When Alis had heard Riverrun sported a godswood, he had hoped to have a little taste of, of home here. But as he steps out into the crisp Spring air and looks around himself the disgust showing on his face deepens. He tries to pretend he's back home, even closes his eyes so that he doesn't have to stare at the flowers. Sheds his coat so that what little cold there's left in the air will get to him more, compound the illusion for a bit. And his feet take him to the tree as if by instinct, guided by he knows not what, without sight to show him the way. Nevertheless, he is a Stark, and he must open his eyes face reality for what it is, even when what it is is a perversion of his hopes and expectations, of the promises the world has made him.

Of the promises that infuriating man has made him.

This is a war. This is not a little scuffle between kids at sword practice; this is conflict, this is armies marching on their enemies and extracting victory from their still-warm guts. He does not have time for Hoster Tully's bullshit.

The Mad King's son "took" his sister—and it does not sit right with Alis, that Brandon and their father immediately jumped to the conclusion that she had been abducted, as if they had not met Lyanna, as if they did not know that she would sooner slice her own throat than be taken by a man she did not want—but he had not been there when they heard the news, and by the time he did it was too late; his father and brother had flown to King's Landing and demanded of the Mad King the return of Lyanna, as if the Mad King would ever deign to listen to them. He does what he wants, despite everything; another blight on the Targaryen family tree. And what he wanted turned out to be literally setting Alis's father on fire while his brother strangled himself attempting to reach a sword to free him. To make matters worse, the King decided to ask for Alisander's own head, just for being a Stark, as well as Zakary's, for being Lyanna's betrothed.

Zakary, too, did not hear of this affair until too late. He does not love Lyanna (Alis knows this well), but he admires her, and in their private conversations he's agreed with Alisander's assessment that if Prince Rhaegar has Lyanna it's because Lyanna wants him to have her. And all very well, it would be a slight on Zakary's honour but Alis is sure Zak would have let her stay with the Prince with good grace, and probably managed to acquire a concession or two for Storm's End in return. But, again, it was Alis's brother Brandon and father Rickard who heard, and who went, and who died.

So now Alisander has to choose between losing his head and defying the Mad King, as does Zakary. The choice is obvious, but nevertheless the fact that the King has been digging his own grave for years now has made such defiance much more practical in that they can, in fact, find allies to rally to their cause and finally get rid of that menace once and for all. Alis went back North to get his men while Zakary rode all over the Eyrie and farther still to secure other alliances, making concessions and paying with coin he does not have. And while Alis's own trek was gruesome, long, and fraught, it did not hold a candle to what Zakary went through. He had to fight his own men, Houses sworn to his that nevertheless defied him in defence of the Mad King. And with yet more battles between then and now, Alisander would have thought all would be settled, he would marry Tully's eldest daughter to cement their alliance and they would march south.

But no. No, Hoster Tully decided he needed the deal sweetened. It was not enough that his daugher would become Lady of Winterfell. It was not enough that Zakary Baratheon had saved his life and he owed Zak a debt of blood. No, Tully wanted more out of their alliance, and would dither and waste time, precious time during which King Aerys II and his supporters could get more and more prepared for them.

When Alis finally cut through Tully's bullshit and understood what the man was saying it took almost all of his self-control not to challenge Tully to a duel right then and there and get this over with. Not that it would send him off to a great start for his marriage to Anavett Tully but at that point he was seeing red.

Jon Arryn, the gods bless him, stepped in and told Alis to go pray at the godswood while he dealt with Tully. So Alis went, left that crowded room and the stares of those people and that slimy weasel, to get a moment of peace with his gods. A moment of fresh air. A moment, a moment—

—a moment during which he saw the absolute travesty they call a godswood and which sent his whole mind tumbling over these past several months and only served to incense Alis even more. How dare he. After everything, after Brandon and Rickard's deaths, after fighting for his honour and for justice and against the menace to the realm that is that King, after Zakary saved Tully's life—this is not helping. He needs to stop and breathe. He needs to actually forget the reason he's here because the more he thinks about it all and the more he keeps picturing all the myriad creative ways in which he wants to murder Hoster Tully the angrier he gets.

He centers back in himself, finding that he's kneeling by the weirwood with his forehead pressed against the tree and his fists balled around grass and flowers, and relaxes. Breathes. Closes his eyes once more, focuses on his heartbeat, focuses on the wind and the earth and the tree. Tunes out the bloody birds—breathe. Breathe. Calm down. Jon Arryn will solve this, somehow, he's not sure even Zakary has it in him to deal with Hoster Tully right now and Alis is also mad that he hasn't had a single minute to spend alone with Zak since he's arrived, but Jon Arryn is a smart, sensible man who will not let the likes of the petty riverland lord send him into a fury like he did Alis.

It will be fine. Or maybe it won't, but being in such a state will not help it be fine anyway, and he should just be still and pray for the wisdom of the old gods to guide him through this.

Eventually, there is a rustling of footsteps in grass as someone comes to join him.

"You know, in a strange way, I think he's trying to help us," sighs Jon Arryn, resident bastion of self control. "It's sorted, lad."

Alis opens his eyes once more—he may have fallen asleep, he's not sure, godswoods have a tendency to make him lose note of the world around him but they always help him sort his feelings out—then stands up and turns around. "Lord Arryn," he says. "—it is? What did you decide?"

"Double wedding. You can likely pick which of the girls you'd rather have as a bride, if you'd fancied the younger one at Harrenhall. And the other gets to help me with the problem Denys's death left me."

...what.

What????

"Double wedding," he says slowly, as if to confirm he heard the right words. "With you as the other groom," he adds. Alisander would usually not expose so much of his thought processing and confusion to another—he's already cultivated a reputation as quiet, taciturn, and measured, so he's mostly silent most of the time—but he and Zak have been Jon Arryn's wards for a long while, now, and Lord Arryn is like a father to Alis. In his heart of hearts, Alis cares more for Jon than he did for his sire.

"Like I said. In a strange, slippery way, I think he's trying to help."

Because of course, with Denys Arryn dead, now Jon Arryn is without a proper heir. And the obvious way to fix that would be with a wife.

Alis is extremely doubtful of this, but this whole people thing is Zak's domain not his so he merely nods.

"I... suppose I must choose, then," which he also hates but honestly if he doesn't get an immediate obvious reason to choose one over the other he'll just go with the one his brother was betrothed to, that'll be easier. He starts walking towards Jon and the great hall.

"I'm sorry, lad," sighs Arryn, clapping Alisander on the shoulder and then falling into step beside him. In an undertone, he adds: "The younger seems to have had a run in with a certain draught of tea, if ah. That changes anything."

"I do not see why it should. 'Tis not as if I have been completely discreet all my life, either," though for all the rumour mill knows he has in fact been completely discreet all his life.

"Felt it fair to warn you. I know none of this has been fair, had to do my best to make up for it a little."

The Great Hall is already in the midst of preparations for the wedding feast. Since it'll be a springtime wedding, the decorations are primarily 'flowers.' Fortunately, they want the audience chamber above, where the injured Hoster Tully sits on his impressive high seat and makes everyone else come to him. So Alis doesn't have to suffer the flowers for very long.

Yet.

Alis's newly acquired serenity and inner peace suffices to weather the onslaught of Spring being thrust upon him, so he only gives the flowers a cold dispassionate glare at he passes them by.

A guard escorts them up the stairs and to the door that leads to Hoster Tully. The guard at this door looks terribly awkward.

"Ah, my lord will be just a few minutes, he's—"

"Oh, do forgive me, father, I didn't realize our house words were 'convenience, duty, honor,' my mistake!" comes a voice through the door at a less than mild shriek.

The next voice isn't as high pitched, but it is definitely still carries. And that would be Lord Tully.

"It's not mere convenience to avoid pestering Lord Stark with your trivialities, I expect better of you—"

The guard winces.

"What a lovely matched set we make, then!"

Alis... is kind of curious, he can't lie. Besides, someone is yelling at Hoster Tully and this is intensely cathartic and he does not want to interrupt it.

The guard does, apparently. He looks at the lords in front of him nervously, then clears his throat and calls, a little shrilly, through the door.

"My lord! Lord Stark and Lord Arryn wish an audience!"

The ensuing silence puts the pathetic excuse for a godswood to utter shame.

"... Send them in," sighs Hoster Tully.

The lady who had clearly been responsible for the shrieking has the good grace to look embarrassed when the door opens, and curtseys politely.

"Welcome, my lords," she begins, in a desperate bid to fill the awkward silence. Then her eyes meet Alisander's and her polite smile freezes a little in place. Her mind has now caught up with the introduction given by the guard, and she has realized that the man that she's supposed to marry tomorrow has just heard her shouting at her father.

Alisander has the mirror realisation simultaneously; if the Tully he met at the tourney was Lysa this must be Anavett.

"Lord Tully," he greets the head of house. "And you must be Lady Anavett? It is a pleasure to meet you. I hope we are not interrupting anything important...?"

"I am," she says, still with her politely frozen smile. This is, of course, the very first time they have ever even seen each other. And his first impression of her is screaming at someone through the door. "A pleasure to meet you as well, my lord."

She wants to fling herself off of Riverrun and into one of the available rivers. Maybe she'll drown and put herself out of her misery, wouldn't that be nice.

"Nothing of true importance, Lord Stark," says her father, recovering much faster. "The nerves of war are getting to her, I believe, she's taken issue with sharing a wedding with her sister. I know it's not ideal, but, well. We cannot concern ourselves with such trivialities at a time like this."

Alisander doesn't even need to look at Jon Arryn to know that he is raising his eyebrows. He could probably even picture the expression accurately, too, it's the same one he had when Alis and Zak were bickering and someone was leaving something important out.

Nobody's waiting very long for the details, though. Her father's implications that she is a stupid silly girl are enough to unfreeze Anavett's smile, and suddenly it's deadly sharp.

"I think respecting the culture and traditions of my soon-to-be husband isn't trivial at all!" she says, as sweetly as certain types of poison, and probably twice as murderous. "You see, Brandon," and there's a wince in her eyes and a hint of pain in her tone, but it's been months and she needs to get over it, so carries on regardless, "mentioned that northern marriage traditions are a bit different than ours, and take place in the godswood? I don't know the details, but he made it sound like it wouldn't take much," she waves a hand, "arrangement or fuss. You've come so far, it only seems proper to bring some resemblance of the north to you."

...huh. He thinks there are some lines to read between, there, but he has no idea what they are. Why would she care about his traditions?

Nevertheless, the thought of not having to marry in a Sept with a whole crowd watching him speak foreign, Southern vows he would need to twist beyond recognition to be able to actually truthfully mean them is extremely appealing. And not having to share the ceremony and stretch it out even longer...

So is her father right? Is that why she wants this? So as to not share her wedding with her sister? Does Anavett dislike Lysa for some reason? Except, no, put your training to use, Stark, these lines to read between are important. You cannot just ignore them anymore, you're playing the game now whether you want to or not.

The words of House Tully are "Family. Duty. Honour." She mentioned that, she specifically replaced the first word with "convenience" when she was putting her father in his place arguing. She thinks her father is putting convenience above family. So whatever she's hoping to achieve with this is for her family.

It has nothing to do with his traditions, nor does it relate to their own marriage, really. This is about Lysa, and it's something that she expects will be good for Lysa. Then she must think that sharing their wedding would be bad for Lysa because... because...

...because Lysa is a younger sister, who's always been in Anavett's shadow, whose flower has already been lost if Lord Arryn's words are to be believed, whose honour is already marred and who would only be further humiliated by the affair. Because Lysa, in Anavett's eyes, deserves better. Deserves to have the day she becomes an adult be hers, deserves to be the star of her own wedding rather than merely a side character.

(At least he thinks so. He doesn't have Zak's magical intuition, he has to think through all of it explicitly, work it all out. But there's one thing Zak's said, about how at the end it'll all feel like it clicks. When you're right your confusion is gone, you have something that explains everything you see, that lets you be clear about what's happening. He's not confused anymore.)

Alis wants this one.

"Lord Tully," he says after a few seconds of pure inexpressive silence. "If—" No, Stark, you are the Warden of the North, now. Act the part. "It would suit me well to wed your daughter in the godswood according to the customs of my people. She is to be Lady of Winterfell and I believe it appropriate that she do so in proper Northern tradition.

"No further arrangements for the affair need be made; the old gods do not seek homage or worship and prefer a simple connection to nature as the stage for matrimony." Here they only have fake, cultivated nature, stripped of the ugly and the dark and the raw and the mysterious, but it is still nature, and much better than a hall decorated with flowers plucked from the ground and dying without fulfilling their purpose. "She needs only her maiden cloak, and that will be enough."

Hoster Tully clearly wants to argue, looking affronted at his favorite daughter marrying in the (small, tamed) woods instead of in the Seven-blessed sept that is of their family's faith. But just as clearly, he's having some trouble finding any kind of argument of weight.

"... I fear I won't have the strength to give away two daughters in two separate locations," is what he settles on, uneasily. Because, well, he is injured. "Nor perhaps the time to travel between."

"Uncle Brynden could give me away," offers his daughter, immediately. Then: "But Brandon made it sound like the custom was Andal, not of the First Men, so, ah...?"

"She need not be given away by another," Alis offers helpfully (and a little bit spitefully). "The North recognises her as her own woman, and if she should wish to give herself away, she can do so."

"... Your dress won't hold up well to cavorting around in the godswood, dear," he attempts, and even he knows his argument is pathetic.

"I'm sure it can fit Lysa just as well, with a bit of last minute needlework. It shouldn't be too much trouble to find me something sturdier." She curtsies to Alisander. "Thank you, my lord, for your time and consideration. I'm glad I could help you feel more at home so far from it."

"And thank you, milady, for your concern and care. It speaks well of your character." He does not specify whom it is exactly that Anavett is extending her concern and care to. A rare smile breaks on his face as he adds, "I do believe you will make a fine Lady Stark."

"I, ah, thank you, my lord," murmurs a suddenly very shy young woman who is so very interested in her shoes. Her smile can be heard even in her voice, even if she's hiding it a little.

"You have my blessings for organizing a separate ceremony in the godswood, then," sighs Hoster Tully, finally resigned. "What was it you needed my attention for?"

"This was it, milord; I wished only to be apprised of the details of our ceremony."

"Ah. Of course. ... I do think it only practical for the feast to be shared, I hope that is acceptable?"

Siiiiiiiigh.

Not literally, that would be unseemly.

"Yes, that seems sensible to me also."

Soon enough, Lord Tully summons his seneschal, maester, and coin keeper, and they begin the tedious work of nailing down all of the details.

Lady Anavett remains for this, and proves to be quite helpful, though as something more of an aid, assistant, and cupbearer than a proper equal. But a competent one, and... almost certainly an ambitious one, too.

Jon Arryn is amused in a subtle way that only Alisander is likely to pick up on, and seems content to let the younger generation figure out most of the details. He steps in if something is obviously a bad idea, the man's been married twice before already and is almost certainly the most experienced at wedding planning because of it, but frankly, he's too old for this shit.

Alis continues to be satisfied by his own assessment of Anavett. She clearly has a good head on her shoulders, which Brandon completely neglected to mention for the past six or seven years of their betrothal. All Brandon talked about was how she was hot and pretty and a redhead and strong-willed and it drove Alis insane with the shallowness of it all.

Maybe he was onto something, though? ...except no, bad to speak ill of the dead but his brother was an absolute brute of a womaniser airhead. Which admittedly Alis had also thought Zak was when they first met as children but now he can tell very clearly the difference between them. Zak respects people as people, respects women and doesn't treat them as pretty decoration he can fuck, which Brandon very very much used to fail at.

...anyway. He will pay attention to everything as is proper of the Lord of Winterfell but he frankly does not care very much. The gods will guide his wedding and regardless of what they decide Alis will have to mostly tune out the feast afterwards so its details are immaterial.

The details are eventually sorted out, at least to the degree that it matters to the Lords present. Anavett will need to be coached on what precisely the traditional northern wedding vows.... are... but aside from that, separating the ceremonies is honestly quite easy. The guests will need to sort out which one they go to, since they will still be taking place at approximately the same time (with Lysa and Jon's wedding starting earlier, and ending later) but it's generally understood that most people present will probably want to go to the marriage in the sept. Not the one in the woods. So, the Lord of Winterfell's wedding will (comparatively) be a more quiet affair.

Thank the old gods for that.

And after this is all done they should acquire supper, which Alisander will take with his army because that is the way of the North. None of this foolishness about separating the Lord from his men.

Zak is also taking his supper with his men because he is Zakary Baratheon and that's what he does. He notices Alisander and gives him a quick but blinding smile from afar before returning to his socialising.

There are, of course, the expected jokes about Alisander being careful with his delicate little fish (the sigil of House Tully being a trout) on the morrow. Approximately none of them are particularly creative, and many of them are quite bawdy, especially any about the potential taste of his bride. But the japes are fueled by his men's pleasure at their Lord wedding in a godswood, as is right and proper, and the release of tension is palpable. There was some concern that, after they had lost their earlier Lord and heir to their silly southern ambitions, that there'd be more of that. Alisander demanding (and this is, of course, the narrative, that their Lord demanded) following the old ways speaks well of him.

Alis will not disabuse his men of that notion. He is near a stranger to them, and though they've had time to get to know him better over this whole affair he still has to become a real presence in their lives.

He won't participate in the baudy jokes, he is still cultivating his image as calm and measured and taciturn, but he's not going to be a spoilsport either, and he will even smile occasionally at particularly funny ones. Zakary told him his men will absolutely make it a challenge to break through his icy exterior but that he shouldn't make it easy because it'll feel all the more rewarding if it's challenging. He asked Zakary about what would happen if there isn't a way for them to break through his icy exterior and Zak just raised an eyebrow and made an expression with his tongue and lips that put the flush on him and made him stalk off lest anyone see but fair enough, point taken.

What he's most interested in, really, is actually getting to know them, especially his bannermen. He does not really have a good head for remembering this kind of thing but Zak suggested that he frame it as a sort of puzzle or a set of sword moves that he needs to have in mind about how to deal with everyone and that was surprisingly helpful. So now he's making mental notes of the personalities and desires and pains of each of these people so that in the future he can be a better Lord for them.

Learning them all is of course the work of a lifetime, not a mealtime, and he doesn't have any of his father's or brother's notes on them. The meal concludes before he gets much of anywhere, but he does get somewhere. Measured steps lead to leagues walked, as they say. And he's already been on this road a long while.

The Northerners stay well after the meal has "concluded", getting drunker and drunker. None of them get into fights, as the few who seemed likely to instead had a small chat with Alis about only destroying the property of their enemies, not of their allies, which was not met with universal love but worked well enough.

As the drunk Northerners become too incoherent to even risk causing any destruction, Alis finds himself brimming with restless energy. Or maybe he just wants to beat someone up, himself.

Maybe he just misses Zakary.

Regardless of the reason, Alis walks over to the Baratheon contingent, much thinner than his, and stops before him. "Zakary."

"Brother," says Zak, looking up from the mug of ale he's been holding and the conversation he's been having, his face once again opening into a bright grin. He's unusually unshaven, the scruff on his face attesting to how little time he's had for himself over the past while.

...perhaps this is his Northern sensibilities but he feels like Zak looks so much better with the beard. He's terribly handsome regardless, though.

"I wish to spar. Burn off some energy. Indulge me? Or are you too injured?"

Which is half teasing half concern. It wouldn't do, to imply that he was not in fit shape when so much of the rebellion was resting on his shoulders, but the question allows him to reply directly, and the fact that he's being invited to spar will serve to further dispel any rumours that he's not fit to continue his battles after the last several he's been in, back to back.

Besides, Alis clearly wants to spend some time with him, and fair enough, Zak has also missed him dearly. "Only scratches and bruises, I am in perfect health." He puts his mug down. "But I am not altogether sober." A complete lie, Zak never drinks enough to let it impair anything, he's tested his limits to razor thin precision.

"Then I shall wait for you at the salle," he replies with a small smile.

Zakary discharges his social obligations, bids his men a good night, and then catches up with Alisander.

"How are you, brother? We have not had time to talk in a while, you and I."

"And we can talk later. For now, be on your guard."

Translation: he's having feelings that he wants Zak's help processing and they are not ones he's allowed to express while they are in public. And the sword practice is just an excuse (although Zak is pretty sure at this point that Alis just actually loves seeing him in physically strenuous activities, though Alis would never admit such aloud).

Very well, they can spar. And Zak will predictably lose; Alis is the better swordsman of the two by far, one-on-one like this, and the last time in Zak's life he was able to consistently defeat his brother-in-arms was before Alis had come into his full adulthood—Zak is a year older, and held onto that advantage for as long as it lasted. What he does excel at is strategy and battlefield tactics, and that is one of the main reasons why he is the head of this insurgence.

Once Zakary has found himself on the ground one too many times Alis clasps his arm to help lift him up and starts dusting himself. "Your technique needs work."

"You have been saying that to me for years but I do not feel like more practice has helped with that."

"That is a defeatist attitude."

"Fitting that you've defeated me, then, is it not?"

He starts walking towards the armoury to store his sword, with Alis on his heels.

"Hm," is all he has to say to that. "You need to shave."

"Do I? I'm not so sure, I think the beard suits me." And he winks at Alis as he says that.

It is dark and they probably have no eavesdroppers, but Alisander still glares at Zakary for that, plausible deniability notwithstanding. Of course the asshole noticed Alis's appreciation. Of course. Whenever he thinks he's getting the hang of not showing his emotions Zakary destroys this illusion by seeing right through him.

"Let us get cleaned." And maybe he's not giving himself enough credit, here, because even though Zak seems completely unbothered by the suggestion Alis is certain a dozen different innuendos crossed his mind. But at least those would be too unsubtle for him to risk saying in public, so Alis is safe. For now.

The baths are also public, and he has more self-control than he did when they were both young.

Alisander leaves first, and bids him good night, but once Zakary is done he finds his way to Alis's temporary chambers and knocks a specific way he'd recognise.

A few seconds later Alis unlatches and opens the door, pulls Zak in, shuts it, and immediately presses him against a wall to kiss him as if he needs his mouth on Zakary's in order to breathe.

They do not talk for the next while. Both of them want to make up for all the lost time they've spent apart preparing for this war—and at times fighting it.

Once they find themselves panting in exhaustion, lying naked in the enormous bed, Zakary says, "I hear you are to have a Northern wedding."

Which makes Alisander immediately freeze. "Yes," he says, in a tightly measured voice. "With the lady Anavett."

"She's pretty," Zak observes, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Yes, as Brandon has told me several times at unreasonable length. This is irrelevant."

"Is it? I don't know, I'm pretty, she's pretty, maybe you do actually—"

He elbows Zak hard enough to send him coughing.

"Why are you bringing it up?

After he's recovered he says, "Northern vows are a lot less strict than Southern ones—"

Which earns him another elbowing. "Zakary Baratheon you cannot be thinking about whether we'll be allowed to fuck after I get married."

"I'm not," he says, turning more serious. "You are. You were thinking it. About how this is going to change things between us. You'll have a duty to your wife, and your keep, and your House. And the whole North, really."

Alis spends a while in silence, at that. Not really thinking about anything, just... feeling. He lifts his right arm to cover his eyes with the crook of his elbow and says, "The gods take you, Zakary, why are you always right about this stuff?"

Zak turns to lie on his right side, propping his head up on his arm and looking at Alis. "Because I know you better than anyone else. Because I am and will forever be your brother. Because I love you."

Alisander scoffs and lowers his arm to look at Zak again. "You are an idiot and will get us both killed. ...but I love you also."

"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.)

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.’”

"No children are going to happen," unless he misunderstands biology very badly. "—other than ours." Though maybe he's infertile? That would really bloody suck. Why is he even worrying about this it's not like this is common, and besides he's heard that infertile men can't even get it up and he demonstrably can.

"Nevertheless, that's my major stance on the matter. We can discuss the details later. As it is now, ah—there is the other wedding party." Yep, there comes the other, much larger wedding party, through the doors of the hall. Things are about to get much more loud and busy, and if she knows her sister, her left ear is going to be filled with excited chattering as Lysa tries very hard to like and enjoy a wedding she very much didn't want.

The Northerners all cheer as the new party arrives and start making bawdy jokes in the direction of Jon Arryn and Lysa Tully. More people! More party! More booze! That's how this works.

Something occurs to Alis. "How... does your sister feel about the bedding?"

She gives him a sardonic look.

"I think if a game were made of it, for a wedding that she wanted, she would find it delightful. Provided no one took too many liberties. But..." and she lets that sentence trail off leadingly.

"...hm. Excuse me a moment, milady."

Then he gets up and marches straight to Zakary Baratheon to have a whispered conversation with him.

Aw. He's very sweet. Yes, she thinks she likes her husband.

'Not exactly,' hm? And 'No children are going to happen'? What interesting language. And just who was Alisander Stark raised with since childhood? And who has he just gone over to get assistance from as easily as breathing? She knows the reason her uncle hasn't married, and it's not because he doesn't have any decent bridal prospects. It's that none of them appeal. Maybe she's wrong, they have every reason to be as close as brothers (closer, even, Brandon admitted to her that he'd barely even seen his brother since he was sent off to be fostered) but... maybe they have every reason to be closer.

Or maybe not! It's entirely possible that she's looking for a simple explanation, and the situation of her husband's heart is more complicated than that. She'll find out eventually.

But then Lysa is here and she has no more time for idle musing, and instead needs to hug her and tell her she's gorgeous and that her big sister is so, so proud. And patiently listen to her sister chatter about all of the little details of her wedding, which was apparently (almost) perfect. Her dress is exquisite and fits like it was made for her, and everyone said she was the prettiest bride they'd seen. The sept was perfect, the light through the seven stained glass windows was dim until they promised to love each other, and then the sun came out and they were painted in rainbows...

Anavett wears a fond, indulgent smile that doesn't let any of her own pain leak into it, and listens to all of the details of how Lysa greatly enjoyed the wedding that had been planned for her and Brandon. (Good. Let it be good for someone instead of just bitterness.)

Alisander is back soon enough, and when he's close enough to Lysa and Jon, he bows a bit to both of them and says, "Lord Arryn, Lady Arryn, congratulations to you two. I hope you will have a happy, prosperous life together." And produce heirs because this man's bad luck is getting ridiculous.

Jon doesn't even really look hopeful anymore, and is clearly too emotionally exhausted to be a properly excited groom. He's nonetheless doing his best.

"Thank you, lad. I will do everything in my power to make sure my Lady Wife is well provided for. And congratulations to you and your wife, I hope everything works out for you both. To a long and happy life, of prosperity and marital bliss." And he raises his cup in a toast.

"Thank you, my lord," says Anavett, raising her own cup to join the toast.

Alis walks around Anavett to grab his own cup and raises it with a tilt of his head before taking a sip of it and getting back into his seat. He leans in Anavett's direction again once they're done with the toast and whispers, "Zakary will make sure your sister's bedding will not be too unpleasant. He's a way with people."

She smiles, nods, and then closes the distance to gently kiss his cheek, because he's a sweetie. Then she can give Zakary Baratheon a thankful smile, and maybe also check to see if he reacted to the cheek kiss at all, because she's efficient that way.

He inclines his head and smiles broadly back at her when she smiles at him, and looks for all the world like he's very happy for Alisander.

That explains nothing, damnation. Fair enough, though.

And now for general feasting. If Alisander is going to be carrying her off early, she should try to get the pleasantries out of the way for him, shouldn't she.

He would appreciate that very, very much. Alis got a good wife, this isn't really what happens in real life but he supposes even real life has some people sometimes getting lucky.

(It occurs to him that perhaps he is overgeneralising from his own parents and from Jon Arryn's loveless marriages and perhaps marriages that work are more common than he thinks. Maybe.)

Technically speaking, he got this particular spot of luck because his brother was horribly choked to death by the Mad King Aerys, so maybe it doesn't entirely count, all things considered.

Regardless, this is the wife he has, and the wife he has will be perfectly warm and friendly and sociable for him. He can continue being taciturn, and she'll give him occasional openings to weigh in wisely and reasonably so it doesn't seem like he's being an antisocial grump. She'll even actually have some fun, because she does sincerely want to get to know his bannermen, and it seems like she's earned some degree of their respect, between the godwood wedding and the banter.

She will find a big fan in a man called Jon Umber, styled Greatjon because of how tall, broad, and strong he is despite only being a few years older than Alisander. At first he was throwing remarks of a more barbed nature at her, but her equally barbed responses seem to provoke great amusement in him and he eventually starts calling her "the shark", for how snarky and sharp she can be while also being extremely thick-skinned and resilient. A fine Lady of Winterfell, if you ask him, and Alisander had better treat her well lest she stab him in his sleep someday.

"If she stabs me in my sleep it will be because I deserved it," he says somberly. "'Tis my duty to ensure I won't." Which Greatjon finds acceptable enough to start calling Alis "young wolf", which up until now people had only been using in lecherous japes about their houses and not to refer to Alisander himself.

Greatjon is charming, if more than a little intimidating, and Anavett finds it terribly fun to finally get to break out her barbs properly. No doubt her father is scandalized; Lysa certainly is, and worried for her welfare besides. Which means she's not jealous, so that's... probably an improvement? She thinks? It's hard to tell, with Lysa, she tucks away all of her feelings deep inside and then suddenly breaks out with something crazy.

"I expect our marriage to be a happy one," she says, patting her husband's hand. Then she winks. "But no promises about not bring a knife to the bedchambers, hm?"

Alis takes a large swig of his mug to cover the blush that creeps up his face again. "'Twould only be appropriate for the Lady of Winterfell," he croaks.

“Good! I endeavor to be a proper Lady of the north.”

That’s an interesting thing to blush at. If she’s not mistaken, her husband is beginning to like her. He continues to be terribly cute.

He is not cute, he is the Warden of the North.

The afternoon wears on, and Alis gets more and more bothered by all the attention, until he eventually decides. "Gentlemen, ladies," he calls, his voice booming more loudly than one would think him capable of given most of his demeanour so far, enough to cause conversation to die down in waves and for the musicians to pause. "I wish to offer one more toast to Lord Arryn and his new lady for a joyful marriage; to Lord Tully and his House for their grace and hospitality, as well as their alliance; and to all of you, all of us, who have dared to dream of a realm no longer suffering under the thumb of the Mad King. To our glory on the battlefield, and to our success and plenty out of it. A toast, and a cheer!"

Which has exactly the effect he'd hoped for: the whole crowd cheering and toasting and clapping and stomping their feet, cries for victory and wealth and a good life.

"My brother is too modest," Zakary calls after the first round of cheers, "and refuses to celebrate his own happiness. So let us also add his new life as Lord of Winterfell and his marriage to the Lady Anavett to our cheers!"

Anavett raises her own cup to the toast, smiling, and then to give Alisander an opening, because he clearly wants to leave:

“Perhaps my lord husband doesn’t expect a happy marriage?” she teases, blatantly flirting. “Was it the comment about the knife that did it, or was it something else? How could I set this right?”

"Milady Anavett, I am looking forward to the bright future that is undoubtedly ahead of us. And I do believe I want it to start right now, with me showing you exactly what you shall do." And without even turning around he extends his arm back and lifts a warning finger in the direction of the Greatjon. "And I expect Lord Umber to want to suggest something right now that I should address." Then he turns to face his bannerman, who does indeed look like he was about to say something. "There shall be no bedding ceremony for us."

    "'Tis an ancient tradition!" he protests.

"This whole rebellion is aiming to break tradition, so what's one more to add? I am afraid that what a shark and a wolf get up to shall remain a secret to you, ser." And he picks his bride up once more, almost effortlessly.

        "Ahhhh, does milord wish to keep the sight of his lady all to himself? Or is he afraid that should he be exposed he will bring shame to his House?" teases another bannerman.

"I am perfectly confident in my sword, ser, as well as in the blade attached to my hip," which invites another round of laughter and jeering. "But perhaps you wish to see if I can use the latter while carrying my bride? 'Twould be an exciting new challenge."

    The Greatjon guffaws and says, "Spoken like a true Stark! Go on, lad, I will make sure these drunkards shan't bother ye and milady."

            "And who are you calling a drunkard, now?" a third person asks in mock outrage.

    "I have me a list! And your name is right at the top, Glover, else I ain't the Greatjon!"

She laughs, and arranged herself comfortably in his arms, looking to all the world like she belongs there.

“Far be it for me to deny a hungry wolf!” she teases, then gives a wave as she’s carried off.

Alisander himself remains quiet as they walk away, the sound of the party slowly dying off behind them. When they get to his room he does some manoeuvring to find his key, unlock it, open the door, lock it again, latch the door, and then carefully place his new wife on his bed.

Then he looks at her, has a few conflicting emotions warring for real estate on his face, and ends up deciding to not have any emotions at all and merely sit beside her on the bed.

He’s still terribly cute. Look at him, just adorable. She reaches out to take his hand again, giving it another kiss.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think that was a lovely exit. Do you need a minute of quiet, should I find something to distract myself with to give you proper space?”

"I believe I have a duty to fulfill," he replies, though the returning flush to his face suggests he may enjoy the idea of the duty somewhat.

“Certainly, but it need not be right this minute. I’m not about to run from the room screaming about you not immediately bending me over to enter me the first moment you had me alone.” Hand kiss. “I am perfectly happy to wait for you. Or hear whatever seems to be on your mind, if you’ve the need to share it.”

Alisander frowns. "You're as bad as Zakary. He can always tell what I'm feeling, too, just from looking. Sometimes not even looking." Then he stops himself and shakes his head. "Forgive me, that was out of line."

“Was it? I didn’t think so. I’d rather we be honest with each other than not.”

He looks down at his lap but a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "I suppose milady is right. Though we've just met so I, ah..." He clears his throat. "Am not altogether completely at ease, you could say. Which is certainly not the most Starklike trait."

“Well, good thing I didn’t marry the ultimate ideal of House Stark itself. I married you. And you, being a person of flesh and blood, are a bit more complicated than that. Which sounds altogether preferable, I expect I’d get terribly bored, being married to an ideal instead of a person.”

The sentence "Brandon was the ideal Stark" dies on his lips. She knew his brother better than Alis did, and probably suffers from grief much more than he does.

"Nevertheless. I cannot help but feel like—" and once again Brandon's name isn't uttered. "Like someone else in my place would be having less trouble getting to the main part here, with a beautiful, intelligent, perceptive wife such as you right there. Someone else in my place would have welcomed the feast in my honour and been joyful and merry." Okay actually some of his flush is probably the wine, with how the words are just flowing out with a lot less care than usual.

“Ah,” she says softly. “And maybe if I were more intelligent and perceptive, I’d have gone for, oh, Jaime Lannister instead of,” and she can’t say his name either, but she carries on regardless, “and father would feel secure enough to not have handed my baby sister off to the first High Lord that was available, in a bid to keep the Riverlands from being sacked and pillaged.” Hand kiss. “See, there are my ugly feelings about not being good enough, we make a perfect pair. I don't think you're—not good enough. You've been very sweet, and thoughtful, and kind. I don't think taking time to talk through one's feelings before performing one's duty to their House is a sin, either, I actually just think it's smart. Besides, I'd rather work from the reality in front of me instead of comparing myself or others to mirages of what might have beens."

He turns to look at her, then, and as the memory of what exactly the duty he's meant to be fulfilling surfaces back up he turns away. Then he remembers that actually it's fine to look, and to want her, and okay maybe he should in fact not have drunk that much wine his logic isn't working well right now. But he looks at her again anyway.

"...I think this has been a good enough break," and wow that sounded much better in his head but out loud it just sounded kind of daft. Where's the demon that possessed him back at the feast to make him have good words, he wants it back.

She smiles a bit, and gives his hand a squeeze.

“You needn’t rush, darling. Yes, it’s a duty, and we should probably get to it sometime tonight, but we’re the ones doing it, and, um.” And now here is her blush. “… if it’s possible, I’d like it to be an experience we can both enjoy? It’d pain me to put the man who’s supposed to be my partner in the position of… gritting your teeth and getting it over with.”

"...I think I, ah. Would. Enjoy it. Actually. More than I'd expected." It did at one point occur to him that maybe he could only be with men and he had a nice little panic about it but Zakary reassured him that he was probably overthinking and besides in the worst case Alis could always just picture him while fucking his wife and he punched Zak hard enough to knock the wind out of him but he did see the logic in it, grudgingly. Fortunately it seems like it will very much not be necessary, if his current feelings are any indication. "And I want to make sure you enjoy it. I will need your help, though, I haven't really done it before," and oh gods there goes his tongue again he already heavily implied he did have a lover, maybe she'll assume that that's what he meant by "not exactly" was that he hadn't really been with anyone or... argh.

“Oh,” she murmurs, and her blush deepens. "Well. I have no experience to speak of either, except, er. Some kissing. So, um. While I'm happy to help, I don't really know... how. I mean I—I understand the mechanics at play I just don't, um, have firsthand experience and. Um."

"Then if milady would permit me I would begin with her clothes."

Some stuff is the same. Kissing is the same, and hands and places. Some stuff isn't. He's been told women can climax multiple times—well, Zakary told him this, other people have implied no such thing and he's even heard some people claiming that women cannot climax at all ("So now you know who's absolutely terrible in bed," said Zakary)—so he knows he'll want to pace himself. Make her feel good. Women aren't like men, you can't just get the oil and get going, they need more care, more love. He needs to make sure she is comfortable and happy, he should use his fingers and his mouth ("But don't hold onto scripts, people are different, you know? Just pay attention to her, listen to her, let her tell you and show you what she likes the most." "Will this help with conceiving heirs?" "Alisander Stark I will pretend you did not just say that and continue to believe that your goal when going to bed with your wife will not be limited to getting heirs."), and if being a man means that when he climaxes he will have a lot less interest for a bit, he should make sure at the very least that he's pleasured her as much as he can before they get to the heir-making part.

She was not expecting to enjoy her wedding night this much. At best, she was hoping to find the experience somewhat fulfilling. Sure, there are all sorts of songs and poems about the act being pleasurable, but there are all sorts of songs about everything, really. It doesn't make any of them true. Ultimately, she didn't want to get too much of a false impression of what sex is like by giving it unrealistic expectations before she even got into it. It seemed to be a thing men enjoy a lot, and women tolerated (or didn't) for various reasons, and other data could be explained away as outliers, or liars, or a deep emotional connection, or something. Not something to be relied upon. Whatever else it was, it was going to be a thing that she did for conceiving children and making her husband happy, and that'd be enough.

That is not what is going on here. What is going on here is that his hands feel amazing, and his warmth and weight against her feels even better, and every part of him is wonderful. She'd made the jape about his mouth, because she'd figured out it's useful for married couples through social context clues, but she did not understand. That has very much changed. She understands now. Suddenly people being insane over this one subject matter makes so much more sense! Insanity seems perfectly reasonable. Sign her right up for a healthy helping of the stuff, now and forevermore. He can keep touching her as much as he likes. She is his to touch this night, and every night after, and instead of that being a somewhat daunting prospect, it's the best thing ever. Of the hopes she'd had, she'd hoped she'd be strong enough to not beg her husband for him to stop. The idea that she might want to beg him to continue didn't enter her potential futures. It turns out that was more likely. She'll say 'please,' and she'll whimper his name, and say she's his, and, and, and anything else he wants, what does he want, she'll be so, so happy to give it to him. She is so happy to be used however he likes, and would be delighted to bear his heirs.

They're not marching on the morrow, so Alisander doesn't try to rush this, or cram as many sessions as he can into it. He's not even sure that works, he thinks you need to do this over multiple days and it depends on whether the woman is fertile right then. They have some time.

But also: yeah this was a great idea actually. It's... it's just different, he didn't really know what to expect but it's great. This whole marriage thing is turning out to be a much sweeter deal than he'd been led to believe.

And at the end of it he can just cuddle her, spent, exhausted, and kind of feeling very affectionate. He figured the causation arrow was the other way around but apparently making love to someone does just directly make you feel more comfortable with them. This is good.

His wife is also feeling very affectionate. So, so affectionate. He's a good husband. She's glad she married him. She's just a happy little bundle of love nestled into him, gently drifting off to sleep in his arms.

He dims the lamp light down to nothing and then settles into sleep, too. It feels a little bit like he hasn't slept in a while. He supposes he's been kind of worried about all of this for that while. But the wedding is done, the alliance is settled, his Zakary is back and in good health, and his wife turns out to be a gift from the gods.

...maybe he'll need to deal with those two last statements at some point. Better than he has so far, that is. But for now he'll just be out like a light.

The party concludes without them, eventually, and a little while after that, morning comes. Since it's the morning after a double wedding, one of which was theirs, they aren't disturbed by anyone.

She stirs first, sleepy and sore and very, very cozy. She's far too comfortable to be any kind of frightened, but she is a bit confused. That fades soon enough as she remembers what all happened the day (and night) before. Oh. Right. She's married now. Properly considered a full woman, deflowered and everything. Probably she should do proper wifely duties like arranging breakfast and maybe a nice hot bath and the like, but. ... She's so cozy. He's such a wonderful husband. If the world can stay still and leave them like this forever, that'd be great, actually.

So instead of going and sorting out proper wifely duties and leaving her poor husband to sleep alone, she stays nestled next to him, somewhere between waking and dozing.

Alis takes a while longer than her to wake up, exhausted to the bone as he has been from these physical and emotional trials and tribulations. He has some sleep debt to pay, and for the first time in a while he allows himself to do it.

He isn't particularly confused, when he wakes up; this is not the first time this has happened with someone in his arms. The confusion happens once he notices the unexpected shape of said someone and there's a second's freeze until the memories catch up to him, too, at which point he gets back to being fully relaxed. "M'rning, milady," he says, then covers a yawn with his free hand. He's not sounding extremely bleary or sleepy—waking up quickly and promptly is something you have to learn how to do if you don't want to have your throat slit in your sleep—but he makes no effort to try to get up either.

"Good morning," she says affectionately, caressing little circles into his arm with a thumb. She should probably say something else besides that, but actually she's instead grinning like an idiot and feeling oddly shy for speaking to a man who so recently knew her in such a carnal fashion. (Speaking of, can they do that again? Soon, possibly right now? She has no idea, it seems presumptuous to ask and it's only an idle thought, not a burning need.)

"...something on your mind?" he asks a couple of seconds after she greets him, looking down at her face—what he can see of it—with an open and curious expression on his.

"I was, that is, um," she stutters, and then she nestles closer to him so she can hide her face. After a pause, she mumbles: ".... You are a kind and dutiful husband and I am happily yours for the taking anytime you'd like me."

He takes a couple more seconds to understand what exactly she's saying and when it clicks he blushes a little bit, himself. Also, if Anavett was not familiar with the concept of morning wood she might find herself becoming so.

"I, uh, I need to use the privy, give me, erm," and oh gods this is really awkward and embarrassing but on the other hand he suddenly has a need.

.... She giggles. "Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry to delay you, um. Should I poke my head outside and arrange something to break our fast with?"

"I, erm, maybe?" He is still nude, though, and now that he's not in bed anymore she has some further evidence that breakfast is very very far from his mind at the moment.

He slips out to the covered area of the room to use the chamber pot, feeling kind of wretchedly embarrassed but also wretchedly horny.

"Whichever you'd prefer, my delightful lord husband,” she says, and it's playful. "I am at your service."

But she will totally lounge naked in bed and wait until he makes his mind up.

No no his mind is made up by the time he's back he's absolutely forgotten the offer and he's on top of her.

The impatience and hunger this time might be better associated with a Stark.

Eeee!!!! Being married is great, actually!!!!

As expected, she is so willing, and a bit more present than the night before. Now she's clearly interested in him and his needs, and isn't so (delightfully) overwhelmed by the new world that has opened up for her. It's still new and exciting, of course, but she's exploring it with him more actively instead of just happily following his lead.

And, you know, with only a night between them and last time, he can in fact pace himself a lot more easily, and last a lot longer.

Which he really really wants to do because he wants his wife to be enjoying herself so much she'll be nervous about passersby overhearing her through the door.

.... squeak.

Well, that's terribly embarrassing, but fortunately for her sense of pride, she's not inclined towards very loud exclamations. That said, her husband is absolutely going to get what he wants. She would make a terrible Silent Sister; perfect silence is quite clearly beyond her.

And at the end of it he's once again panting and covered in sweat and feeling boneless but he's sporting a look like the cat that got the canary.

He has such a happy, exhausted wife!! Who clearly adores him!!!!

"You were trying to make me cry out, weren't you," she accuses, delighted, when she catches her breath and is a bit less dazed.

"I'm not certain I catch milady's meaning." Grin grin grin grin.

"I am such a lucky woman." Nestle nestle snuggle snuggle.

"What a coincidence that I feel like such a lucky man." He pulls her closer and kisses the top of her head.

She gives a little happy shiver and hums contently. It would be wonderful if this could last forever.

... But it can't. They're in the middle of a rebellion, this wedding was to cement a political alliance.

"How long until you march again?" she wonders, very softly.

...right. There's a reason this was rushed.

"A couple of weeks to resupply and inventory everything and everyone, and then we go."

“Okay.” She leans up and kisses him. “And… I am to remain here in Riverrun?”

It’s the obvious option, and probably the safest. Riverrun is difficult to siege, escorting a prime potential hostage is dangerous and costly, and their side is already fighting an uphill battle. The fact that this means she’s going to be trapped with the father she hates and her very reasonably miserable sister is immaterial in comparison. (But she doesn’t have to like it.)

He grimaces at the question and his immediate thought is of her having to stay here with that man but that's probably not rational, she probably likes Hoster Tully a lot more than Alis does.

...still.

"If that be milady's wish, although I... confess that however difficult to assail Riverrun may be the North is more. Going all the way to Winterfell would perhaps not be advisable, the Winter snow has not entirely thawed yet, but perhaps... I would feel safer if you were to sail to White Harbour and be hosted by the Manderlys. They are staunch and loyal allies and vassals to House Stark, and I would trust them with my life."

“I don’t… particularly want to stay here, but I’d rather bear it than be a, a liability for you. But then again I’m…” She winces. “I’m afraid that if things start to go poorly, father will. Cut his losses.”

His face darkens. "I will also confess that I am less than impressed with his actions towards the daughter that became inconvenient."

“You don’t know the half of it,” she mutters. “Or, well. You might. I don’t know how much of what happened has gotten out.”

"...I have heard that she needed to take the moon tea." For the obvious reasons. "And I seem to recall a rumour about how very recently Hoster Tully kicked out a ward of his, which seems... like coincidental timing."

“Quite. They are indeed connected. Lysa loved him. Loves still, I suppose. Her pregnancy was not an accident, she was trying to force father’s hand and let her marry a minor lord, but. Instead…”

"...you're marrying a Stark! You're marrying the Lord of Winterfell! Can he not let his second daughter have some happiness in her life? I love Lord Arryn like my own father," much more in fact, "and I know he will treat her well and be kind and good to her, but he is much older than she is and if she already has someone she loves..."

“Oh, believe me, I’ve already said all of that to him. I even explained that Petyr Baelish is on his own merits brilliant, even if his holdings are less than impressive. There was also the argument that I,” and she lowers her voice, because she doesn’t want to be overheard saying this of her own sister, “I don’t think she has the constitution for a cold political match, she wants warmth and kindness and simplicity, not, not. This cold calculus. The fear of her children dying in political plays.” She shakes her head. “But Winterfell is far away, and hardly a martial ally that’ll prevent anyone nearby marching through the Riverlands on their way to the Vale or the Westerlands or the Crownlands. So. You see as far as I have managed to get.”

"Gh."

“Quite. But my ultimate concern is that.” She swallows, and takes a deep breath, and leans into him. “That should you die, should your rebellion fail, he will attempt to…” gods, this is so hard to say, and it’s worse because she believes it, and she hates believing it of her own father, “to kill your child while still in the womb, so as to. Be able too make an alliance with the winning side.” ‘With me’ goes unsaid, but she really doesn’t need to say it, does she.

"...wife of mine, it pains me to say this but I think I want to use my husbandly and lordly authority to demand that you not be in this man's vicinity while I am at war."

She gives a little laugh.

“Yes. Yes, I would…” And she stops because something is catching in her throat, and she has to start over again. “If it were possible to await your surely inevitable victory elsewhere without compromising your overall strategy, I. Would like that very much.”

"Then I shall speak with Lord Wyman Manderly about this matter. I am very doubtful that he shall refuse, so we should be able to get you passage and escort to White Harbour."

Anavett nods, and. Her vision is blurring, for some strange reason. She wonders why. When she reaches up to rub at her eyes, her fingers come away wet. Then she stifles a little sob and realizes that, apparently, the thing that would cause her tears to finally fall was someone believing and trusting her.

“Don’t die,” she sniffles, “Don’t you dare die. Behead the stupid king so he doesn’t cause any more pointless death, and then just, just. Return north and secede from the entire damn kingdom if you have to.” She fails to stifle her second little sob. “Please. Please, please stay alive.”

Alis pulls his arm from around her then places both of her hands inside his, looking into her eyes. He kisses a tear falling down one cheek, and another tear falling down the other. "I vow to you, milady," he says, voice and eyes as serious as they can be, "on my honour as a Stark, that I will return to you. And when I do, and take you to Winterfell with me, we will live our lives together to their natural ends, populate the keep with our children, and love each and every one of them with all our hearts, and grow old to see our family and our lands grow richer, healthier, stronger, and happier day after day."

“Gods, that’s such an ambitious set of promises,” she snorts, but she’s smiling. “Haven’t you heard of moderation and, and setting realistic expectations? Just, just. Return to me, and. We’ll try for all the rest after, okay?”

He smiles, then, and kisses her hands before raising a thumb to wipe her tears away. "It shall be so, milady."

"Okay. Good." She sniffles again, and then kisses the hand wiping away her tears. "Thank you. But I'm being terribly silly, aren't I, we still have time together before the real proper goodbyes, just. It was really very important to tell you my concerns about the safety of, of our heirs."

"And your safety, milady. The moon tea, it... sometimes it... I do not want harm to come to you."

“Yeah. I was with Lysa, during the, the. Yes.” Her mouth twitches to an attempt at a smile. “Self interest does enter into it, too, yes.”

"You are mine, and I yours. What is yours is mine, and what is mine yours. Your safety and wellbeing are of great importance to me, lady wife, and you should not consider it self-interest. I want to take care of what is mine, in the same way you take care of what is yours."

She gives a little snort, then leans forward to kiss him. “You’re very sweet. Yes, all right. Though I hope I may still call it self-interest in jest?”

"You may call it anything you want, wife mine, so long as we are both clear on our priorities here."

"Yeah. I want to take care of you, too. You're a very good husband, I... want to be good for you and to you."

He kisses her forehead and then makes a soft humming sound. "Well, that breakfast is starting to sound appealing, this much exercise on an empty stomach..."

"Ha! Yes. I thought about being a good wife and making sure breakfast would be ready for you when you woke up, but instead I was drawn to continue snuggling you. You were warm and cozy, and I was weak, forgive me." She's obviously joking, and isn't sorry. "I'll put on a dressing gown and go find a servant to bring us something from the kitchens?"

"That would be much appreciated, milady."

She gives him a quick kiss, digs out a dressing gown from the nearby closet, dons it, and then heads out to hunt up some breakfast. There are surely duties they'll both be needing to get to eventually, but at the moment, his men are fed and happy, so it can wait until after they've shared a meal together.

She can very quickly draw attention of one of the House Tully servants, a stout woman in her forties who has known Anavett since she was born.

"Good morning, Lady Stark," she says with a curtsy.

"Good morning, Wilmena!" says Anavett, all bright and happy cheer. She does not know every servant's name, but she does in fact know this one's. "Could I trouble someone for a meal to start the day, for both myself and my husband? I'll be happy to be the one to take it back."

"Of course, milady," she says with another curtsy before turning to leave...

...and pausing then turning back around. "Erm... Lady Stark... may I ask... no, forgive me, 'tis not proper."

"Oh? No, it's quite all right, please go on, something clearly troubles you."

"...well. You see, milady, I... the girls were worried about you."

"... Because of the war?" she says, a little blankly. Because, well, her husband dying in war is in fact a major concern of hers that is absolutely haunting her thoughts, especially now that she likes him, but. That doesn't seem to be what this is about?

"...no, milady. Last night some of the girls, erm, passed by milady's door—not me! I know milady wouldn't like it!" she hastily adds. "But they say they heard cries of pain and..." Then she lowers her voice to barely a whisper to say, "We have tinctures for pain and paints that could hide any bruises if milady has need of them...?"

"....... oh, ah." Then she lowers her own voice, flushing and unable to keep any kind of lid on her smile. "No, that won't be required, thank you, um. My lord husband is, um. Very attentive to my needs. I apologize if I caused concern. But I am taking quite well to being his wife."

"...is milady certain? 'Twould be no shame to treat anything that may come about, the girls know to be very discreet about such matters." Then she tilts her head in confusion. "Or..." And once again a tiny whisper, "did milady and milord not consummate?"

"We absolutely consummated our marriage, several times, I believe the bedsheets are stained as proof, just, ah." She must surely be bright red as the the bricks of Riverrun itself by now, ".... my lord husband is very concerned with my comfort and pleasure and. Is very attentive to my needs." She coughs.

"...milady's... needs? Does milady mean milord took good care of her afterwards?"

Wow she is so incredibly lucky, isn't she, poor Wilmena is having so much trouble conceiving of sex as being great instead of just tolerable and avoiding or minimizing injury.

"... Yes. And also during. He's. He's a very good man and I am very lucky to have him."

"Milady means she... enjoyed the... consummation?" She looks absolutely baffled by the idea. "—the consummation itself felt nice to milady?" And does this mean her husband could have... made sex nice for her... and never did? "But, how? What did milord—Oh, please forgive my indiscretion, I should not be prying. I am happy milady is happy. I shall bring milady and milord's breakfast soon."

Another curtsy and then she's fleeing down the hall before she gets tempted to try to get more highborn gossip and gets reprimanded for it.

Anavett gives a little nod of confirmation to the question, but then is more than happy to leave things at that. That is quite enough. That is probably more than enough, really. If she knows the gossip network of Riverrun, and she does reasonably well, everyone that is concerned for her welfare should soon learn that she is well. Very extremely well, and very extremely happy, and very extremely married and thrilled about it.

(Gods, someone did hear her, that's so embarrassing...)

"I'll, ah, return to our chambers, then, thank you!" she calls, and then it's her turn to flee. It wouldn't really do any good to have her hanging around while there is important gossiping to be had.

Alisander is reading a book when she returns (and he must really love this book, bringing a book along with him to the war is begging for it to be destroyed) but he folds the corner of the page he's at to mark it then puts it down and raises an eyebrow at her. He didn't hear what she was saying but she sure was there for a while.

In she goes, into bed and into his arms, still a faint shade of pink.

"There was some concern for my welfare on account of the, ah. Sounds. I have set the record straight with the staff as to my wellbeing." Blush blush blush.

"The... sounds..." Then it clicks, and he blushes a bit, too, but the cat that got the canary expression comes right back.

She spots his expression, and snorts.

"Yes. Rest assured, the entire estate and probably half of the surrounding countryside will be well aware that I am very happily married thanks to your efforts," she says, and she's trying to sound cross with him but is really not managing it.

Lord Alisander Stark is in fact rather smug about appropriately fitting the Stark stereotype of great potency and manliness and whatnot, even though intellectually he thinks it is kind of dumb. There's just this instinctive part of him that couldn't help but absorb all of the expectations for a Stark and that really wants to match them all.

"If Lord Karstark or the Greatjon catch wind of it then the other half will be made aware, too."

“I’m sure,” she snorts.

Soon enough Wilmena's back with their breakfast. Alisander puts on a robe to accept the food from her, and when he says "thank you" she visibly blushes before stuttering something and fleeing once more.

Anavett snickers.

“You realize that now perhaps an entire quarter of the female staff are going to want to learn firsthand what their lady was so pleased about," Anavett teases.

"If this leads them to demanding better treatment from their lovers, good."

“Oh, certainly, but I meant in a more direct, hands on sense.”

"...ah. Well, they shall be left wanting, then, for I am not bedding any of them."

She nods, then nibbles her lip.

“That’s probably for the best, we’d never hear the end of it, though…” Oh, how does she say this without it sounding rude. “… we are soon to be apart for months, at best. A year or more, at worst. From all I’ve heard of the horrors of battle… well. Feel free to take solace where you can? Without, er.” She waves a hand awkwardly. “Leaving anyone worse for the experience, please, be it partner or, ah, child, just.”

That is to say: no rape, and if he sires any bastards, he should try to see them set up comfortably.

"I should hope you believe," he says, after a couple of frozen seconds with his breath held, "that I am not wont to cause unnecessary suffering. It is a part of what I see as my duty of honour, to face the consequences of my actions head-on, and to not treat others' trust lightly." Lying on him like this, though, she can probably feel the way his heart is beating harder, now, though he hopes she... well... he doesn't even know what kinds of inference she could make from that.

Poor man. She pets him, because he’s so nervous and she doesn’t entirely understand why.

“Yes, I truly couldn’t see you taking liberties with someone without their, ah, happy cooperation, just, um. I could see you quietly shriveling up on the inside, and coming back to me miserable and traumatized and… War is hell. Please try to come back as whole as you can.”

"...I will do my best," and is she going to say the same thing if his lover is a man, and worse yet, if he is in love with said man? Ahhhhhhh. "In any case, it is perhaps time we should get dressed and start our day."

“Yes, quite. Sorry to, um, bring up such a topic and imply anything untoward about your honor, just. I care about you and wish you well.”

"Milady has caused no offence." He pulls one of her hands up to his lips to plant a soft kiss on her knuckles. "And I appreciate your concern and understand where you are coming from." He's pretty sure if he hadn't tasted the forbidden fruit he would actually not be quietly miserable and die inside but even outside of Zakary he now knows what it's like with Anavett and he'd have absolutely suffered rather a lot, yeah.

...and he might yet. He is not sure he is actually willing to do anything with Zakary, surely she is only thinking about other women he might bed. Which he will categorically not.

“Okay. Good.” She leans forward and kisses him, then finishes up the last of her breakfast and gets to getting ready for the day. Mostly this will involve heading back to her own personal rooms to be dressed and made presentable, but she will give him another kiss before she goes.

He makes himself presentable, too, and then he is off to go do a bunch of war-related planning and organisation. He needs to get headcounts from his bannermen and for his own people, and have the first of their strategic meetings about what to do next (which will predictably mostly be led by Zakary).

The meeting goes well past lunchtime and so the people participating have their meal delivered by servants—though Zakary insists that none of them enter the actual room they are discussing things in, the added comfort is not enough to justify the risk of leakage. He has four ideas of possible things they could do as well as a list of pros and cons and a partial accounting of necessary numbers and resources needed for each. The other lords who will be making decisions are invited to critique and to provide information that might make one or another plan better, and to suggests modifications or their own ideas.

Anavett has less personal responsibilities than her husband, she could conceivably spend the day in recreation if she wanted to, but she doesn’t. If nothing else, she’s been the de facto lady of the Tully household since her mother’s death. It's become her habit to manage it accordingly, and it would probably worry many of the staff if she didn't get right back to it the minute she could. Plus, she enjoys it. Besides, there are four armies (Stark, Baratheon, Arryn, and Tully) currently being fed, clothed, armed, and housed primarily by the Riverlands, so it is safe to say no one will turn down a helping hand in keeping it all as organized as possible. Feeding armies on purpose keeps them from doing things like sacking villages for the supplies they need! Yes, they're allied, and stealing things from the vassals of the lord they're allied to is frowned upon, but it can still happen. The best way to keep an army from doing stupid things to stay fed is to feed them.

As expected, lords Karstark and Umber make several japes about Alisander's prowess in bed and his marine wife not knowing what she signed up for. He takes them with good enough grace, manages to not blush at all and to only give curt responses that nevertheless completely fail to disabuse anyone of the notions being put forth.

When they're done it is almost supper time, but Zakary pulls Alisander aside and finds a secluded corner of the keep to talk.

"So."

"...so?"

"Suppose I should be giving you congratulations. You performed your duty admirably."

"Oh, fuck you, Zak," and now he's blushing.

Zakary grins and shakes his head. "I am just happy my pupil learned well enough—"

Alisander thinks Zakary needs to be punched a lot more often than he is.

He was expecting it, though, and blocks the punch easily. "Your worries about not liking women seem to have been entirely unfounded, then?"

"Yes. Zak, is there a reason you wanted to talk or are you just fishing for all of the sordid details?"

"Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea of the details by now, wolf."

"...you also listened."

"It would have been a lot stranger not to, we're brothers, people would be suspicious."

"And you got off on it."

"Of course I got off on it. —not right then, obviously, but my Alis being that good with his wife, who by the way sounds delightful—"

Zakary blocks another punch and then Alis folds his arms and looks away, blushing harder. "You should not say things like these. If anyone hears you I will have to duel you for her honour."

"The acoustics here are great, which is to say they're shit and you can't hear anyone two yards away from you."

"Zak, can you get to the point?"

"You," he says, locking his eyes onto Alis's, "are very concerned about something."

"If you haven't noticed there's a war—"

"Brother when have you ever successfully lied to me?"

"Gods take you, Zakary. Is this a checkup on how I am? I am doing great, thank you very much, my wife is in fact lovely, our night together was bloody perfect—"

"And you asked Lord Manderly to welcome her in White Harbour while we're off at war."

"...well, I couldn't really leave her here with that man—"

"Which implies a rather deep level of trust already, does it not?" Zak unsheathes a dagger attached to his leg and starts lightly playing with it, throwing it up in the air and catching it after a few spins. "In her, that is. To leave her unsupervised somewhere like that. Lord Manderly and his men will be with us, and she is clearly smart enough to get away with roughly anything she wants to without anyone guaranteeing she'll behave—"

This time he kicks Zakary's shin, and thankfully Zak's reflexes are good enough to catch the dagger anyway even as he whines about the kick.

"Now you're getting into dangerous territory, Zak."

"I am, aren't I?" he replies with a light tone and a serious look. "You trust that she won't do anything you wouldn't want her to do. You trust her. Even if it's been barely two days that you've known her."

"...well, I—I mean, we are married, I cannot just—"

"I'm not saying you are wrong, brother. Your trust is well-placed."

"And how would you know?" Alis asks, folding his arms and glaring at Zak.

"Is there even a point in explaining? Lord Stark is smart enough to figure it out, if he thinks about it, and he is just being stubborn and trying to put himself and his own intuition down. Stop that, Alis. Stop second-guessing yourself so much."

"What exactly do you think I'm second-guessing myself about? And what was the tell, I was not thinking about anything related to her at all during the meeting, how did you even know?"

"You need to pay more attention to your words, brother, you keep just confirming my guesses. And the answer is that it was a guess, from knowing you, and then you just confirmed it by acting the way you do."

He leans back against the wall and looks away again.

"—ah, I see."

"What! What do you see, Zakary, I just leaned against a wall and looked away from you!"

"You looked away from me because you don't want to think about me—"

"There's a million other things I could have meant instead!"

"Yes, but I know you better than anyone, so what I have to do is ask the little you that lives in my head, 'why is he doing what he is doing?', and the answers are usually right. That's the same for your lady wife, by the by, the way you act when you talk about her, or when I talk about her, and the way you two were acting at the wedding and the feast, and the things she did—I know it wasn't your suggestion to get a Northern wedding—it all adds up. There are many kinds of people your lady wife could be, but all of them have to fit with the things I've seen."

"So what is the little me in your head saying I am worried about, then, Zakary?"

"You feel very comfortable with her, already, and you trust her implicitly. She is very level-headed and she guessed about us yesterday—"

Alis chokes on his spit and has to spend a few seconds recovering his breath. "What?" he asks in an undertone.

"I have no idea what you two were talking about, but she watched you coming to me to ask about Lysa's bedding, and then she looked at me and she wanted to know something. She wasn't satisfied with what I gave her, which was literally nothing, so she's not sure, but she has some thoughts and ideas about our relationship. If nothing else, we're brothers, and it's not like some light sword touching between brothers isn't commonplace."

"...must you put these things these ways?"

"Yeah, actually. It breaks through your icy exterior and makes you have to think about what exactly I'm saying instead of just trying to make guesses about related things that I could be saying."

"Well, fine, yes, I am certain many people suspect we've spent some nights together, why is this relevant to what you were saying?"

"I was saying that she's level-headed and she guessed about us and she seemed fine with it, which as you say does not mean that much, but whenever I bring this up or as we've been talking about it you freeze or flinch or avert your eyes or frown. You do actually want to tell her about us, and you're more certain than you were when we talked that this would not be a terrible idea, but you still feel conflicted about it. She... hmm... You two talked about something like this, yes?"

Alis has to think about all of these things explicitly, and Zak just, just makes it look so easy, just guesses the right answers like it's nothing, and it's infuriating.

"Yes," he grumbles. "She said—she said that I should not make myself miserable while away from her at war, that I should come back to her whole, and that as long as I didn't harm anyone while doing it—not any partners, nor children, then—then I should why are you laughing!!!!!"

Zak needs a little bit to stop laughing, during which Alis just sulks and waits. When he has enough breath to speak he says, "Stop hitting yourself on the head, you absolute fool! Trust her! Tell her! In the worst case she will turn out to not have been trustworthy and we can wave it off as some light sword touching and say that anything anyone says about us being in love is lies, which yes is awful but the awful part would be the betrayal itself, and it's better to know than not, right? But she won't. She's not telling a soul."

He covers his eyes with a hand, then, and leans his back against the wall turning his face to the ceiling. "But what if I hurt her because I love you and not her?" he asks in a tiny, fragile whisper.

"...my love. My Alis. You already love her."

His head snaps back down to look at Zak so fast he actually cracks his neck. "We've just met!"

"Yeah, that's crazy, right? But I guess it was love at first—maybe sight, actually, Lord Arryn told me about your first encounter. I am sure you were very taken by her right then and there."

He just stares at Zakary for several seconds, breathing heavily and not really having any facial expressions.

Then he covers his face with his hands and says, "Oh, gods, I am in love with her."

Zak leans forward and places one hand on the side of Alis's face, lightly scratching the back of his neck with his fingers. "Yes you are, love. Surprise, everything the stories tell you about true love is lies. Some people have more love in them than just for the one person."

He lowers his hands from his face and then places one of them on top of Zakary's. "I did not sign up for this," he sighs.

"You did not sign up to love and be loved by more than one person? Well, tough shit, brother. And can I just say? There is no one else in this world that would react the way you just did to realising they are in love with their spouse."

Alis laughs weakly. "When you put it like that it is kind of ridiculous."

"You've always been ridiculous about these things. Ever since we were children. Ever since I noticed just how much I wanted you, how much I wanted to be with you, and you noticed the same, you've been ridiculous. You spent a month avoiding me after we kissed for the first time!"

"You kissed me in the baths, anyone could have walked in and seen!"

"And yet you only took notice of it after we'd had our tongues down each other's throats for five minutes and I was on your lap. See what I mean? Ridiculous."

"Well, you cannot hold things I did as a child against me."

"As your brother, it is my solemn duty to hold everything you did as a child against you."

He sighs. "Fine, Zakary, fine. You win. I will talk to her."

"Good boy. Now I have some more things to do before supper, so I shall see you later, brother." He gives Alis a light peck on the lips then walks off to wherever it is he needs to go.

Alis stays where he is for a while longer until he is definitely not blushing anymore and definitely not, not... whatever he is. He loves Zakary dearly but Zak can really be a bit overwhelming. Sometimes it feels like having a chat with a maelstrom.

He doesn't really have anything scheduled until supper, and he feels like if he tried to do anything serious he'd just be distracted all the time, so instead he'll go back to his chambers and read his book some more.

His bedsheets have been changed, the chamberpots have been emptied and cleaned, and the oil lamps have all been refilled. He can hear the bustle of servants outside the door of his guest chanbers, but they're all aware he's in, and they leave him alone. He is free to read until supper.

—and also probably people are passing the bedsheets around so that they know for sure that his wife did in fact lose her maidenhead there. For some reason this bothers him more than the thought of having been listened in on. He thinks he feels somewhat offended by the idea—of course he was going to consummate his marriage, he made his vows!—but he supposes it makes sense for people who are not as honourable as him.

(He does not like people who are not as honourable as him.)