The Lady Dagnessa of Whiterun and Thane Joric Ravencrone of Hjaalmarch
cordially invite thee to attend their joyous ceremony of matrimony outside
the Temple of Kynareth, under the Gildergreen, the 25th of First Seed.
The parchment was fine, the lettering elegant, and the ink permanent.
Seventy-five invitations had been sent out to various noble families, courts, and prominent clans of Skyrim and Greater Tamriel months ago, and it was rumored to be the wedding of the year.
Seventy-five and then some of those honored guests had been very disappointed, as well as most of the city that turned out to watch.
The bride however—the bride couldn't have been happier and at the same time completely mortified.
That was why she had locked herself away in her room in Dragonsreach, continuously demanding bottles of alcohol and of course, all the succulent sweet rolls she could stuff herself with now that she didn't have to watch her figure for a wedding gown.
She regarded the spare invitation in her hand with a half laugh, half sneer. A spot of icing had blemished the corner of the page that had been left behind by one of her fingers. She stuck her index fingertip between her lips to clean it of any remaining sugar and then she promptly crumpled the parchment—throwing it into the fire that crackled heartily in a hearth at the center of the room.
Who did Joric Ravencrone think he was to abandon her the day of her wedding?
Not that it was a total loss. He was insane, and she had never fancied him—had felt that way all her life, ever since they were first introduced to each other. She was ten years old and he kept showing up in her city to receive healing attention from the local priestess of Kynareth. He was always a strange lad and mostly incoherent in his words. He mumbled quite a bit and was prone to bouts of melancholy and even madness, though her father told her that wasn't exactly true and to keep her words to herself as it was rude to accuse people of such things.
She hated that every time she conversed with Joric, he seemed to lose interest in her words and stare off into nothing. She hated his small eyes, big eyebrows, round cheeks, and his stupid 'predictions' for the future. It was madness, pure and simple, despite what her father insisted.
Their marriage was supposed to be a political one, to tie the neighboring holds and strengthen alliances. They were both second children to their line, not to inherit any titles nor thrones—just the unlucky ones to be stuck with each other for the good of Skyrim. It seemed her father had made several alliances across Tamriel, but at least he hadn't bid her off to an elf or Talos forbid, a lizard man of high breeding. She stuck out her tongue at the thought of having to kiss something so scaly.
Fire danced in her irises as she watched the parchment quickly curl and char under the flames. The ink was not so permanent anymore.
She sauntered across her room toward the wine, though a bit off-balance, while in her undergarments and her long Elvin robe; she was thirsty for more of that which washed away her unpleasant thoughts. Perhaps the only thing she had in common with her ex-future-husband, was an affinity for alcohol.
She grabbed the most recent bottle that she had been drinking from and poured some more into a silver goblet that was standing next to it. She squinted and read the label—it was a Surilie Brothers Vintage from 4E 29.
She raised a brow, impressed that the bottle had survived the Great War and wondered how many Septims it had set back her father's coffer to obtain. Those in the court of Balgruuf the Greater may have called her many things, but stupid was not one of them—she paid attention in her history lessons. She bet that her own brothers couldn't recite what years the Great War had even taken place.
She set the wine bottle down and brought the goblet to her lips. It was a dark red, rich, beverage that tasted worthy of its cost.
A few loud poundings on the door interrupted her solace.
"What?!" she barked, not in the mood to see anyone nor be seen. It had been days since she saw anyone else other than her own maids, and they were only necessary because they fetched Dagny's bottles and cleared away the empties.
"Dagny, you can't stay in there forever!"
It was Frothar, her elder brother. He was the lucky one who was heir to Whiterun. His betrothal hadn't been such a disaster from the start either. He had successfully been wed a year prior to a daughter of one of the Cyrodiilic Counts.
She hated being told what she could and couldn't do, especially by Frothar. He wasn't the Jarl. "Yes I can!"
Then there came the sound of a key in the lock. She immediately dropped her goblet, paying no mind to the spill, and ran to the door, putting all her weight against it.
She felt the door open slightly, and pushed back on it using her whole side, "Go away, Frothar!"
"Father said it is time for you to come out. People are starting to worry!" he pushed forward again and it gave way to a crack big enough that she could see his face full of annoyance and disapproval.
She doubted anyone was worried. They were just gossips and bores. He really meant those of court were beginning to 'talk' about her sulking behavior. He must have realized what she was thinking and amended his claim. "He is starting to worry!"
"Tell father I will come out of my room when Joric's head is on a pike!"
"Dagny!" Frothar chided and sounded a bit horrified at her ultimatum. He let up on trying to force open her door. His lapse in opposing force caused her continued bracing to slam the door shut. She hastily locked the latch again and slid down to a crouch against it since she knew Frothar still had the key. He must have swiped it from one of the servants.
He didn't try opening the door again, but he was still on the other side as evident by his voice, "You don't mean it do you? Do you want to cause another civil war?"
The 'civil war' was still happening. Sort of. Not so much. The Empire had taken Skyrim after the beheading of Ulfric Stormcloak, and after Whiterun had accepted the Legion soldiers' occupation, but despite it all, there were still pockets of Stormcloak rebels here and there, especially on the eastern half of the province. She had seen the maps of the camps in the war room, fewer and fewer each year. Would they ever just surrender and be done with it? The entire province was fatigued from it dragging on for so long.
She twisted her mouth unpleasantly; she didn't see how a war of any sort could possibly break out with the Hjaalmarch—the hold's capital, Morthal, was barely larger than a village. Whiterun may have been a skeever-hole of a city but it had double the forces and would easily win that quarrel.
Frothar must have taken her silence as a 'yes' so he continued, "You know, Joric may have just been abducted or eaten by a saber cat on his way here. If it makes you feel any better, Father hired the companions to go looking for him to find out the truth."
It had been a week and no one had seen the thane, nor any sign of his entourage of guards, not even his horse. Dagny sighed and rolled her eyes because those scenarios did make a lot of sense. Joric was hardly what she would call a warrior—he was easy pickings for a bandit or vicious animal. Joric's sister, Idgrod the Younger—Jarl of Hjaalmarch, should have sent more guards with him. No one would have suspected Joric to purposefully slight the Jarl of Whiterun's daughter, yet Dagny couldn't help but to feel personally offended by him. She could surmise that Joric liked her about as much as she did him, but he wouldn't have risked incensing his family or hers to break their betrothal. At least, she didn't think he would. She didn't know him all that well but he looked like a milk-drinker if she ever saw one.
Frother's news didn't make her feel any better either. It'd be better for her if Joric were dead. An idea pricked her brain suddenly at that thought, but she pushed it away for another time.
"You are not the one people will blame for this. If anything, they will feel sorry for you," Frothar continued to try and convince her to come out, targeting the real cause of her not wanting to leave her room.
No, they wouldn't feel sorry for her—they would laugh at her and be secretly delighted that she was left at the altar. Dagny knew she had never been a sweet girl. She was rather blunt and had no patience for servants who couldn't do their jobs, no respect for courtiers who obeyed the Jarl's every whim to win favor, and no love for a man who couldn't love her first.
"I don't want their pity," she mumbled and shoved her head into her hands, a dull ache forming there at the center between her eyes.
"So, are you going to come out, little sister?"
It had been a few moments, but Frothar was persistent. The Jarl could have sent anyone to fetch her—Gerda, Fianna, Proventus, even Nelkir if he would be bothered. She knew Frothar had better things to do than try to coax her out of her room. It was a task not for the faint of heart, but out of all options of those to convince her, Balgruuf the Greater knew she was more likely to acquiesce to her elder brother. Her father must have really wanted her back in public to make Frothar halt his daily business and try, but yet not enough to come convince her himself—
So, she contested it with slurred words—"What'appens if I don't?"
"Then father will have Irileth break in your door, carry you out over her shoulder, and deposit you in the great hall no matter what state you are in," she could hear a trace of amusement in her brother's voice. She didn't find it funny at all but believed the Jarl's housecarl would do just that.
She sighed obnoxiously again for good measure and stood. To her, the room was much more unstable than before. "Very well, I will agree to father's wishes but I 'ave to get dressed first—send Fianna."
She heard him leave—this time proof came as the sounds of his booted footsteps diminished down the corridor.
She turned as she took off her robe to prepare for more suitable clothes for public, and a cold, wet sensation brushed her bare toes. The wine she had spilled was running across the floor in a long puddle. She cocked her head to the side, studying it while she waited for the maid. The idea she had pushed back in her mind before was slowly making its way to her full attention.
It was funny, somehow, how the spilled wine looked an awful lot like spilled blood.