bakerstreet | Arranged

Arranged

Arranged Marriage

Marriage for love is a such a modern concept. In the past, marriage was
recognised as a social contract. Unions were entered into for many
reasons: to obtain property, to unite families, to carry on a bloodline,
et cetera. Whatever the reason, congratulations, you're getting married!

How to Play:
Post with your character | fandom | and any preferences.
Be sure to mention any scenarios you are interested or not interested in playing.
Tag Others.
Be awesome to each other.
Have fun!

POSSIBLE REASONS:
STATION: You come from a royal, noble, or otherwise distinguished family who has chosen a suitable spouse for you.
FEUD: You are being married to put an end to the bitter enmity between your two families.
ECONOMICS: Your economic state and/or your station will improve through the union, though one of you may be marrying down.
EMPIRE: You and your spouse are merging your businesses and/or property to create something more influential or profitable.
TRIBUTE: You have been offered as a gift or appeasement, alternately you're the spoils of war.
BLOODLINE: Carrying on your distinguished family name has fallen to you and the equally well-bred spouse of your family's selection.
DISAPPROVAL: Your marriage has been arranged to keep you away from the person with whom you truly wish to be.

POSSIBLE SCENARIOS
FIRST MEETING: This is the very first time you're meeting your future spouse.
COURTSHIP: To get to know each other and encourage affection, your family has approved of you going on dates.
ENGAGEMENT PARTY: Be it a huge, formal affair or a small, intimate get together, you're celebrating (or pretending).
WEDDING DAY: The big day!
RECEPTION: The big party!
WEDDING NIGHT: Every meme needs a smut prompt, right?
HONEYMOON: Where will you go with your new spouse and what will you do there?

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She turns, then, and looks down at him where he lies beside her. There is something soft in her face, for all that it lends itself to sternness. He is not just waking, she can tell that at once, and she wonders how long he was lying awake beside her, listening to her breath in the morning stillness. He seems different to her this morning, somehow, and she realises why: because she is not looking at a king or a stranger or even a husband, but only a man, naked under the sheets and seeing her at the moment of the day when she has not yet put on her armour and her nobility; when she is only a woman.

She smiles.

"I will go and find someone." The cool air prickles at her skin when she pulls back the covers to get up. "Shall I call for anything for you, my lord?"

He watches her move, more relaxed in his presence than she seemed to be last night. Last night's events had certainly had something to do with that, but he suspects there's more to it as well. The fact that he had remained last night and they had both slept in the same bed was almost more intimate than the rest of it, because it hadn't been part of the expectations. She had chosen to ask him to stay, and he had chosen to do so. And now they're each seeing a part of the other that so few ever get to, the part that is buried under a mask when they're meeting with their people or dealing with that day's business. In this moment, they're just people preparing for their day.

"There's something in my chamber, wrapped in fabric. Have it brought with breakfast."

She nods, standing. The rusty stain on the sheets catches her eye as she twitches the covers back into place behind her, and it is impossible to name the feelings that it wakes in her - a kind of wonder, foremost of all, at the mundanity of it. Someone will have to scrub blood from the sheets, with white vinegar and scour, and then it will be done.

Clearing her throat, she straightens, her weak arm aching and cradled against her chest, and goes to retrieve the robe that hangs by the fire. And perhaps she puts a little sway in her hips, perhaps she is a little conscious of him watching her, perhaps she wants to feel that he is watching her - and if so, then what of it? It is a novelty, to be unabashedly naked in a man's company, and it does no harm to test the nature of it a little.

"I will be back in a moment, then." She sweeps her hair back out of the way, and dons the embroidered robe, knotting it about the waist. Her bare feet are quiet on the stone floor. There is something measuring in the look she gives him, back over her shoulder, as she heads for the door; and she looks as though she might say something, but in the end, she shakes her head and ducks out into the hallway.

He notices the sway of her hips as she walks across the room, and discovers that he quite likes watching it. Which bodes well for the physical aspects of their marriage, at least, and up to this point, they've been getting along fine, and he has no reason to doubt that theirs will be a successful alliance.

Once she's out of sight in the hallway, he gets out of the bed himself and digs through his discarded articles of clothing until he finds his undergarments. He slips them on, and his trousers, but leaves his chest bare. There's no need to hide it. Nor does he bother to tie back his unruly hair. This is just a casual, relaxed meal between a man and his wife.

When she returns, he's seated in a chair by the fire, and there is a goblet of wine for each of them sitting on the table.

She pauses in the doorway for a moment, struck by the sight of him, and her gaze lingers as she gently closes the door behind her. There is a sort of incongruity, as she has found in other contexts, between the king and the man: and here is the man with the crown put aside, without any duty (for the moment) to be done, without the strangeness of the night before to distract her from the simpler truth of it. This is the man. This is her husband. Last night, he was inside her, and this morning he pours her wine and sits half-dressed by the hearth, and it is so strange, and it does not feel strange at all.

She clears her throat, shaking off the reverie, and adjusts the robe around her neck as she crosses over to join him.

"The young man with the red hair has gone down to the kitchen, and sent a girl to your rooms. Five minutes, I should think." Her smile is a little rueful. "I know so few names, I fear. This is a larger hall than my brother's; it will take longer than I hoped to learn its running."

This is, for her, a significant admission. It has never sat well with her to acknowledge her own inabilities.

He thinks for a moment. Some of the staff is new, some of them have been here since before he became the master of the keep, but he is trying to learn the names of all of them. They may work for him, but they are also among the people he is now responsible for.

"Finn," he offers as a name for the man she mentioned. He had been glad of the job, and didn't seem to mind the work.

"It's larger than Winterfell as well." And he hadn't really been taught how to run Winterfell; any of those lessons he picked up had simply been a result of his proximity to Robb when he had those lessons. "There have been many changes and additions to the staff, especially with the destruction caused by the war, that I am still learning myself. No one will fault you if it takes time to work it out."

She settles into her seat, and, after a moment's consideration, crosses one leg over the other, letting it slip bare out of the robe in the process. It is a small flirtation, especially given that she was fully naked a few minutes ago, but all the same, it is exciting to move that way, exciting not to have to be cautious with herself. She wonders, a little shamefully, whether he might be interested in another bout of lovemaking, now she has shed her doubts. She thinks, perhaps, he might.

And then she puts the thought away at his remark, and shakes her head. "I would fault myself, I fear." Her tone is dry, but it is a genuine sentiment. She frowns a little, and then leans in - not flirtatious, now, but serious.

"May I tell you a secret?" She does not wait for an answer; he has won enough of her trust, it seems, for secrets, whether he wants them or not. And some things will not go unspoken forever. "Too long, and too fervently, I wished to be a queen; and now, when I had relinquished that desire as childish folly, and counted myself too broken for such things, queendom has come upon me all the same. And I shall not have it said that the Lady of the Golden Hall cannot keep one of stone - not only for my people's pride, though it is great and I its willing guardian, but for my own."

She sighs, and looks down at the hearth for a moment, at the embers. When she looks back up at him, her voice is low, her expression strangely sharp for the softness she bares in her words. "In truth, my lord - Jon - I am afraid. I am afraid that I know how to shepherd men through a war, but not to confront peace. I am afraid that I have left too much of myself in the Shadow, and that I do not know how to keep a hall that is not balanced on a knife's edge. Afraid that, for the first time, I do not know myself equal to the task before me. I no longer desired to be a queen, for I no longer felt myself queenly; but I am Queen, and I cannot now falter in it, not one step, not one moment. Else I must know that I was truly made only for wartime, for there I never faltered - and I do not wish for war. Do you understand me?" Her eyes drift to his scars, and she half-smiles, without much humour. "I fear that perhaps you do."

The way that his eyes follow her leg as she shifts in her seat seems to indicate that he would indeed be interested in another turn at being man and wife, but no. Breakfast is on the way, and a bath, and servants will be in the room soon, so this is not the time. Perhaps later. No one will fault him for being late in tending to his duties on the day after his wedding.

He sets his glass down and leans in the same as she did, allowing them to lower their voices, although there is no one to hear them at the moment. "I do." He rubs a hand on the back of his neck, tousling his already-unruly hair. "I was not raised to sit on a throne. I was not even raised to take the seat of the lord of Winterfell. That was Robb's future. I had those lessons because we were the same age, and my father," Jon knows now that Ned was actually his uncle, but doubts that he will ever stop thinking of him as his father, "wanted me educated the same as the other children. Much of it has been useful, but it was never an expectation that I would need it for a role such as this."

He hadn't even known that he was born to a role such as this.

"I know far more of battlefield strategy than of political strategy." Which isn't that surprising, when he thinks of it. Ned and Robb had both been outmaneuvered on the political field, and both lost their heads over it. Sansa seems to have picked up some skill at from somewhere though. "I saved Winterfell on the battlefield, more than once, and Westeros too, in a way. Leading Westeros through a time of peace...I suppose is something we'll have to learn together."

"In our raising, at least, I may have some advantage." Not enough - not nearly enough - to offset the foreignness of Westeros, or its greater size, or to make her feel any more confident. But it feels worth saying - for his reassurance, if not her own. "I was not raised to a throne, but I was raised to run a court; his queen was dead long ere we came to my uncle's hall, and so all the time I have been in Edoras, I have been its highest lady."

(And if she is honest, though she will not say, there is a part of her that is still there - a part which feels ousted by her brother's bride, although Lothíriel seems a competent enough woman.)

She considers him for a moment, and then sets down her wine and leans in, reaching across to touch his hand. "Thank you. It is no easy thing, to say or to do, but we will learn together, and I should sooner do so together than alone."

"That may turn out to be useful." More than usual, probably, and likely much more than 'may'. "There is enough to do to rebuild the kingdom without having to worry about trouble from the court, too." The thought of even having one is strange; it's not something that the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had claimed. "Although I did take care to put those I knew I could trust on my small council." Until his position on the throne is stable, he must be mindful of everything he does.

He pauses as the door opens to let in first someone with their breakfast and then someone carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle, both of which are shortly placed on the table and then the two of them are alone again as the staff disappear back out the door.

"This," Jon indicates the wrapped bundle, "is my gift to you."

She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again as the door opens, and the moment is gone. Her hand slips from his, and she sits up again, nodding thanks to the servants as they enter.

And then they are only two again, and there is a gift in front of her, and she looks up at him. A small part of the veil has fallen over her expression again, a strangely guarded look, but she smiles, all the same.

"Thank you." She seems to wait a moment, as if to be sure, before drawing it into her lap to unwrap the cloth from whatever is inside.

It seems as though there was almost something between them for a moment before they had been interrupted, which he supposes is something they will have to get used to in their life together. As long as he might be needed for something, they could be interrupted at any moment. Which is another thing that life at Winterfell hadn't prepared him for, although that may be because he had simply never paid attention to how often Ned's presence was called for.

He sits back and watches her unwrap the cloth to reveal a finely-made saddle, freshly oiled, shot through with silver filigree. It was obviously made for someone of high status, but at the same time, is functional for riding, not just ornamental.

"It belonged to my mother," Jon explains. "No one else at Winterfell had used it in years, so I had it sent here and restored to usable condition. I know that you have your own and probably prefer to use it, but this one should belong to someone who will appreciate it."

She traces her fingers over the silver threading, the smooth leather. It is a different style of saddle from what she is used to, and a part of her wonders how comfortable it will be, over a long ride - but then, it is well-used, too, and it is lovely. And, more importantly, it is meaningful. As much so as her father's sword, perhaps. More, perhaps. Her gift felt like an obligation, a part of her own people's traditions. This, as far as she can tell, is... just a gift.

A gift that belonged to his mother, who he did not know. She is touched by it, more than she expected.

"It's beautiful." She gently settles the saddle beside her seat, away from the fire so it will not dry the leather, and straightens in her seat to look back to him. "Thank you. Perhaps, if there is time, I can try it out later today - perhaps we might take a short ride together, if you have time?"

He smiles at the suggestion -- genuinely pleased by it. Not only at the chance to get to know each other some more, but also at the idea that it might provide some privacy, without the chance of servants or advisors coming into the room for one reason or another.

Not true privacy, of course, because he knows that no matter where he goes, at least one member of the Kingsguard won't be far away, but at least it's something.

"I can find time for that. Make time for that," he corrects himself.

He waves his hand over the tray of breakfast, rolls and cheese and bacon. "Help yourself."

Her own smile is equally genuine, and, for a moment, forgets its usual sorrow; it shines brighter, for that moment. Even knowing the nature of things, even having shed the romantic longings of girlhood, and having entered into this marriage clear-eyed and knowing it for a political arrangement... even so, it is so easy to slip into an idealism she had thought lost, to think of him as the King that her dreams promised. To think, with some hope, of a marriage which might have space for love.

Shaking her head at her own thoughts, she leans over to retrieve a roll and some cheese, then settles back into her seat. "It would be good to take such a ride, in any case, in the company of one who knows the land better. I fear I have not had the chance to explore much, in all the haste and hurry of preparing."

It is almost a way to walk it back, to give them an excuse that neither of them seems to need: this is work, too.

"I am not as familiar with the city and the land around it as some are, but I will point out what I can." He's still learning the city himself, after spending most of his life in the North, but his familiarity with the place has been growing. Some might even say that he doesn't need to know the whole city, that there are some places a king just doesn't go, but he would disagree. If he is going to be making decisions that affect the lives of everyone in Westeros, then he needs to know as much as he can about all of Westeros.

He settles in with a few strips of bacon and a chunk of cheese. "Did you have much time for riding when you were growing up?"

She nods. "Not so much as my brother, perhaps, for it was more his duty than mine." And she had taken on the role of Lady of Edoras at a very young age, for want of anyone else to do it - but all the same, until Gríma Wormtongue had come to the court, she had done only her own work, and there had been time. "But we rode out often together, or with Théodred and one or two of his men; and before he sickened, my uncle travelled through his lands and took us with him when he could. And we raced, too." A smile, at that - a fond memory. "I think it bruised Éomer's pride, at times, for I was often a length and more ahead of him. But then, I was the smallest of us, too, and sat the lightest."

She looks down at her food, with a small, thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "I was happiest then," she says, after a moment. "Riding, I mean. There is a freedom in it, in feeling nothing but the rush of wind and the beat of hooves, and leaving all else behind. And you cannot be lonely, for at every step you can feel another heart beat close against you." There is something a little self-conscious in her smile, as she takes a bite of bread. "I do not think anything could have kept me from riding. Not as a child, nor as a woman. It took this-" - and she gestures, as best she can with her hand full, to her damaged arm - "-to keep me from the saddle more than a week or two."

"I understand the feeling myself. Not with riding, necessarily, although there is plenty of room for it in the North and I spent many an hour on horseback there." He knows horses well, though he would guess that he probably doesn't know them as well as his new wife does.

"I spent some time north of the Wall, among the free folk." He knows that she has been learning some things about Westeros, and assumes that she has heard of these things before. And if not, he'll gladly explain. "I had that sort of freedom there, I suppose you could say. Among the free folk, there are no kings, save those they choose to follow, and there are no grand houses. Marriage is as simple as sharing a hearth. Up there, beyond the Wall, no one cared about my supposed status as a bastard. It was the first time in my life I wasn't judged based on what side of the sheets I was born on."

He's hoping that perhaps, over time, he can change the view of bastards in Westeros.

"Did you prefer it?"

It is a sign of how she has changed in recent years, perhaps, that there is no note of accusation or distaste - only a genuine curiosity. It should sound terrible, a way of living so unconcerned with honour and fealty; it is worse than the Dunlendings, as savage as the Wainriders. But the Dunlendings are allies of her people now, and perhaps the Wainriders might someday be, too. For all her despair, peace has opened her eyes to some things.

"Not the bastardy. That, I do not doubt, is easier there. But... the rest of it. Being absent any lord or liege, doing as you will, the ease of solemn things. Do you miss it, now?"

"I preferred...some of it." It was a simpler life, in some ways. Certainly it had been refreshing for no one to care about his status. For the first time in his life it hadn't mattered who his parents were. (It strikes him that if the truth had been known at the time, no one would have cared about that, either, although he probably would have been the target of some mockery from a certain redhead.)

"I do miss it," he admits, "especially on the days around here when everybody seems to need me for every thing. It would be much easier to be able to say, 'there is no king, tend to it yourselves.' But at the same time, I do not regret that I am here. I know that I can do more for the people of Westeros by being here than I can in any other way. Perhaps while rebuilding Westeros, it will be possible to bring about some changes. Even, possibly, some originating from your home." She will have a hand in the rebuilding, she should be able to contribute, too.

She is quiet for a long moment, a small frown creasing her brow. At last, quietly, she says: "I do not know what you could bring about from the Mark, in truth."

It is no small admission, for someone as proud as she is - proud not only for her own sake, but for her family and her people, and proud to the very bone. But it is true, all the same; and in the face of it, she feels smaller than she would like, and lesser than she would hope.

"The Eorlingas are a proud people, but few, and therein is our strength and our limit. From one side of the Mark to the other, a swift horse could ride in a matter of days - and our horses are swift. We have one banner to call all our people to; one roof to shelter the lost; one history told in one tongue. All that I know of rule has served well for one kingdom, a kingdom of warriors ever at arms, who sing the same songs and serve the same lords. But you have seven kingdoms, and to travel from one to another must be a matter of weeks or months." Her smile is wry and almost apologetic. "In my brother's court, I know the lineage of every lord, and where their kinsmen serve, how fare their lands, where their allegiances. Here... ai! I can scarcely hope to know their name and their banner. I cannot even guess what gods they worship, or how. And it is not novelty alone, for I do not think any man can know every one of his vassals here. Not even you."

"Indeed. That is why we have maesters." And why he trusts Sam so much, because whatever Sam doesn't know, he has an entire library of scrolls and books to help him find an answer. And then in turn to help Jon make a decision.

He considers what she said. "I hope at least that you can find some way to make the keep feel like home." He knows what it's like to leave the home he grew up in, and he hadn't had to leave an entire country behind. He had always known that he would see Winterfell again, and can only imagine how much harder it must be for her, knowing that she probably will never see her home again. "Perhaps part of the rebuilding could include space for riding horses. I know how important that is to your people."

"It will never feel like the home I knew." There is too much stone and glass, and too little open horizon; and what is open horizon is across the sea, which until lately she had never seen. The weather is very different, too, lacking the rushing wind and the mountain cold of the Rohan plains, and everywhere she looks there are crowded streets and houses and gardens, more like Gondor at its height than anything the Rohirrim have ever known. The people, the language, the landscape, the clothing - all are entirely alien to her, and there is grief in thinking of it, but there is not only grief.

"King's Landing will never be Edoras," she says again, as much to herself as to him, and smiles a little. "And that is why I consented to come here, and to remain; for I love the hall of my fathers, but it has not always loved me. So I shall make this my home, with all its stone and its crowds and its strangeness; and if last night was any indication, then in time I may be happy here."

She stands and crosses over to him, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. There is gratitude in it, and something warmer still, but there is also a mild reproach in her tone when she adds: "But build me no riding-place within these high walls, for I am of the Éothéod, not one of your tame tourney knights. I will ride beneath an open sky, or I shall not ride at all."

He understands somewhat how she feels. He was born in Westeros, and he hasn't left Westeros, but Winterfell is more his home than King's Landing ever was. And while the people had welcomed him as King in the North, he had still never truly had a place there among the grand Houses. He may have been the king, but he was still a bastard. Here in King's Landing, he has only ever been the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and the legitimate king.

"I hope that you will be." He genuinely means it, for her sake. His hope is that she can be happy as the Westerosi queen, and also as his wife. He knows that there will be two different roles for her to fill, the same as there will be for him. "I hope that I can help you get to that point." He will do his best.

Perhaps a bit impulsively, he places a hand on her hip when she leans close. He's just a man talking to his wife. "There is open sky less than a day from here. Perhaps in a few weeks or a month, when we can take a few days away, we can go outside the city and both ride to our hearts' content."

His hand is warm, through her thin robe, and it reminds her again of where they are, who they are, beyond the crowns they wear. Most of all, it reminds her of the night before, his hands on bare skin, warm and soft. She smiles at him, and her own hand comes up to his shoulder, steadying herself against him.

"I would like that." There is a spark of something brighter in her eyes as she adds, "And it might serve you well, too, to see how our horses course when they are given free rein. I cannot show you the wonder of purer Mearas-stock running across the plain, beyond the grasp of man or beast; but I would like you to see a little of it, all the same." I would like to share beauty with you, she cannot quite bring herself to say. I would like you to know what freedom looks like, to me.

But that could be taken altogether too many ways, and none of them quite right. So instead of saying it, she just leans in again, kissing him on the mouth this time.

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sorry for the long disappearance, the past month ate me alive

that can happen this time of year

i stg one day i'll go ten tags in a row without a monologue SORRY

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