The Lord of the Realm stood alongside Lord Eddard and waved to Jaime. Masking his face with indifference, Jaime rose and joined the two men at the head of the room. The tension practically oozed from the Lord of the North and Jaime felt himself smirk. At least, he wasn't the only one doing this against his will. He doubted Stark was thrilled about his first daughter being wed to the Kingslayer.

Stark spoke then, "King Robert has given us some very honoring news! My daughter, Merilyn Alayne is to be wed to Jaime Lannister on the morrow." His voice echoed throughout the hall and not a single syllable betrayed his unhappiness at this blessing. He then gestured for his daughter to come to his side.

Merilyn rose confidently and stood straight-backed alongside her father, looking proudly into the room and placing her hand into her fathers.

"The House Stark is proud and honored that such an arrangement has been made. For his generosity is much, the King has also granted the ceremony is to be held here in the homes of the North's forefathers and our great ancestors."

The roar of the hall was deafening. Most, Jaime knew, were thinking of the food and ale that is customary at wedding ceremonies, but others he saw were faking any sign of celebration. Her brother, the one she'd been talking to earlier, was stone faced as he clapped and the little girl, Areea, Areana, or whatever was looking at the floor.

Ned signaled to the Hall for silence and it was suddenly even more stifling than the cheering had been. The ward of Winterfell, Greyjoy, placed a ceremonial knife in Ned's hand and Jaime felt his stomach roll.

Merilyn turned so that she was face to face with Ser Jaime. She wondered what she was supposed to be feeling, sick maybe? All she felt was a strange numbness. None of this could be real in her mind. But in some strange dream she saw flash through her head, her father took the knife and gestured for them to take hands. Their hands met, his surer than hers, both hands cool and dry. Her father was speaking. She knew the old incantation by heart, but at this moment couldn't possibly relay it.

She felt a small shock as a thumb caressed her hand. She glanced down and then into Jaime's face and saw a smirk painted upon his face. He was pushing her, teasing her for what? She gazed straight into his face without blinking. Robb and Jon often played this game, to see who got to ride the better horse when they were little. Her father then handed the blessed knife to Jaime, who took it confidently. He whispered the old poem, about the man pledging his life to this woman, about the man consuming the blood of his betrothed to be forever joined, about love and life. After he finished reciting, he sliced her palm. She'd tried tremendously hard, but gasped anyway at the parting of her skin by the steel.

Crimson liquid pooled upwards and without a look of disgust on his face, like so many Southerners who's forced participations in Northern rituals soured their delicate stomachs, he brought her palm up to his mouth and kissed gently, his tongue delicately sliding across the cut, bringing another softer gasp from her. The warmth of his tongue belayed the cold of the knife and she felt an odd swooping sensation in her stomach.

Then it was her turn and she forced the words out. Her voice hardly reached a whisper, but she managed it, pledging to be his other half, consuming her beloved's blood to fulfill the connection, she recited it all confidently and without falter. Her hands slightly shook as she positioned the knife over his hand and cut into it. The same crimson that sprung forth from her own hand seeped out and she brought it to her lips. It was coppery and tangy on her mouth and she mimicked his earlier motions and flicked her tongue out tasting more copper. She stepped back and stood tall again. Her father finished the ceremony, saying how blood was the strongest bond humans had and blood would always come before all other ties. Ancient laws now tied the two together and no other person could ever break this bond.

She looked at this man who she supposedly shared a bond with and saw cold taunting eyes staring back. She fought back a shiver. She glanced back one time as she returned to her seat, but he'd already returned to his own seat beside his deformed brother. There was cheering in the halls and people congratulating the families.

Her own brother's face almost made her stop in her steps. He was furious, that much was certain. She dropped into her seat, ignoring his pointed glare and grabbed a rag from the table, clumsily trying to tie it to her still-bleeding hand.

Robb's hands covered her own and he took the rag from her, securely tying it around her wound, taking care to be gentle.

"When did you know?" He asked, busying himself with her hand still.

"This morning," her voice was dull and lifeless, she could hear it, but was too drained suddenly to care.

"And you're content with that? This is what you'd like?" He sounded incredulous.

"It's not a matter of wants, Robb. It's not a pet horse that I get to choose. We knew a betrothal would have to be made soon. I'd not fancy myself an old crone." She smiled wryly, "It could be far worse. Nelda was saying Ser Rodrick of Linlock is searching for a wife."

"He's at least Northern," Robb said stubbornly.

"He's also at least fifty name days and has almost no teeth, Robb."

"Ser Jaime is the Kings-"

"Enough, Robb. Did you see what happened out there? Do you see my hand now? How both his lips and mine are colored with blood? There's nothing more to say." She looked down at her food uneasily.

She hated fighting with Robb, but didn't want to be told what she already knew. There wasn't a solution to this. There wasn't a way to change what had just happened. She couldn't magically run away to a new life. Winter was coming, and with it, starvation and poverty and crime. The King made the match for a political reason and he wasn't changing his mind. It was done. Nothing had ever been more final.

She hadn't slept last night. Arya was furious with her for it. In fact, everyone was furious with her this morning, Sansa because Merilyn had dark shadows from not sleeping and she wanted her sister to look her best. Robb was still not talking to her. Nelda was furious that she was refusing to wear her hair up like Southern style dictated. Merilyn was furious with herself. She was nervous, pacing, and feeling sick. She was acting like a child and berated herself heavily for it. She was sitting next to her fire, staring at her fingers like they held a kind of answer.

Suddenly, her mother sat down next to her, taking the brush from Nelda and began brushing her hair softly.

"Your hair is about as long as mine was when I married your father," her voice was soft and comforting. The brush through her hair was the only sound in the room and then Merilyn sniffed once.

"Were you afraid?"

Her mother laughed softly, "I was terrified, almost inconsolable. There's nothing wrong with being afraid of something, especially something that is different from anything you've ever experienced."

"Septa Mordane said it's my duty to marry, to have children. And I always wanted that, to fulfill my duty. But now, it's happening. I don't know him. I've never even spoken to him. How am I supposed to marry him? And… and have children?" She should've been embarrassed about this line of questions, but she couldn't be. She wanted to know the answer to the question too much.

She heard her mother set the brush down and then felt her arms wrap around her. Merilyn missed this feeling of comfort and safety. The Starks showed more affection than most families, but still when the children became adults the affection became sparser. Her mother hadn't hugged her in years. She felt herself begin to softly cry, and her mother started to rock her, shushing her softly.

"It won't be easy, Merilyn. But it's necessary. I didn't know your father at first. I never saw his face until the day of the wedding. I was scared and I was alone. But, I wouldn't change anything. I love your father more than the world and now I have six beautiful children. It took courage and you're far braver than I am. It took dedication and you've never given up on anything in your life. It took pride and, well, you're a Stark." She squeezed her tightly, "It was a learning process. And, by the gods, Merilyn, none of my children are imbeciles."

That drew a watery smile from her and she nodded. Her mother was right. She could do this and be just fine. She stood then and smoothed her shift and flipped her hair. She wiped her eyes and looked her beaming mother, "Help me get ready?"