A/N: This is a bit of an early turnaround for the wedding chapter, but after the long-ish wait, I think you all deserve it, and I was excited to write it. This interlude features three different perspectives of the wedding, and the almost 6000 words of goodness closes out a long arc with Margaery and Robb as separate actors, and unites them together in the Game of Thrones. Let me know what you think!


OLENNA

"Oh sweetling, you look so beautiful!" Alerie gushed, her eyes moistening up as she attempted to contain her tears. "Why, your lord father and your brothers will all burst into tears when they see you like this! If only we could have performed this ceremony at a sept."

"The lords of the North will not accept any less than for Robb and I to be wedded in front of the Old Gods, you know that, Mother. The Faith of the Seven will accept that, and we can be blessed by a Septon of the Faith any time before our first child is born, and Robb and I don't mind waiting." Margaery responded quickly in an almost-rehearsed answer.

The winter snows had fallen lightly throughout the day, leaving Winterfell's grounds covered in a light blanket of white snow, for a chilly, but altogether not too cold night for a wedding. Revellers prepared for the massive celebration ahead, and it was a joyous day for the North. All of this, Olenna knew, but her eyes and her mind were set only on the beautiful, blushing bride in the room.

A resplendent gown of white, adorned with carefully embroidered roses in silver covered the bride's form, neither too thick, nor too gossamer. The typical plunging neck-line favored in the Reach was abandoned in favor of a more modest neckline, as well as a fluffy woolen collar in white serving as an overcoat, accentuating the bride's stately look as a future Lady Paramount.

A very light dusting of powder and a small amount of red juice, applied as a medieval form of lipstick was applied to the bride's naturally heart-shaped face, making her face look even paler than it already was. Her hair was braided into a beautiful Northern hairstyle, with winter roses woven within, and her eyes, filled with wonder, intelligence, and insight, only served to emphasize her beauty to decisively prove her place as one of Westeros's premier beauties. Paired with the green and gold samite and satin maiden cloak of House Tyrell, it was as if a spring queen had descended onto Westeros after a harsh winter to cast judgement on the smallfolk. A look, Olenna mourned, that was perfect for a queen.

She should be preparing to be Queen of Westeros, yet this look is wasted on Northern barbarians. The young wolf boy may actually faint dead away at this look. She could have ensnared a dragon prince or three like this, empty-headed and full of prophecies, they are.

Yet, her grand-daughter's insight has surprised her, the Queen of Thorns, after the conversation they had a few nights back, where her granddaughter unveiled a tangled web of plots, conspiracies, lies, and cast a vision of a horrid, harsh future for House Tyrell, ending in a Long Night straight out of the tales of the Age of Heroes, and the destruction of House Tyrell - in short, an absolute nightmare.

Margaery chooses the stable path, as did I, all those years ago, with Lord Luthor Tyrell. A path mixed with much joy and much trouble. If her hair were auburn and her look a little less Hightower, she would be me in miniature at four-and-ten.

Olenna recalled her reaction to the long conversation last night. Of her grand-daughter's desperate apologies and worries that she would have been locked into a madhouse with visions as such, of her own shock and awe at the wonderful gift given to House Tyrell, and their discussion of the future.

"Grandmother, I'm sorry, I should have told you earlier, but I didn't know how to without sounding like a madwoman," Margaery pleaded, tears streaming down her face. "You must believe me though, the survival of our House depends on these visions."

Olenna nodded, her aged, wrinkled hands smoothing her granddaughter's hair as she held her sobbing form. To be honest, her granddaughter's visions explained a lot about her - the precocious intellect, Margaery's very real fear of Willas being injured, the books that she practically inhaled in her free time, as opposed to playing games with her older grandchildren, and why her granddaughter always seemed to have her own plans, no matter how sloppily executed they were out of inexperience.

"Of course I believe you, Margaery, I will always be there for you when you need it," she replied gently. "Do I wish you had told me earlier, before this tangled web of messes had truly started? Absolutely. Perhaps I could have convinced your father to hire an assassin to off the dragon-girl, or to sneak her out of the Free Cities and tie her to Garlan at the right moment, but we play the Game with the hand we are dealt. Now, what can we do about the situation right now, little rose?"

The Queen of Thorns's granddaughter took a deep breath to compose herself, lightly wiping away at her tears, and began smoothly, with all the practice of long hours of political discussion in the Reach.

"The War of the Five Kings will happen sooner or later, grandmother, no matter how much we try to avoid it. Queen Cersei's 'indiscretion' has made it simply too easy for the realm to explode into chaos, even with all of the alliances in this world. Highgarden is too important of a piece in the Game of Thrones, and the winning side will need the Reach as well as Highgarden to claim their throne, which puts us at a massive advantage compared to the other realms. What we can do is stack the cards so that the winning hand lies in our favor, and play the long game, so that when the Long Night comes, House Tyrell is relatively prepared and ready to beat the Night King. We have been searching for a king to solidify our legitimacy among the Great Houses for eons to come, yet the perfect opportunity to do so without a king appears in front of us in the form of surviving the Long Night intact as the Lords Paramount of the Reach. Remember, grandmother, the Iron Throne is not the goal here, survival is, which is why I'm betting on House Stark."

"What moves can we make to do this?" Olenna asked curiously. She hated to admit it, but with these visions, her granddaughter had an advantage over her in this situation, even if she was the more consummate strategist. Her granddaughter's seemingly-omniscient knowledge aside, she was the experienced player of the Game here, and Olenna was determined to demonstrate her skills as the Queen of Thorns and contribute to her house.

"Garlan and Willas need to create heirs and spares, as well as I, in order to ensure that the Long Night doesn't wipe us all out. We must also foster more goodwill with the other houses in the Reach, in order to keep our standing as Lord Paramount. We cannot overcommit to the dragon prince, whether he is Targaryen, Blackfyre, or Waters, and we must wait for the dragon queen to come ashore with her three dragons - they will be instrumental to saving lives during the Long Night, and to ensure her favor towards House Tyrell. Willas's and Arianne's unborn daughter to the unborn son of Aegon would do, as a fleeting-enough promise that should still put us on the throne at the end of the war, while still appeasing the Houses Martell and Tyrell. If Aegon is truly who he is, it should be easy for us to convince him to ferry his aunt to Westeros to set the stage for the quickest takeover in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, with three heads of the dragon for three dragons."

"And your plan with Robb Stark? Would it not have been better for you to go on the offensive and betroth yourself to the prince, or the hidden dragon up north?" Olenna questioned?

"You know as well as I do, grandmother, that Lord Stark would have never allowed for such a thing, no matter what was said, out of need to protect his nephew, and any overtures on our part would have been rejected out of rightful suspicion, or would have burned goodwill with House Stark in the process of attainment. Not only that, If Prince Aegon did not hatch a dragon, enough to counter his aunt, and truly prove his identity as her nephew, we would be in a dire position, and even if he had, we would condemn the Realm to a costly, second Dance that could ruin our House, in the face of the Long Night. Robb is the safest option, as heir to Winterfell, a possible King in his own right, and of House Stark besides - the perfect option when faced with a long winter, especially when ours is also a love match."

I still disagree with you, little rose, on your plan, if only because you are too passive in the face of events, and you seem to be more afraid of the girl's dragons than the girl herself is, throwing away all sensibility in the process. You could have prevented it or ensured it to be on the winning side altogether had you told me this years ago, before the board had set and the pieces began to move." Olenna began.

She sighed heavily. "That being said, mayhaps you are right - it is better to avoid foolish action with unknown variables in the face of a potentially house-ending catastrophe. Robb Stark is a stable option, just as your grandfather was for me, and your chances of survival improved with your marriage into the House with the most expertise on winter in Westeros. Furthermore, Willas's ties to House Martell is an indication that we are far better off than we were in your visions, and the sooner Garlan and Loras are wedded to ladies to produce heirs and spares for House Tyrell, the better. Mayhaps we should swap the betrothals around, from Garlan to Talla Tarly instead, in order to incentivize Randyll Tarly in the battles ahead, and ensure we have a heir and spares before the next war breaks out. You have done great work, my little rose, but there is clearly more to be done in the Reach. We must also take steps to protect your good-father and family in King's Landing - Loras and my various spies in the city will provide protection from political intrigue, and I will make sure to prepare a few disguised ships, armed with knights, to allow them, as well as Loras to flee to Highgarden when needed."

Margaery smirked, the cheer returning back to her face.

"Don't worry, grandmother, I have a plan for Garlan too. Just leave the rest to me."

None of it mattered now though to the Queen of Thorns, as her beloved granddaughter nervously fiddled at her hair.

"Stop that, girl, you're going to ruin your look!" Olenna barked.

"I'm sorry grandmother, I'm just nervous," Margaery responded quietly, her eyes lost in her own world. "I'll stop fiddling with my hair, but...what if Robb doesn't want to marry me? What if this wedding ends in a disaster?"

"Come now, none of that, dear." Olenna reprimanded. "Haven't you got a wolf to ensnare? Robb Stark would be a great fool to leave you waiting, and anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain can see that your wolf husband-to-be is absolutely besotted to you, and all the better for it, really. Your oaf of a father will be entering the room soon, and it is important to ensure that you are ready for your wedding."


ROBB

The day of Robb's wedding had always been of great apprehension to him ever since he was a child; first, with his fears of marrying a lady he didn't know; and eventually, with his worries about his day with Margaery being ruined by something or another. Yet, on the day itself, Robb felt nothing but calm.

This union only legalizes what Margaery and I know - that we intend to spend the rest of our lives together. So that no one can tear us apart.

That said, the anticipation of the ceremony itself, as well as the uncomfortably formal process of the wedding made Robb want to skip to the end of the night, where he, and his wife-to-be were wedded and bedded, instead of fueling his anxiety.

Thank the Old Gods and the New that we did not have to perform both ceremonies. I cannot thank Mother and Margaery enough for sparing us that trouble, else I may have threatened a poor Septon at sword-point, if only to make the ceremonies faster.

"Nervous, Robb?" Jon asked, a smile lighting up his normally dour face.

"I just wish this would happen faster," Robb admitted sheepishly. "I cannot stand the wait."

"I'm proud of you, brother." Jon told him. "You and Lady Margaery will rule Winterfell splendidly. I just hope I can help you somehow, without a bastard's get in life."

"Father and Mother are planning on having you legitimized soon, Jon, and soon enough, I'll be attending your beautiful wedding with your beautiful highborn lady wife in a Northern holdfast somewhere." Robb replied quietly. "A bastard's get has never been for you, brother. You will always have a place at Winterfell if you need it, but you will receive your inheritance in due time, without a need to run to the Night's Watch."

Both Jon and Robb laughed at this, remembering the brief period of time in which Jon had stubbornly declared that he would join Uncle Benjen in Castle Black as a member of the Night's Watch, and all of his siblings' displeased reactions to his statement.

"Are you ready to go, Robb?" their Lord Father asked, entering the room.

"As ready as I will ever be, father," Robb answered promptly.

Eddard Stark looked over his son's outfit with a critical eye, smoothing some parts out and making sure Robb was fully presentable at the wedding. Robb was dressed in a grey doublet made of fine silks, with a few subtle highlights of red and blue of his mother's house, and the Stark direwolf embroidered in white and silver at its center. Fine leather gloves, a belt studded in silver, and a woolen, black overcoat covered his form. With Robb's darker auburn hair, the outfit accentuated Robb's deep blue eyes and his light stubble, making Robb appear older and wiser than he was at four-and-ten. With this look, Robb would have fit in amongst the unforgiving Winter Kings of the olden days of House Stark, if not for his brilliant smile at the thought of his union with his betrothed.

Overcome with pride and emotion, Ned gathered his boy into a warm embrace, with Jon joining in on Robb's other side, all three Stark men holding another for a long moment.

Finally, Ned handed Jon the Stark cloak, which Robb would use to cloak his lady wife. Made of dark grey samite, with trimmings of white satin and ermine fur, with a direwolf embroidered front and center, its singular eye, an embroidered pearl in the front, generations of use by countless Stark husbands and wives did not diminish from its beauty and majesty.

"You are more prepared for this than I was with your Lady Mother," Ned said. "I remember I was terrified to marry my brother's betrothed, and yet, here we are now." Robb's father chuckled. "But now, the ceremony."

Robb walked out towards the Godswood which would serve as their ceremony location. Hundreds of highborn guests were seated for the wedding in different places, between the Northern lords and lordlings, the Tyrell contingent that had Margaery's extended family, and his extended family in the North and Riverlands, with empty seats in the place of Robb's aunt Lysa and cousin Robin.

Those involved in the wedding, specifically, the groom's contingent and the bride's contingent, formed a wide circle around the edge of the clearing, in front of the seats for the other highborn guests. Torches were lit inside the circle, reflecting the starry, calm night of the wedding, and lighting up the ceremony for the guests, and the direwolves, small as they were, stood inside the circle to bless this wedding.

Robb's younger siblings and Theon took their positions on Robb's side of the circle, and Margaery's brothers and handmaidens took their positions on what would be Margaery's side of the circle. His father and brother followed, Jon standing in his place at the circle at the front of the contingent, honoring his role in the wedding, and Robb's father to Robb's left, inside the circle, holding Ice's hilt firmly in his hand. The sword itself pointed into the ground, a callback to the old traditions where the lord presiding over the wedding would defend the couple from any interruption or incursion. Finally, King Robert stood firmly near the center, as he presided over the wedding himself in all of his authority as King, independent from his old friend.

Robb stood quietly in front of the heart tree, waiting for his bride. After a moment that seemed to stretch forever, Robb's eyes were rewarded as the bride's contingent appeared, his bride to be holding her father's arm as they walked down the aisle. Mace Tyrell was dressed in an overly-ostentatious doublet of green and gold, with his wife and the Queen of Thorns behind the pair, but Robb's eyes were only on his lovely bride as she walked down the aisle with a brilliant smile on her face, drinking up the vision in front of him. His breath caught in his chest, tears filling his eyes, and emotions he could hardly name filling him, as she moved towards him.

She is the Maiden made flesh, a goddess of spring brought down to soothe her people. The Old Gods could smite me here and now for this impertinence, and I would hardly care.

Margaery came to a stop in front of the heart tree, her head briefly turning to her husband-to-be to give him a dazzling smile and wink, before both the bride and groom turned towards the Heart Tree.

"Who comes here? Who comes here before the Old Gods this night?" Eddard Stark voiced, carrying loud and clear into the Godswood.

A long second of silence passed, too long, in Robb's opinion, before Mace Tyrell answered.

"Lady Margaery of House Tyrell comes here to be wed. A woman, grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who claims her?

Finally.

Robb stepped up, no hesitation in his voice. "Me. Robb of House Stark. I claim her. Who gives her?"

Mace smiled genially as he continued. "I am Lord Mace of House Tyrell, her father."

He turned to his daughter, his eyes misty. "Lady Margaery, do you take this man?"

Margaery's smile was radiant, her voice melodic, filled with elation and free of doubt.

"I take this man."

She let go of her father's hand, moving towards Robb, as they both kneeled before the weirwoods, in submission of the gods.

Old Gods, please, bless my marriage with the woman I love. Let us live in peace and happiness, and do what is right for our realm. Give us healthy children, whether boy and girl, and bless my family and myself to do the right things if there is trouble ahead, so that the people we serve and that the people we love are safe. Robb silently prayed. A brief flash of a weirwood crown being placed on Robb's head in a different Godswood filled his vision, before it disappeared as quickly as it came, and Robb finished his silent prayers.

With that signal, Jon silently stepped out of the shadow of the circle, into the light of the torches, and quietly held the Stark cloak as he prepared for Robb to swap the cloaks on his bride. Robb's request was a great honor to his bastard brother, and signified Robb's belief of Jon being as "trueborn" as any of his other siblings, as well as affirming his role to the Northern contingent.

Robb's hands were steady as he removed the Tyrell cloak from his betrothed's shoulders, handing the cloak to Jon, and swapping it with the Stark cloak held by jon, to drape firmly over Margaery's shoulders. Margaery's silent prayer ended, as she took Robb's offered hand, helping her rise to her feet. The Stark cloak only accentuated Margaery's stately look, and her pale face and red lipstick, the winter roses woven into her hair, the beautiful dress, and the Stark cloak complemented Robb's distinguished look as they stood, looking like a Winter King and Queen presiding over their court.

Robb looked deep into his wife's eyes, and she, the same. No more words needed to be said, as they passionately kissed each other in a lingering kiss that affirmed to every onlooker at the wedding of the couple's love for one another.

The godswood was filled with the smell of spring as winds sighed through the treetops, ruby leaves falling down and fluttering into the clearing. The sap flooded down the Heart Tree's face, almost as if they were tears of happiness, and snow on the ground felt crisper, and sharper on each step. Robb felt an almost alien sense of approval in the back of his mind, as his family's direwolves howled in unison, celebrating the union between Wolf and Rose.

The Old Gods themselves approve this union, it seems. We are one flesh and soul, and we can never be separated.

Finally, King Robert stepped up, an unexpected, but necessary adaptation of Northern customs, to appease the King on the Iron Throne.

"By the authority given to me as King Robert, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men", Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I declare Robb of House Stark and Margaery of House Tyrell to be wedded." King Robert bellowed. "Now, let's go party, damn it!"

The guests took this signal to begin cheering raucously, and the Heir of Winterfell took his bride's hand as they walked together towards the reception inside, down a pathway created with a grey rug into the Great Hall.


CATELYN

This wedding could not be more different than mine own union with Ned.

It had been a small thing, she remembered. A rushed wedding at the Sept of Riverrun, on the eve of war, the grief of her foolishly brave, and dead betrothed, and a cold marriage ceremony with her betrothed's brother, who she feared to be a block of ice given form as a human. She had been terrified then, fears of a cold marriage and a life without luxuries in the North, birthing child after child to a man uncaring of her survival for nothing other than to further his own claim and take advantage of the so called "Tully fertility".

She remembered the bedding, and her fears the day after, as her husband left for a rebellion that could leave her as a widow to a rebel lord against Mad King Aerys and his son. Lysa's wretched sobbing, married to a man more than twice her age, and the long wait at Riverrun, a gilded cage at best, and the Tully children, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for her father, uncle, and husband to return to them, hale and hearty.

She remembered the birthing of her beloved firstborn - the pain, the uncertainty, the anguish. Of the cold sting of betrayal she felt, when her husband carried a boy barely younger than her Robb, announcing him as his bastard get, dishonoring her marriage bed in the process. Of the shadow that women like Wylla and Ashara Dayne would bring to her heart later on, as love slowly grew, like a creeping flower sprouting in the harsh winter, between her and Ned, and the regret that filled her soul as her husband revealed a dangerous secret that could have all their heads on a spike, his own renewed fidelity and love for her (only her), and her lingering resentment towards her nephew, used as a shield against his foes.

Lyanna's boy. Never again. Family, Duty, and Honor, for what else could be left? I cannot undo my mistakes, but I can make up for them in any way I can.

And yet, Catelyn knew, this marriage was different. Under the luxury of peacetime, and the length of the betrothal, her Robb and Lady Margaery had been able to develop that same affection that she shared with Ned. This celebration was joyful, unhindered by the shadow of war, and a match, she knew, that would bring much joy to Winterfell.

At first, when she had heard of the Tyrell request for a correspondence between her son and Lady Margaery, she had been wary of Southern plots, for her father had trained her and Lysa for a life at court, and she could read the signs as clearly as any Southern lord or lady. And yet, as the correspondence continued, and later on, when her good-daughter fostered in Winterfell, she realized that no Southern plots were truly at play here, only the growing love and affection between a lordling and a young woman that would make the lives of their constituents better with every day.

Her good-daughter was more prepared for the role of Lady of Winterfell than she had been, and her humble attitude, paired with her expansive knowledge, and natural grace, would serve her well as Lady of Winterfell, and to shield her family from dangerous political intrigue. Yet, there was a bit of her grandmother's nature in her too, with Margaery's charm and cunning tying Northern houses even further together, and preparing her for more expansive action within the North.

Margaery's eagerness to be wedded and bedded to Robb had been a worrying prospect at first, for what young maiden of four-and-ten truly wanted to be married as soon as possible, given the dangers of the birthing bed? Even as besotted as her son and good-daughter were, it was almost as if Margaery had been afraid that she would be separated from her betrothed at any moment, as if war, or death, would claim her only his time, or House Tyrell gravely insulting House Stark by breaking the betrothal between them.

Her suspicion raised, Catelyn had looked into it, her son too besotted with his betrothed to look beneath the surface, and her lord husband, too busy with the affairs of the North to contribute. After some discreet investigation, found nothing of real note to suggest foul play or plots, and rather, truly just the overeagerness of two summer children in love, wishing to begin the rest of their lives together. Her unease still remained, so sure she was of plots beneath the surface, but either way, what was done was done, and she knew the marriage was a very good move for the North, regardless of its original intent.

Whatever my good-daughter is plotting, it seems to be only towards the good of the North, and House Stark, and who could fault her for that?

The average 20-30 course meals that were custom in Southern weddings were decisively abandoned by both her and Margaery for a smaller, decadent 10 course meal of staple Northern foods, which served to make inventories much simpler, with the unexpected arrival of the King's retinue. Ten courses were luxurious for Northerners, and with the increased trade between the Reach and the North, feasts like these were made possible. Margaery further served to bring the smallfolk of the North to her side by ensuring that any extra food went to them, to ensure no food was wasted, a move Catelyn had approved wholeheartedly.

Catelyn stared at her son and good-daughter, who had just finished the first dance with one another, and continued, eyes lost in one another. The dancing began in earnest, as drunken revellers celebrated the wedding with as much vigor as they could.

I don't think I've ever seen Robb as joyful in my life. Their unguarded affection, so different from Ned and I's stilted interactions and anxiety, fills my heart, and will bless Winterfell for moons to come.

She smiled at them, watching them dance, and almost missed her husband's gentle touch to her shoulder as he appeared next to her and put his arm around her shoulder, his other arm holding a glass of Dornish wine brought from Sunspear.

"You have done a splendid job indeed Cat." Ned said quietly to her. "Truly, the way that you organized this was masterful, especially with the King's unexpected arrival. Thank you, my love."

Catelyn blushed. "I did what any lady wife would have done in this situation, my love."

"You're my lady wife, however, and there is no lord truly as blessed with a clever and beautiful wife as I," Ned complimented her, making her blush even more. He paused quietly, lost in thought, before continuing.

"Though, I think our boy would contest that notion soon enough, for I have never seen our son so happy. Mayhaps it is Stark men who are blessed with the best lady wives in the realm"

She laughed merrily at her comment. "And mayhaps it is our luck as lady wives to Starks men to be blessed with the kindest, and handsomest lord husbands in the realm."

They shared a kiss, before looking back at the dance floor. A comfortable silence arose between the two of them as they basked in a culmination of their work as parents, before Ned took a sip of his wine. After he finished his sip, he spoke.

"Cat, I have been thinking of the future for our children," Ned said quietly. "As we have discussed, I would finalize Arya's betrothal to Domeric Bolton, and offer Rickon's hand to House Mormont, when he is of age, but I am thinking of giving Moat Cailin to Bran, once he is grown."

Surprise filled her. "Bran, and not Jon? Surely he will be legitimized, Ned."

"I have talked to Robert already, and he has agreed to legitimize Jon, behind the claims of any of our trueborn children. The announcements will be sent after the wedding, before I leave for King's Landing. Robert himself does not suspect a thing," Ned replied quietly.

Good. It is the least I can do for my good-sister's son, and prevent him from freezing out in the cold with Benjen, in the Night's Watch. One Stark at the Wall is more than enough.

Ned took another sip.

"As for my plan for Jon, I am considering whether it is ideal to give Jon the opportunity of being Lord Consort to White Harbor by marrying Wynafryd Manderly, tying the Stark name to House Manderly without worrying about contesting claims. The other option is that Bran marries Wylla Manderly instead, and Jon, given a holdfast somewhere else in the North, such as a renewed Sea Dragon Point."

"Who will Bran marry if Jon marries Wynafryd?" Catelyn asked, curiously.

"Bran would marry Meera Reed, as a way to reward Howland, and allow the crannogmen to use their expertise to better defend the North." Ned replied. "Rickon, in this case, would get Sea Dragon Point, as Jon would be Lord Consort of White Harbor. If Bran decides to be Kingsguard, however, I could arrange for either Rickon or Jon to marry Meera Reed instead."

Catelyn thought about those options for a moment. Robb suggested a betrothal between Jon and Wynafryd Manderly, as well as another between Bran and Meera Reed, noting that Jon had slowly thawed out in his interactions with Lady Wynafryd, cracking a smile every now and then and even laughing merrily in her presence, and that Bran and Meera has conversed well enough together, despite their age difference. Even if Bran was the groom more suited towards the Manderlys, with his ambitions as a knight, the first option was the safer option, both politically and interpersonally.

"Would Lord Manderly agree to betrothing Jon and Wynafryd?" Catelyn asked, hesitantly.

"Yes. I have talked to Wyman about the betrothals, and he noted that it would be harder to find a suitable Lord Husband for Wynafryd that would not attempt to overrule her as Lady of White Harbor. Especially as Wylis is not like to have another son, given his lady wife's harsh pregnancies, and Wendel's lack of interest in marriage, Wyman needs a suitable highborn consort to Wynafryd more than he would need to tie Bran and Wylla together."

"We will do that then, Ned. Her son deserves the chance to rule, even if it is only White Harbor, and it would keep him well in the North, away from prying ears." Catelyn noted, calmly.

"I will have it arranged then, lady wife of mine," Ned said, before finishing his glass and setting it down on the table.

The familiar notes of "The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown" began to play as the clock struck midnight, her son and the Tyrell brothers, Willas and Garlan, were heard shouting ground rules, with the procession of lords and ladies following along. And then suddenly, Catelyn felt a hand roaming her body as Ned turned to her, slightly red-faced, but full of good cheer.

"You are in your cups again, aren't you, Ned?" she asked, wryly. "It is not us that needs to be bedded, husband, though I can't say I'm not appreciating this."

"I'm only appreciating the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms," Ned said slyly, before capturing his wife in a kiss that made Catelyn's toes curl. "Or is there something wrong with a man expressing his affection for his lady wife?"

"You are incorrigible, my love," Catelyn sighed quietly, struggling not to laugh as his amorous affections continued.

"A father and mother should not be witnessing their son's bedding ceremony," Ned continued, a smirk on his face. "Therefore, it is our duty to rekindle our own love in a bedding of our own, especially as I will be deprived of this for a year until you arrive to King's Landing"

Catelyn laughed as Ned swung up his wife in a bridal carry, their son's bedding forgotten at this point.

And from that moment onward, her and Ned lost themselves in one another, with only them, in a world of their making.