed—sometimes even by her, though it seems like when his mind has enough time to catch up and notice that it is her who's doing the observing rather than one of the guests he relaxes slightly. And all of those signs are too subdued to be really visible by anyone who's not sitting right next to him at the table, so all in all he's doing a pretty good job of playing the part of the quiet-but-not-somber Northman. He's out of his element but his element is ice and snow and he won't have those for a while still, better get used to it.

He eats—not exactly mechanically, but more as an afterthought than as something to do with gusto, and he wets his throat steadily with wine. Not quite fast enough to get very drunk—especially compared to all of the other Northmen—but he will most certainly not be sober by the end of the feast.

Anavett is practiced at these sorts of things, and does not plan to be drunk by the end of the feast. It might be wiser in the short term, it’d probably get her through the bedding just fine, but she has only a scant few days to get to know her husband before he departs. She doesn’t want to waste any of her time with being too drunk to make observations. Like how her Lord Husband is more uncomfortable with the feast than the wedding, and dislikes being the center of attention. Poor man. He’s handling all of this very well, but she knows he never expected to be Lord of Winterfell.

She finds his hand (his left, with her right, she would not want to get in the way of his sword arm even here) and gives it a squeeze. A little message that she’s here, and she wants to help.

“When Lysa’s wedding is concluded, she’ll want to be the center of attention,” she informs him quietly, “Once she’s here, if my Lord would prefer to quit the feast earlier rather than later, I expect no one will take issue if we call for our bedding sooner than expected.”

Which is objectively more terrifying for her, of course, but she knew what she was getting into from the beginning.

"There shall be no bedding," he replies in a soft undertone. "—I will bed you, to be clear," and there's a light flush to his face that indoors could well be confused for the wine taking effect, "but no others shall be party to it."

"... Oh."

The 'bedding ceremony,' as it's called, is when the bride and groom are carried off to their marital bed, with members of the opposite sex of each assisting with the removal of all articles of clothing so the happy couple can get to it more quickly. They are then thrown stark naked into their room together. She was not particularly looking forward to that part of getting married. It stank too much of lecherous men wanting every excuse to get a glimpse (and perhaps a touch) of tits.

"Well. As my lord husband wishes," she murmurs softly, smiling. Then she raises his hand to her lips and gently kisses it. "I would have been all right, but. Thank you regardless."

He nods, still flushing a bit, then frowns. "I am not sure it would be seemly to leave earlier than most guests, especially if I am rebuking their attempts at this custom."

“It would certainly dampen the mood a bit, and could be seen as rude, but…” she hums thoughtfully. “You’re still a young man, I’m known to be a great beauty, and everyone south of the Neck will be thinking of your brother’s fire when they think of northmen. I think it’s easily possible to make it look like you’re taken with me instead of irritated with them. Which my family would ultimately find very flattering.”

"...that is not a bad idea. Thank you."

Also: aaaaaa he thought he was being more discreet about how much he hated everything come ON he's been PRACTISING this. Like, yeah, it's fine if it's his wife noticing but if his wife is noticing that means it is NOTICEABLE which is HORRIBLE.

“You could probably make the bedding about it, too, if you play it right. ‘She is mine’ and all that,” she muses. Then she spots his fraction of an expression and gives his hand another squeeze. “You’re doing very well, you know.”

He actually laughs at that, and when someone gives him a wondering look he just shakes his head and points at Anavett with it, at which point they immediately make a lewd face and he rolls his eyes and leans towards her again. THAT was perfect acting, okay, if anyone could tell he was faking he will throw himself off the keep's walls.

"Not well enough to fool milady, it seems."

She leans towards him too, and she doesn’t even have to fake her amusement with him. Her husband is surprisingly cute.

“Oh, I assure you, no one pays so close attention to the groom at a wedding as the bride.” Then her eyebrow quirks and she smiles, a little. “Except perhaps a jilted lover, any of those I should be aware of?”

Tiny fraction of a freeze which he is now certain she noticed, the gods take her.

"Not... exactly." And he's flushing again.

“Oh, I see,” she snorts, amused, and she kisses his hand again. “Peace, dear husband, we can talk about it later. The exact promise I extracted from your brother was ‘I will see anyone sired by my husband treated well, and if you disagree you can sleep outside with the rest of the dogs.’”