Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine. Any lines from the books are hers too. I also don't own the Game of Thrones books or tv series or anything related to them.
AN: I've only watched the tv series of GoT, sorry guys. If there's deviations from canon, that's why. I tried to fact check as much as possible, but there's probably going to be mistakes I'm afraid. Forgive me. I tried.
Betrothals
Madge closes her eyes as her father and Ser Haymitch argue.
No, not argue. Her father's master-at-arms would never argue with his lord. He just disagrees. Loudly.
"She's just a child," Ser Haymitch growls, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "You can't just marry her off to some-some-little-"
"My daughter is hardly a child," her father cuts him off, his voice not so much as rising. "Most young ladies her age are already married, mothering children and running households, I'm only betrothing her."
"To a Northman!" Ser Haymitch sputters. "They-You know what happened to the Tully girl? Married off and then that man brought home a little bastard and kept it around. You want to send Madge off to a place that'll condone that kind of disrespect?"
Swallowing down bile at the thought of being sent off and humiliated in such a dreadful way, Madge bites her tongue and prays to the gods the man her father has chosen for her is honorable and respects her more than so many men do their wives.
"Lady Madge, my daughter, is being betrothed to a good man. Lord Hawthorne is an honorable man, and his son is likewise honorable." her father levelly tells Ser Haymitch. "I appreciate your concern, Ser Haymitch, but this is my decision, and it is made."
The Maester had written the match in his books and the date would be set. Madge would be married, whether Ser Haymitch and her father agreed about it or not.
"It's a damn foolish decision," Ser Haymitch mutters, too low for Madge's father to hear, running a ragged hand over his face before dropping into a seat beside Madge and glaring out the window, at the men training below.
Knotting her hands together, Madge blinks back tears.
She's known for years she'd be married off eventually. Her brother, Tomas, from her father's first marriage, will inherit their father's title and land someday, and Madge will hardly be allowed to stay lurking in the shadows of their family's home once he's married and fathering the next generation of House Undersee.
It really is only by the grace of the Seven themselves that she has managed to avoid it this long.
Tomas is to marry one of the Wynedell girls soon though, and her father isn't getting any younger, it was only a matter of time before this happened.
Before anymore words can pass between them, Peeta, comes rushing up the steps, chest heaving as he flings the door open.
"Lord Undersee!" He struggles to catch his breath, straighten himself into a more dignified stance. "The maester-Maester Caesar got a raven. He said he wishes to speak to you at once."
Huffing, probably thinking the Maester is being excitable again, Madge's father give her one last small smile before heading down the stairs with Peeta at his heels, leaving Madge and Ser Haymitch alone in the Solar.
A moment passes, the silence only broken by the clinking of metal as the men and boys practice in the yard below, before Ser Haymitch groans and gets to his feet.
He still looks furious, teeth grinding behind his grim expression, but he forces a smile.
"Well, come along, Lady Madge," he offers his arm. "Let me see you safely to that mother of yours before I go stop these damn fools from breaking all my practice weapons."
Laughing, Madge stands, straightens her dress, then takes his arm, letting him lead her to the still open door.
"Still don't see why he couldn't match you with that little lordling Mellark." He nods approvingly at his own ability to make a smart match. "He's kind, clever-"
"A terrible swordsman," Madge adds with a grin.
Ser Haymitch shrugs. He can't deny it. He's said so himself.
"Killing isn't the only thing in life, child. The Mellark boy would treat you like a princess, and that's what you deserve. Not some damned frozen castle in the north with some heathen."
Madge sighs, not bothering to point out that if her father had betrothed her to Peeta Mellark, Ser Haymitch would've had plenty different complaints to voice.
He was too soft, too kind, not much of a fighter, and a third son on top of that. Surely the only daughter of such a noble line deserves more than the last born son of a much lesser house?
Still, as she was not going to marry Peeta, he probably looked a great deal better than the unknown character that was her future husband.
They reach her mother's rooms and Ser Haymitch gives her a hand a squeeze before taking his leave, mumbling to himself as he goes.
Sighing, Madge forces a smile as she opens her mother's door and steps in.
The shades are drawn, casting the room in a grey light with as little sun as can filter through, and the morning fires have been doused, leaving it comfortably cool.
Her mother is still in bed, the curtains pulled closed tight around, blocking out what little light manages to squeeze in.
Softly as she can, Madge peeks between the heavy curtains and finds her mother still fast asleep.
Maester Caesar must have already given her the morning dose of milk of the poppy. It'll be hours before she wakes again.
Madge considers trying to wake her, but decides against it. The medicine is too strong, but her mother swears it's the only thing that gives her any kind of relief, even if it leaves her sleeping away most of her life.
Something warm slides down Madge's cheek and she swats it away. She won't waste what precious few moments she has left in her home crying.
Opening the curtains enough to slip through, Madge curls up on the bed beside her mother and tries not to think about her uncertain future in the north, how few days she may have left to be just the daughter of an ancient house, not the new southron bride of some minor noble, and the cruelty of the gods.
#######
"A fortnight?" Tomas shakes his head. "They'll be here in a fortnight? What for? They can't possibly expect us to have a wedding in that time, can they?"
There's an edge of panic in his voice Madge has only heard a few times in her life.
Tomas had the good fortune to inherit their father's mild temperament, but with that he'd also taken his deep love of people. He wasn't ready to have his little sister be taken so far away.
"You may only be my half-sister," he'd told her, when he'd found her after their father told him about the betrothal, "but I'll have this Hawthorne's whole head on a pike if he mistreats you."
Between him and Ser Haymitch, Madge wonders if the wedding will ever happen. She wouldn't put it past either one of them to try and sabotage her father's careful planning.
Madge watches as her father continues to write out a reply to one of his vassal lords, something about grain supply if she remembers correctly, and nods.
"Yes, perhaps a little sooner given the clear weather we've been having." He finally looks up, smiling at his son's irritation. "And they are coming at my request."
He sets down his quill and settles back in his chair, studying them for a moment before sighing.
"I hardly want to send my only daughter off right after marrying a man she's just met. Lord Hawthorne and his son are returning from Dorne, and he'd sent me a raven to congratulate me on my name day. A bit late, but the thought is what counts I think." He nods, agreeing with himself, before continuing. "So I invited them both to the Twelve Points, to meet you, and to put Tomas and our fussy master-at-arms at ease."
Madge almost laughs, and she would, if not for the ill feeling settling in her stomach.
Somehow, not meeting Lord Hawthorne's son until their wedding seemed easier. Maybe meeting him would only make the time to come more a worry.
What if he's cold? Cruel? What if he takes one look at her and refuses the match?
As ambivalent as she feels about marriage, she knows she must, and being spurned will diminish her chances of any kind of life.
Her father must hear her thoughts, because he rises from his chair and goes to her, pulls her into a hug.
"He'll love you the moment he sets eyes on you, Pearl. I love you too well to set you a poor match, don't you know that?"
Sniffling, Madge nods. He wouldn't send her off to live with some boorish brute. Her father has always looked out for her happiness, even if it's cost him.
He'd been approached by the Lannisters, twice that she knows of, about one of their handsome sons. Then there'd been the Hightowers down in Oldtown. Even that fat old lord from the Vale, but he'd turned them all down, at the cost of prestige and power.
"I want you safe and loved," he'd told her. "I would rather you marry a minor lord who will love you and cherish you as you deserve than hand you off to some dull-witted, well-named oaf who'll leave you with a nothing but a good name."
The memory of all the betrothals he's turned down eases Madge's stomach some.
Lord Hawthorne's some must be quite a man for her father to have accepted the betrothal.
Still, men are often blind to the evil other men can do. There'd hardly been time enough for her father to see much of the future Lord Hawthorne of the Hearth.
"How long will the Lord and his son be our guests?" Madge finally asks, pulling back and forcing herself to smile, for her father's sake.
He doesn't look entirely convinced by her mummer's farce, but doesn't press further.
"Only a week, I'm afraid. They're quite anxious to return to the Hearth. They're very close, these Hawthornes."
Nodding, Madge looks at Tomas. They need to investigate their guests, carefully, not immediately put asunder all their father's careful work.
The Hawthornes coming to the Twelve Points is blessing.
Tomas crosses his arms, takes a long breath, seeming to sense Madge has a plan, then slowly lets it out.
"And a glorious week it shall be."
#######
Madge rushes around, giving orders to the cooks and sending maids off in panics.
The Hawthornes had sent a raven just hours before, warning their hosts they were going to arrive in the evening, a full three days before they'd been anticipated.
Her father had told her it was a possibility, but Madge hadn't believed it. A day early, perhaps, but three days early? That was too much. No one would believe a person would strain their host so much as to arrive so far before they'd planned.
"It's thoughtless," Tomas grumbles as he helps Madge carry several baskets of fruit to the kitchens. "Turning up three days too early. We barely got the strawberries picked."
"We didn't pick anything," Madge reminds him, brushing a wayward strand from her face.
She directs one of the girls to make a strawberry pie, a particular favorite of Ser Haymitch's, then goes to her rooms to get ready.
Despite her protest, her father had commissioned her a new dress for the occasion.
It's pale blue, trimmed in a delicate bronze, and according to the seamstress, accentuates Madge's finer points. In a manner of speaking.
"Lucky girl," she'd tittered as Madge frowned at her words. "You'd have any man with a figure like that."
She didn't want lustful attentions though, and she'd kindly asked the woman to raise the bust line.
And she had, fractionally, to Madge's annoyance. There's no changing it now though. Not with the Hawthornes upon them.
"You are a sight, m'lady," her maid tells her. "When that little lordling sets his eyes on you, dear child, he'll want the wedding this very night."
It isn't quite as comforting as she intends it to be, but Madge thanks her just the same.
Once they braid her hair, splash a bit of rose water on her skin, and help her into her shoes, Madge does a final inspection before hurrying to meet her father and brother.
Tomas is at her father's side, tugging at the collar of his doublet, perspiration shining on his forehead.
It's overly warm, even for the Reach, but etiquette dictates certain rules must be followed, and those rules require formal dress. Even if everyone is broiling in them.
Madge smooths out her hair as she takes her place by her father's side, praying the Hawthornes arrive before she melts where she stands, then glances around.
They'd had several men clean up the creeping vines covering the statues of the lords of ages past, from when Aegon and his sister wives burned the plains and conquered Westeros and before Prince Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna Stark. Then they'd cut flowers from the garden, roses, lilies, and lilacs, strung them up and draped them over everything, filling the air with their sweet fragrance.
Between the scent of flowers in the air and the stifling warmth, Madge is too distracted to notice the men opening the gates and the horses riding in.
'"Looks like a little c-" Ser Haymitch stops himself saying something vulgar when he realizes Madge is close, mutters darkly, then sets the approaching pair in a sour glare as he takes a swig from his wineskin.
He's probably already deep in his cups, but he is so often he bears it well. His gait hasn't even become unsteady and there's no slur so his voice yet, but come a few hours and a few more cups and the story will be different.
"He's been a drunk since before he was knighted," Old Lady Oberst had told Madge once. "Only the gods themselves know why he was given such a title."
She holds House Undersee's master-at-arms in lower esteem than she does Madge. Which is impressive.
Ser Haymitch does more to earn her scorn then Madge though, and Madge grimaces in anticipation of what antics he'll likely get up to by evening, after the feast.
Shaking the thought away, Madge sets her expression, hoping it's welcoming as the pair of horses trot up to them.
Chewing the inside of her cheek, she watches as the dark horses come to a stop and the men dismount.
Lord Hawthorne smiles at her, gray eyes twinkling in the evening sun, as he brushes some dust from his shoulders.
He's a rather handsome man. Tall, not terribly broad, dark hair speckled with gray, olive skin betraying a Dornish heritage, and a kind smile. She can see instantly that he'd put anyone at ease.
Taking a breath, Madge turns her gaze to his son.
The younger lord is just as handsome as his father. Tall, tousled dark hair, and the same warm tan. His eyes don't smile though, and his expression is just as stormy and grim. Madge fears the worst as they approach and he doesn't so much as attempt even the smallest of smiles.
When she tries and fails to force her own lips into a gracious smile, her fear eases some. Maybe his anxiety is as crushing as hers, coloring his features so fiercely.
Still, even just a twitch of his check would be some reassurance.
"Lord Undersee, I hope we find you in good health?"
Madge's father chuckles.
"Indeed, and I hope your travels have left you likewise well."
Lord Hawthorne's expression turns as grim as his son's.
"I'm as well now as when I left the North." He smiles, not nearly as cheerfully as before. "I'd hoped to be better on the return, but alas, some things are simply not meant to be."
Madge glances a Septa Effie, remembering what she'd said the night before.
It's a mystery why or even how Septa Effie had ever joined the faith.
She doesn't have much inclination for devotions and her skills are subpar at best. Madge has learned more about etiquette and arts from hateful old Oberst than her supposed Septa.
Effie is more interest in gossip, whether about the lowliest scullery maid or the king himself, than helping her charge.
For a while Madge had wondered why her father didn't send for a new Septa.
"Septa Effie isn't quite as useless as she seems," he'd simply told her, lips twitching.
It had been only a few days later, as Madge had sat in her father's solar, decidedly not working on her needlework, that she realized what he'd meant.
With her Septa off giggling and drinking, twittering with the staff and being ceaselessly nosey, Madge was free to spend her days with him, her brother, and occasionally Ser Haymitch. He was providing her with the guidance expected of a noble lady. It wasn't his fault, strictly speaking, that they'd been given the most witless Septa ever to enter the faith.
Septa Effie's gossiping also had its other uses.
She didn't always have the facts correct, but there was often a grain of truth in her tales.
"His sister is in Dorne," she'd told Madge last night, when she'd voiced her curiosity at a northerner going as far south as was possible in Westeros, hoping her supposed Septa had gossip about her intended's travels. "Ran to live with her grandmother's family at the end of Robert's Rebellion."
Madge had poured her another cup of wine. Her lips hardly needed loosening, but it never hurt.
"Oh, thank you my dear," she'd hiccupped, sloshing red wine down her front. "It was no great shock to anyone, not really. That Dornish blood running through their veins."
"Load of horse shit about Dornish blood!" Ser Haymitch snarled, gripping his goblet tighter, glaring at her from across the little garden table.
Effie had only chuckled, clearly not aware of just how dangerous the knight in front of her could be, and squinted at him through the haze of wine.
"Ah yes, I'd forgotten. You're part Dornish, aren't you, Ser?"
Before the drink could set him off at the slight against his blood, Madge cut in.
"Why did she run off?" Dorne was hardly the first place Madge could imagine a Northman or woman, wishing to go to.
"Pregnant, wasn't she? Probably to a liking to a man camping out during the Rebellion, there were plenty to choose from, and there you have it." She'd smiled and took the wine from Madge, refilled her glass. "Her lord father refused to speak of her after that, I'm told. He was twice as mad when his heir, young Levi, ran to Essos to join the Second Sons."
She'd begun to slur after that, and Ser Haymitch had taken Madge to her room after that, grumbling about propriety.
Madge wishes her silly Septa could hold her drink a little better. She probably knows what business Lord Hawthorne and his son had in Dorne with his sister, and Madge dearly wishes she did too. Curiosity is a sin, but she can't help it.
Perhaps she could wheedle it from Maester Caesar later...
"Well, I hope this stop will brighten your travels," Madge hears her father say before feeling him shift beside her. "This is my son, Lord Tomas."
The men exchange a quick set of pleasantries, then their attention turns to her.
"And, of course, Lady Madge."
Cheeks warming, Madge dips and murmurs her greeting.
"She's as lovely as you'd described her," Lord Hawthorne says.
Madge smiles weakly.
"Fathers are often known to overestimate the beauty of their daughters, my lord. There's a kind of blindness born of fatherhood, I'm afraid."
Lord Hawthorne chuckles.
"Perhaps, but in your case I don't think that is the case."
Face blazing, Madge only nods.
Her father wipes the sweat from his brow before gesturing to the hall behind them.
"I'm afraid we'll all be puddles if we stay out under this sun much longer." He calls a pair of stable boys over to take the horses. "Gentlemen, please follow me."
#######
Madge doesn't see the men again until the evening meal, which she feels is terribly unfair.
Hadn't her father said he wanted her to get to know her betrothed? It seemed a poor way to make that acquaintance by keeping him occupied touring the stables, inspecting the armory, and discussing politics in the solar.
Even at dinner, they hadn't been seated near one another.
"Count it as a blessing," Ser Haymitch grumbles as he pulls Madge out to dance. "He's a somber son of a c-uh-cow."
Sighing, Madge simply shakes her head.
"Whatever he may be, he's still going to be my husband. I'd like to know him before my wedding night."
Muttering darkly to himself, Ser Haymitch grips her tighter and steers her further from her future husband.
As the evening wears on, Ser Haymitch keeps an annoyingly close eye on Madge. Septa Effie doesn't help matters when she traps Madge at the entrance to the kitchens to tell her some idle gossip about one of the kennel master's daughters. By the time Madge escapes her drunken clutches, Lord Hawthorne and his son have retired for the night.
"They've had a long journey, Pearl," her father reassures her. "There will be plenty of time to talk to the man tomorrow."
Nodding, Madge kisses his cheek goodnight and heads to bed herself.
Despite being worn from the day's activities, Madge decides to cut through the garden before bed. She'd seen Effie shuffling towards it after Madge had hurried off, another wine bottle in hand. It won't do to have an ill-tempered Septa nursing drinking sickness wandering through the front halls come morning while guests are about.
Sure enough, Septa Effie is slumped down beside one of the fountains, empty wine bottle on its side at her feet, drool pooling by her face.
"Oh, Effie."
Struggling, Madge attempts to pull her to her feet, but she's dead weight, only grunting at the efforts to dislodge her from the garden ground.
After several fruitless minutes, Madge shakes her head in frustration. She'll have to get help.
Before she even turns to head to Ser Haymitch's quarters, a deep voice rumbles behind her, startling her.
"Need help?"
Spinning on her heels, Madge feels heat flood her face.
Lord Gale is standing only a few yards away, his stormy eyes trained curiously on Effie.
Madge's fingers twist together and she shakes her head. It's bad enough him seeing a member of their household in such a state, he doesn't need dragged into the indignity of hauling her to bed.
"Oh, no my lord. I've got her."
His lips twitch up, into just the hint of a smile. He's handsomer for it. "I can see that."
Striding over, he reaches down, and in one fluid movement, lifts the dead weight that is Madge's drunk Septa from the ground.
"She's as heavy as she looks, isn't she?" He grunts, shifting her a bit roughly in his arms, causing her Septa cowl to skew awkwardly over her face. "Where's her quarters?"
For a moment Madge can't answer. She too stunned for speech and her eyes have developed their own sense, deciding to wander over Lord Gale in a very unladylike way. This is the closest she's been to him and they seem to want to gather as much information as they can.
He's got a strong face and handsome features, even if they're a bit dampened by his broodiness, and there's a kind of easy elegance to his messy hair. His figure isn't terrible either, though she scolds herself for such a thought. It's hard to ignore though, with his doublet gone and only his untucked shirt hanging loosely on him, sticking to his body in places from perspiration.
She should offer him water, she thinks idly, before the deep rumble of his voice again breaks her from her thoughts.
"My lady, her quarters?"
"Oh." Madge shakes off her stupor and castes her eyes to the ground, her face warming. "Of course, this way."
Leading him to keep her traitorous eyes from muddying her mind again, Madge takes him back into the hall, down the back way, and finally up a short stairway to Effie's quarters.
With a grunt, Lord Gale deposits the Septa onto her bed.
Her head lolls a bit, and she makes a garbled noise, but then settles again. A little drool rolling down her cheek.
Lord Gale makes a face as he glances at his shoulder, where a very distinct drool mark is present, and mutters, "Lovely."
Cheeks burning, Madge mumbles an apology as they exit.
"Not your fault she's a drunk," he counters. "My impression of members of the Faith isn't changed much, if that makes you feel any better."
Madge isn't sure what he means by that, but nods anyway. Northern houses worship the Old Gods anyways.
They walk in silence for a few minutes, until they're back in the gardens, mutely examining the rose bushes.
"Did you-were your travels-did you not have a good trip to Dorne, my Lord?" Madge finally asks, unable to bear the quiet any longer.
Making a face, he shakes his head.
"I'd rather not talk about Dorne," he answers, voice a bit tight. "My aunt and her children are about as dignified as your Septa."
Frowning, Madge nods, letting the silence envelope then once more.
Madge continues to pretend to be endlessly fascinated with her own flower garden, all while discreetly taking in the man that will be her husband. Lord Gale shows no such compunction. His stormy eyes settle on Madge, seemingly inspecting her, lingering for far too long to be considered decent.
Finally, his deep voice breaks the silence again.
"Pretty dress."
Once again, Madge feels her face warm.
Her first instinct is to cross her arms, hid that awful seamstress' efforts to enhance her figure. She stops though, when she realizes it will only push her bust up further.
Chewing her cheek, Madge steadies her breathing and raises her eyes to meet his.
He's smirking, his lips twitching and his eyes sparkling mischievously.
He looks much younger, much kinder, teasing her, but the indignity of the situation makes it hard to enjoy.
"Thank you, my lord. I wanted to look nice for our first meeting."
A chuckle rumbles in his chest, almost warming Madge, sending her stomach to her toes.
"I thank you, my lady. Will you always put forth such an effort?"
Madge forces a smile. She won't be shamed by him.
"Will you always be so charming and gentlemanly?"
For a moment Madge thinks it might be an overstep. Not all men are as forgiving of a sharp tongue as her father, and her future husband is an unknown entity.
Then he laughs.
Unsure what to do, Madge watches him as he rubs at his neck, tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck.
"Probably, if my brothers are to be believed." He grins. "But to be fair, they're worse."
Smile easing a bit, Madge tries her luck again.
"They must be quite darling then." She tilts her head in consideration. "Sadly, if the maesters are right about the climate in the north, I'll dress more warmly there. I'm not sure how pretty my dresses will be then."
Lord Gale's smile softens and her reaches out, twirls a strand of her hair between his fingers.
"I have a feeling you'd be lovely even in rags." His hand drops and he takes a step back, Madge hadn't realized he'd even moved toward her. "You were right about a father being blind to his daughter's beauty. He hardly did you justice."
A fresh blush blossoms on Madge's cheeks.
In the distance something crashes, someone in the kitchens probably finishing cleaning up from the earlier feast, pulling them both back to the reality of the moment and the lateness of the hour.
"I thank you, my lord, but I must also bid you goodnight," Madge tells him, genuinely sorry she has to put a stop to their meeting for the sake of propriety.
If any of the household saw them out at such an hour, no matter how innocent the situation is, they'd have rumors swirling before the next morning's sun.
"Then goodnight, my lady," he tells her, disappointment written on his features.
Madge dips a fraction, not eager to better his view down her dress, even if it had broken the tension between them, before starting off.
She stops after a few steps.
"I hope to enjoy more of your charm soon, my lord." She gestures toward the grounds, just out of view. "I felt gravely neglected today. You're not to marry my father and brother."
He laughs again, and Madge's insides squirm.
"Thank both our gods for that." His smile widens. "I'd happily spend more time in your company than theirs. I don't think they'd cut nearly as pretty a figure in that dress as you."
Madge's lips twitch.
"Then I shall see you in the morning."
She hurries off after that, not trusting herself not to linger a little longer if she doesn't run.
Once she in her room, she falls across her bed and closes her eyes. Perhaps marriage to a Northman won't be so awful after all.