Chapter Text
The bride was sitting on a very refined armchair in front of a very refined mirror and surrounded by very refined gifts. Jewels, gems, paintings, expensive fabric embroidered with gold and silver, vases, dresses, tiaras, furniture made of the finest wood and materials. All these wonderful gifts were for her and her only. They came from everywhere, from Essos to the Reach, from Oldtown to Riverrun, and they had been sent by every house of Westeros, the smallest and the biggest, the southern and the northern… But not all of them. What a surprise, she mused, bitterly.
And the bride was also surrounded by a swarm of maids who hummed around her, pulled her hair, twisted some strands of it, pinned some on her skull, braider, straightened, curled, asked questions but expected no answer, railed against each other, against her hair, the way she was sitting, whining about the time that was flying. And the bride was waiting for them to be done.
She stared at herself in the mirror, at her light blond hair skilfully braided all around her head in a very complicated tangle of strands and swirls, at her sky blue eyes. Their severity, hardness and their coldness made her reputation, but they were nothing but weary, lost in their own reflection at this moment. Even with all the rouge and the blush on her cheeks, she looked distant, too distant for a bride.
She was asked to stand up and climb on some sort of a made-up pedestal – a chest, actually. She obeyed and it distracted her from her thoughts. Much like an apathetical doll, she let them pull the underskirt on her, and the dress, and the coat. She had no idea what it looked like; she had not chosen the dress, as she had not chosen the wedding itself. Neither did she choose the gifts, the guests or the place. Or the husband. She barely reacted when her swarm of bids of ill-omen pulled the laces of her corset.
“My Lady, if I may say so, you are… You are splendid,” one of them dared tell her. “This dress is incredible.
- Is it now?
- It really is.” She evidently did not realize that she could care less about the dress and continued her verbiage. “What jewels do you want to wear? Maybe rubies, to match the embroideries…
- Have I received sapphires?”
The maid suddenly looked uncomfortable, and stammered that she did not know but maybe it would be wiser, well, maybe not wiser, but maybe it would be more suitable… That her Lord future husband would not appreciate, that she was to wear red… She raised an eyebrow and waited for the endless explanations to end to step down the chest, much to the discontent of the other maids, to walk to the table where they had put the jewels she had been sent. She refrained from smirking.
They were made of gold and rubies, all of them. Some had dared send diamonds, there was a emerald necklace – the Tyrells, undoubtedly, but there was no sapphire. Nothing blue. Gold and red, and a tad of black. She kept still, admiring the spending picture it all made. I hate red. She opened one of the boxes left unopened. Most of them contained pins and combs. Still nothing silver or blue. They had anticipated everything, or at least they had made sure she wouldn’t try one last time to rebel.
“My Lady, your husband wishes you to wear this,” the oldest of them told her. She had never seen her and she probably was not at her service directly. A spy. She was holding a ruby necklace. Painfully red, obviously. “He deems…
- I am pleased to know what my Lord future husband deems suitable, but I wish to wear… This.”
She seized a pearl necklace in its box and handed it to her. There was some sort of a flexible tiara made of the same pearls in the box and she took it with her as well. She placidly sat in front of the mirror again and felt the embarrassment of the maids around her. She repeated her order. She would wear the pearls. It was the less red thing she could wear.
When she eventually saw herself in the mirror, she discovered the dress she was wearing. The women were stupid, but they were no liars: it was a marvel. All of crimson and gold, it was composed of a pearly white dress covered with golden embroideries figuring flowers, roses probably, and of a coat made of a heavy red brocade. The bodice was embroidered with the same pattern as the dress and the neckline was crimped with small golden pearls. The whole dress was so unwieldy that she could barely sit at all.
The ruby necklace she should have worn would obviously have turned the outfit in a work of art. It was the point, that and making sure she understood how tight her husband’s grip on her was. But he should have expected her to resist and refuse. She had accepted too much already, and it was almost a miracle that she was there, dressed like an actual princess on her wedding day. And maybe she was a princess on her wedding day, after all.
“It is such a pity, my Lady, that you won’t wear the necklace Lord…
- I thank you for your kind advices,” she snapped back. “But I asked for none. I will wear the pearls.
- But the Lord…
- The Lord will probably be very upset when I am late at the sept, and will probably be even more if he happens to learn that it is because of a stubborn and brash maid.”
She turned her head to her and stared at her for a few seconds. She eventually bent to her will, both literally and figuratively, and put the pearls around her neck. They were softly cold on her skin and she brushed them as other maids were placing the tiaras on the top of her head. It was not that bad, after all. Maybe it was better. Less bombastic. More distinguished.
She nodded and stood up. She grabbed the grey cape that was hanging on the bed’s frame and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was too late to ask for the nuptial cape of her house, so they had found some grotesque ersatz. It looked awful on her wonderful dress, like a grey mistake. Hm. Convenient. The maids left her room and were replaced by Kingsguards all dressed in white. She repressed a shiver. The same men that had thrown her into a cell barely a week before were now escorting her to the sept. She did not look at them and silently walked to the carriage that would bring her to the Great Sept of Baelor where the entirety of the Court and a few selected guests were waiting for her. And her husband too.
As a child, she had tried to imagine what her wedding would be. She had been raised to consider it as a purely political event, she had never been taught that it could be anything else than a marriage of convenience, something useful to her house and the kingdom alike. Even as a young girl, as most men and women praised her blooming beauty, she had never let any of them petty noblemen woo her. She never listened to her step-mother’s nonsensical blabbering about love and its magic.
And she’d grown up into a woman at her father’s side, a father that never showed anything more a friendly at best, political more probably, interest in her and who, by way of an education, drowned her in books and stories about her house’s upmost honour. He had shaped his daughter as he would have shaped his son if he’d had the time to do it, never letting the time nor the chance for what is usually a girl’s education to actually influence her. No sweet tales, no songs, no sewing but many books, political teachings and honour-based tales.
But even then, even knowing that she would never have anything more than a useful marriage, she had never imagined it would be like this. She had never imagined she would be locked in a carriage to bring her forcefully to the sept, and she had never imagined she would have not say in the matter. It was not the only thing she had never imagined, though. Maybe unimaginable things happen lately. A king was dead, others struggled for power and she had been playing with fire thinking it would never burn her. She was reaping what she had sown, nothing more, nothing less.
When they reached the sept, it took her a second to actually climbed down the coach. The building was incredible with its immense towers and its domes. A crowd had gathered around the place and was looking at her in an almost reverent silence. It was not respect – it was shock. The battle of the Blackwater only happened a few days before, and the Court already threw a costly party to marry its most beautiful dove. Its most beautiful falcon.
She entered the building with a slow yet decided step. She would not offer them the pleasure of her discomfort. She had chosen this marriage, even if it was nothing close to an actual choice. She had chosen life over death. A choice her father would have frowned upon, but her father was dead. The circular room was crowded and every eye was on her. She did not look back and continued to walk the same.
She stopped when she noticed Joffrey – King Joffrey, she corrected herself, walking toward her with a crooked smile. She tensed and raised her chin even higher than it already was. He offered her his arm and raised an eyebrow.
“Your father is gone and as the father of this realm, it is my duty to give you away to your husband,” he declared with a toothy grin. “How strange it is for a king to marry his grandfather.
- It surely is, your majesty.”
She had replied with a listless voice and took his arm without realizing. She climbed down the stairs trying not to trip on her train and on the tiny king who looked only too happy to walk her down the aisle. He was smaller than she is and she had to bow a little not to give away the feeling that she was walking him down the aisle. The ridicule of the situation was not lost on some noblewomen who hid a smile behind their hand or a fan. Most of them were dead silent, respectful and probably terrified.
Not of her, of course. Of her husband who was waiting for her next to the High Septon, so still that he almost looked rigid. His house’s nuptial cape was folded on his arm and it would replace the hideous grey sheet she was still wearing. The king left when she reached the altar’s steps and she climbed them alone. She could feel the heavy gaze of Queen Cersei on her back, she had no need to turn back to know she was weighing her up. She stopped in front of her future husband and turned to face him, noblesse oblige.
They exchanged a long stare, heavy of meaning but empty of any feeling whatsoever. They both knew why they were here, he because she had tried and succeeded in rising against the throne, her because she had eventually burned herself while playing with fire. She had managed to waltz on the Lannisters’ claws without falling, until the point where they pulled her to their fangs. The worst of them had closed the trap on her and forced her into this unnatural union of a Lion and a Falcon.
“Your majesty, your majesty,” the High Septon declared while saluting Joffrey and Cersei. “My lords, my ladies. As we stand here in the sight of gods and men, I solemnly declare that the Lord Tywin Lannister and the Lady Shara Arryn are husband and wife.” He paused in an uncomfortable manner. He changed the speech, she noted. He turned to Tywin and continued. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.
- With his move, I take you for my lady and wife.
- With his move, I take you for my lord and husband.”
Their two almost hoarse voices had risen, echoing one another, in the great rotunda of the sept. There was no kiss, no move, she just turned to feel the cape slip on her shoulders and be replaced by the heavy Lannister’s velvet cloak. She shivered and closed her eyes for a second. So this is how a caged bird feels. The feeling was terrifying. She would have to get used to it.
She did not react at first when she felt his hand on her arm, then understood that she had to face the crowd. She discreetly stepped away from his grip as the crowd underneath applauded. The queen’s eyes had not left her; if her eyes had been actual flames, she would have died a couple of times already. She was the only child of her husband to be there, actually – Tyrion was bedridden, seriously wounded, and Jaime was still nowhere to be found. She was the first to walk to the happy couple to congratulate them, barely hiding the hatred she already felt for the young bride.
And she was only the first of an unending list of noblemen and noblewomen to commend the young couple. She only answered with pleasantries, without really distinguishing the noblest ones from the least, letting Lord Lannister deal with their sensibilities. She waited for the ordeal to be done to step into another carriage to head back to the Red Keep. Her eyes on the small window, she did not try to talk to what was now her husband. It took very, very long minutes for him to break the silence that was now lingering.
“I am pleased to see how finely the dress becomes you.
- It is wonderful,” she replied without faking interest. “Thank you.
- You are not wearing the necklace.
- No, indeed.”
She slowly turned her head toward him. His face did not express any particular emotion, no annoyance, no anger, no surprise. It would mean he can feel any of these. He sustained her gaze for a long time before looking away as well and ordering the riders to hurry. Outside, the population’s frustration sounded like a dull hum that turned more threatening as they crossed Flea Bottom than it must have been weeks ago when princess Myrcella left for Dorne. She was not there, she had stayed in her Red Keep apartments to finish the preparatives for the Blackwater Bay’s battle. She had seen the turmoil, though, from her window. And the fire that followed. He most likely did not want his kind of… Problems to happen during his marriage.
If she was obviously the focal point, not only because of her dress, her beauty or her reputation but also because of the recent events, he was not undone either. If she were to be perfectly honest, she would have admitted that he did present a fine image in his display costume. He was still broad-shouldered, tall and rather slender and only his baldness reminded that he was getting close to sixty years of age. His beard and sideburns were still of a golden blond and his green eyes still shone forcefully. A pity to be his wife only to avoid the gallows.
“May I ask why?
- I did not want to. I believe I wear enough red and gold to please you.
- It would be wise to get used to it,” he reminded her, still looking outside. “Red and gold are now your colours.
- The same could be said of the whole realm then.”
She authorized herself a small smile and turned her head to look outside as well. The City Watch hardly managed to keep the crowd at bay. The atmosphere had dramatically changed since she had left the Keep and now she was coming back. After all, the people may not know her but they knew Tywin Lannister and the queen. And they hated them both. Weeks ago, this hatred was an asset – now she was on the same line of sight. Shara Lannister, she repeated silently.
She would get used to the red and gold, she would get used to the hatred against her adoptive family and perhaps she would even come to appreciate her position – who knew? But she was quite certain that she would never get used to the Lannister name. She was born an Arryn and she shall die as an Arryn. As high as honour.
When they reached the castle’s inner court, she refused the help she was offered and climbed down the car on her own. They were the last to arrive, as was customary for the wedded couple. The feast was to take place in the Great Gallery where the whole court could fit. Staged had been set up for the few entertainers Tywin Lannister had authorized to entertain the guests. Knowing how terribly he despised any kind of joys, she was certain he only allowed the bare minimum and he had not been the one to choose them.
She waited for him to slip her arm under his and enter the huge reception room. Another round of applause greeted them, quickly quieted by the musicians. She sat at the head table near the kind and next to her husband. There was no speech, no raucous laughter, no coarse banters. It was the wedding of the Hand of the king, the Lion of Casterly Rock, not some petty nobleman with a dubious sense of humour. It is not even a proper wedding.
She looked around, not really searching for any kind of comfort – she would find none, but searching for anything that could have changed since she had been thrown into a cell. Sansa Stark was still there, seating near the kind, her face somber and covered with bruises. All the rouge of this world could not hide what her betrothed put her through. She did not know the girl that well but she couldn’t help pitying her. She had believed in Joffrey’s kindness, like many before and after her. Poor girl. Her father had made the greatest of his mistakes the day he accepted to replace her father as Hand of the late king Robert. She had made the greatest of her own when she had accepted to marry the prince of yesterday, the kind of today.
Not the actual king, she mused while looking at her husband. He did not smile, did not talk, did not look at the artists who frolicked in front of them. There were too many things to do to enjoy anything, apparently. Well, she couldn’t deny it. Maybe in others circumstances she would have been too busy leading troops… Or at least sending information to those who actually led them.
She did not realize she was not eating anything, merely pricking pieces of meat, vegetables in her plate without ever eating them. She was not hungry. She only wanted one thing: this day to be over and to be done with this mascarade. Maybe a bit of alcohol would have made things more acceptable but she did not feel like getting drunk.
She was torn out of her thought by Petyr Baelish standing in front of her. She blinked and tilted her head as he was respectfully bowing in front of her Lord husband. Imbecile. She offered him her hand that he kissed with distinction, before he stood up and crossed his arms behind his back.
“Lord Baelish,” she said with a forced smile. “I hope you appreciate the revels.
- I do, my Lady. The dishes are exquisite and the music… Hmm, sweeter than all these Dornish wines.
- How delightful.
- And I, my Lady, am delighted to see you like this. I must admit I was quite worried for you, alone in your cold cell. What a surprising… Shift in your situation to see you there, more beautiful than ever.”
She tensed, imperceptibly. Tywin had lost interest in his advisor and was talking to a bowing, all-smiles Mace Tyrell. These sycophants sickened her and Loard Baelish, Master of coin, was the worst of them all. His crooked smile, both obsequious and sarcastic, only called for one thing: a slap. Too bad it was neither the place nor the time.
She let her smile widen, refusing to bow before this gods-forsaken bird’s innuendos. He was her vassal and he paraded in front of her as if he was just as powerful as she was. Her wounded honour called for justice but she simply smiled, because it was all she could do. Smile and retain her dignity before humiliation.
“It really is,” she simply replied. “You no longer are the only one to have risen in a… Surprising manner.
- I fear that our situations are not comparable, though. I am but the heir of a minor house who became Master of coin, you… You are nothing less than the heir of house Arryn, rebel in her spare time, who became the wife of one of the most powerful men of this world in lieu of wife of a chopping block.
- Indeed.” She closed her eyes for a second and chuckled. “And how… Do you think the most powerful man of the world would react if her wife’s honour were tarnished by a petty nobleman of the Vale?”
His smile flickered and he nodded. Verbal jousting was his stock in trade but he always managed to stay in his comfort zone. It may just have been an idle threat – she had no idea how Tywin would react, really. He did hold onto his honour more than anything else, and his family’s honour even more so, but she was not part of his family. She was an added piece and a barely useful one at that. But Baelish did not insist and bowed before vanishing in the crowd.
Her eyes followed him and she let herself slip into a contemplative apathy. Somehow, he was not wrong. Her presence here was surprising and it was an understatement. Something had happened, something that had convinced Tywin Lannister that this traitor to the crown should not be killed and should even be integrated to house Lannister. She had no idea what this something was, since no one knew or wanted to tell her. Maybe no knows must know. She doubted he even told anyone anything about her, except that she had to be taken out of her cell and brought to the surface.
“You dismissed Lord Baelish,” he noted once Lord Tyrell was gone to his table. “Why?
- He had things to do, I did not dismiss him.
- I am not deaf. I heard what it was all about.” He brought his glass to his lips while observing the guests. “You already use my name to protect yourself. It did not take you long.
- I spared you a painful conversation with a flattered. You should thank me.”
She turned her head to him. His face did not moved and he pretended not to have heard anything. He stood up and apologized, declaring he had to talk to a member of the small Council. She nodded and lowered her eyes on her plate. It was filled again – with fish, this time. Aware that the whole Court was staring at her, she eventually accepted to taste what she was given.
The dish was delicious but she found no pleasure in it and lost herself again in the audience’s contemplation. She caught the regent queen’s attention and, cut to the quick, she stood up too and walked to her. She had a light smile on her lips when she reached the table. She was going to bow before her when she felt fingers under her chin.
“Stand up, will you? It seems we are now family.”