The morning of the wedding broke clear and agonizingly cold.
For the first time in many moons, the courtyard of Winterfell was not filled with the harsh ringing of hammers on anvils or the steady, rhythmic tramp of marching boots. The forges still burned, but the great host of the North had set aside their armor for the day.
They had crushed the southern zealots in the mud of the Neck, and the true war against the dead still waited in the deep snows beyond the Wall. Sandwiched between these two brutal realities, Eddard Stark had decreed a day of celebration. The North needed to remember what they were fighting to protect.
In the high chambers of the Great Keep, the preparations were quiet and deliberate, though the presence of the southern guests added a vibrant warmth to the stone room. The banners of Starfall and Sunspear flew proudly in the courtyard below. Ashara's kin from House Dayne also came mingling seamlessly with the formidable retinue of Dorne.
Elia Martell stood behind her daughter, her dark eyes looking into the polished silver glass. Seventeen years ago, Elia had been a prisoner in the Red Keep, waiting for the Mountain to batter down her door. She had expected to die holding her children in the dark.
Instead, the Lord of Winterfell had broken down the door, slaughtered the monsters of the South, and brought them to the freezing safety of the North.
Now, her daughter was preparing to marry the heir to that very kingdom.
"Hold still, Rhaenys," Elia murmured, her hands deftly weaving a thick braid of dark hair. "If you move, the pins will not hold."
"I am perfectly still, Mother," Rhaenys replied, though a faint, nervous energy betrayed her usual calm.
Ashara Stark stood nearby, overseeing the final adjustments to the gown.
Rhaenys did not wear the light, flowing silks of Dorne, nor did she wear the severe, unadorned wool of a standard Northern bride. Her dress was a flawless, pragmatic blend of her heritage and her future.
It was fashioned from heavy, deep crimson silk that caught the light like dark fire, lined on the inside with thick, insulating black wolf fur. The bodice was tailored tightly, practical and unrestrictive, with long sleeves that ended in dark grey leather cuffs. Pinned to her right shoulder was a small, finely wrought silver clasp depicting a sun pierced by a spear; on her left, a three-headed dragon.
Ashara stepped forward, handing Rhaenys a heavy cloak. It was the maiden's cloak, the garment that represented the protection of her father's house. It was divided perfectly down the middle—one half the bright orange of House Martell, the other the stark black and red of House Targaryen.
"You look beautiful, Rhaenys," Ashara said quietly, her violet eyes softening with genuine affection.
"I look like a target in the snow," Rhaenys noted dryly, looking at the vibrant colors of the cloak.
"You are marrying the heir to Winterfell," Ashara countered, offering a rare, faint smile. "No man in the Seven Kingdoms would dare aim an arrow at you now. And if they did, Cregan would break their spine over his knee."
Elia rested her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "You are safe here, my sweet bird. You have always been safe here. Today, we simply make it permanent."
The heavy oak door to the chambers swung open, admitting a sudden burst of southern energy.
Prince Oberyn Martell strode into the room, draped in flowing robes of burnt orange and red silk that stood in stark contrast to the thick northern furs.
Beside him walked his paramour, Ellaria Sand, and close behind them trailed his eldest daughters—Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene.
"Safe, and radiant," Oberyn declared, crossing the room to kiss his sister Elia firmly on the cheek. He stepped back, looking at his niece with a fierce, proud smile. "You look like a true dragon, Rhaenys. The wolves will not know what to do with you."
"They will learn, Uncle," Rhaenys replied smoothly, a fond smile breaking through her nervous energy.
Ellaria stepped forward, taking Rhaenys's hands in her own. "May the sun warm your path today, little bird," she murmured warmly.
As Elia and Ashara pulled Oberyn and Ellaria aside to discuss the seating arrangements for the feast, the Sand Snakes smoothly flanked their cousin.
Obara, wearing soft leather rather than her usual armor, crossed her arms and offered a rare, approving nod. Nymeria leaned in close, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief.
"You are exceptionally lucky, cousin," Nymeria noted in a low, teasing whisper. "The wolf lord is dangerously handsome for a man raised in the snow. Broad shoulders. Good hands."
Tyene smiled sweetly, resting her chin on her hand. "Once the winter settles in, and the castle gets terribly cold... will you share him with us?"
Rhaenys shot her cousins a sharp, playful glare. She did not answer the question, offering only a cryptic, dangerous little smile. She was Dornish, after all, and the bounds of marriage in the deep South were far more fluid than the rigid traditions of the snow.
Across the keep, in the heavy stone chambers of the heir, the mood was entirely devoid of sentimentality.
Cregan Stark stood in the center of the room, his broad chest expanding as he pulled on a pristine, tailored tunic of dark grey wool.
The garment was simple, bearing no intricate embroidery, save for the snarling direwolf of House Stark stamped into the heavy iron clasps of his sword belt.
The heavy oak door opened, and Benjen Stark walked in, clapping his hands together to ward off the cold.
"You look stiff," Benjen observed cheerfully, leaning against the stone doorframe. "You are standing as if you expect Halder to swing a blunted sword at your ribs."
"I would rather face Halder," Cregan muttered, adjusting his heavy leather cuffs. "A wooden sword I can block. Hundreds of lords staring at me while I recite ancient vows before a tree is a different matter."
"The yard is full," Benjen continued, stepping fully into the room. "The Greatjon has already started drinking, and Roose Bolton is standing by the armory looking like someone stole his favorite flaying knife. It is a perfect day for a wedding."
Benjen looked his nephew up and down, nodding in approval. "You clean up decently, Cregan. But you know, if you were a wildling, you wouldn't have to deal with the ceremony. You would just find the girl, throw her over your shoulder, and carry her off into the woods."
"Rhaenys carries a spear, Uncle," Cregan pointed out dryly. "If I tried to throw her over my shoulder without asking, she would likely stab me in the kidney."
"A fair point," Benjen conceded with a grin. The smile faded slightly as the Lord of Sea Dragon Point grew solemn. "The Northern lords respect you, Cregan. But today they see you claim a dragon. Stand tall."
Benjen clapped a heavy hand on Cregan's shoulder. "It is time."
Cregan took a deep breath, nodding. He strapped his sword belt around his waist, not out of fear of an attack, but because a Stark did not stand before the old gods without his steel.
The procession to the Godswood was orderly and quiet.
The snow had been packed hard under the boots of thousands of men over the past few weeks, creating a solid path through the main courtyard. The high lords of the North stood waiting at the entrance to the ancient, walled forest.
Eddard Stark stood at the front, his heavy direwolf pelt draped over his shoulders. He gave his son a single, firm nod as Cregan approached.
"Stand by the water, Cregan," Ned instructed quietly.
Cregan walked deep into the Godswood. The air here was perfectly still, the biting wind blocked by the dense, towering canopy of sentinel pines and ironwoods. Thick, warm mist rolled off the black pool of the hot springs, creating a heavy, dreamlike atmosphere that smelled of damp earth and ancient sap.
He stopped before the massive, bone-white trunk of the heart tree. The carved face in the weirwood bark wept its dark red sap, staring blindly out over the water. The presence of the Old Gods was a palpable weight in the air, a deep, silent hum in the Force that Cregan felt vibrating in his very bones.
The lords filed in behind him, filling the cleared spaces among the roots. They did not speak. The rustling of wool and the crunch of snow were the only sounds.
Then, the crowd parted.
Rhaenys Targaryen walked through the ancient trees. With her sworn shield Arthur Dayne sailing the Narrow Sea on a covert extraction, she was escorted by her mother. Elia Martell walked beside her daughter with a rigid, flawless dignity, a princess of Dorne offering her child to the guardians of the North.
From the thick, warm mist of the hot springs, a massive shape emerged. Frost, Cregan's heavy-set grey direwolf, padded silently to the edge of the black pool. The beast was already the size of a pony, his thick fur slick with the damp air. He did not growl or bare his teeth. He simply sat on his haunches beside the weirwood, his intelligent eyes fixed unblinking upon Rhaenys. The lords in the crowd stiffened, but Rhaenys did not flinch.
She looked radiant. The deep crimson silk and black fur stood out sharply against the pure white snow and the pale bark of the weirwood. The thick mist curled around the hem of her skirts as she approached the black pool, stopping just a pace away from Cregan.
Ned Stark stepped forward, taking his place beside the heart tree. He looked at Elia.
"Who comes before the old gods this night?" Ned's voice resonated through the quiet wood, heavy and absolute.
"Rhaenys, of House Targaryen and House Martell," Elia Martell answered clearly, her voice echoing perfectly in the silent grove. "A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"
Cregan stepped forward, his boots crunching on the frost. He looked directly into Rhaenys's dark eyes.
"Cregan, of House Stark," he answered, his voice deep and unshaken. "Heir to Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who gives her?"
"Elia, of House Martell," she replied. "Her mother, who carried her through the fire."
Elia turned to Rhaenys, offering her daughter a slight, deeply respectful kiss on the cheek, before stepping back into the crowd, leaving the bride and groom alone before the tree.
"Lady Rhaenys," Ned addressed her, his tone softening slightly. "Will you take this man?"
Rhaenys did not look at Ned. She kept her eyes locked on Cregan. In the South, a princess was expected to look demure, to lower her eyes and offer a fragile whisper of consent. Rhaenys did no such thing. Her gaze was fierce, unyielding, and completely certain.
"I take this man," Rhaenys said, her voice ringing clearly through the freezing air.
Cregan stepped completely into her space. He reached out with steady hands and unclasped the silver pins holding the maiden's cloak. He lifted the heavy garment of red, black, and orange from her shoulders, handing it back to Elia.
From his own shoulders, Cregan unfastened a heavy cloak of pure white wool, adorned with a massive grey direwolf. He draped it carefully over Rhaenys, fastening the iron clasp tight against her collarbone. The physical weight of the heavy fur settled heavily upon her shoulders, pulling her firmly under the absolute protection of his House.
"I am hers, and she is mine," Cregan spoke the ancient vow, his voice low and firm. "From this day, until the end of my days."
"I am his, and he is mine," Rhaenys answered, her dark eyes reflecting the pale face of the weirwood behind him. "From this day, until the end of my days."
Beside the pool, Frost lowered his massive head. The direwolf did not howl. He simply let out a deep, rumbling chuff that vibrated through the damp earth, the ancient magic of the pack formally claiming the dragon.
They knelt together in the snow before the weeping face of the tree.
They bowed their heads in silence. There were no long sermons. There were no choirs singing hymns to the Seven. There was only the cold wind in the branches and the slow bubbling of the hot springs.
After a long moment, Cregan stood. He offered his hand to Rhaenys. She took it, pulling herself up.
Cregan leaned down and kissed her. It was not the desperate, bruising kiss of their private chambers, but a firm, solid promise made before the lords of the North.
When they broke apart, the Greatjon could hold his silence no longer. The massive Lord of the Last Hearth let out a booming cheer, raising a massive fist into the air. The other lords immediately joined the roar, the sound echoing through the ancient trees, startling a flock of ravens into the grey sky.
The quiet reverence of the Godswood was instantly replaced by the roaring fires and deafening noise of the Great Hall.
The feast was monumental. The long oak tables groaned under the weight of roasted aurochs, massive trenchers of root vegetables, thick wheels of dark bread, and roasted mutton. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and spilled ale.
The bards did not play delicate southern lutes or sing high, weeping songs of chivalry. They pounded heavy skin drums and played rough, fast-paced tunes on wooden pipes, the music designed to be heard over the shouting of hundreds of drunken men.
At the high table, Cregan and Rhaenys sat in the center.
Rhaenys picked at a piece of roasted meat, her dark eyes scanning the hall. "Lords are exceptionally loud when they are not preparing to kill someone."
"They have spent the last few moons building pyres and bracing for war," Cregan noted, taking a long drink of dark ale from his horn. "Let them shout. It keeps the cold out."
Down on the main floor, the clash of cultures was already in full effect. Obara Sand, having discarded her formal silks for comfortable leather, was seated squarely among the towering men of House Umber. The Greatjon, assuming the fierce Dornish woman possessed a fragile southern palate, slid a massive, sloshing horn of Northern Fire across the table toward her.
"Careful, snake," the giant rumbled with a wicked grin. "That's not your sweet plum wine. It puts hair on a man's chest."
Obara did not hesitate. She picked up the heavy horn and downed the high-proof, peat-smoked spirit in three long, unbroken swallows. She didn't cough, and her eyes didn't water. She simply slammed the empty horn back onto the wood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and pushed it back toward the Greatjon.
"Pour another, bear," Obara demanded smoothly. "I'm still thirsty."
The Greatjon stared at the empty horn, then at the unblinking Dornish woman. A massive, delighted boom of laughter erupted from his chest as he eagerly reached for the cask.
At a neighboring table, William Dustin and Rickard Karstark were quietly discussing the grueling task of moving heavy horse through the mud of the Neck during the recent conflict, keeping their minds firmly anchored on the defense of the realm even amidst the celebration.
As the hours dragged on, the barrels of Winter's Breath and Northern Fire were tapped. The high-proof spirits hit the blood of the lords, turning the loud celebration into a rowdy, unstable brawl of good cheer.
Before the chaos could fully descend, the Greatjon wiped his ale-soaked beard and marched heavily toward the high table, dragging something massive behind him.
The Lord of the Last Hearth stopped before Cregan and Rhaenys, dropping his burden onto the stone floor with a heavy thud. It was a massive, incredibly thick snow-bear pelt, the terrifying, fanged head of the beast still firmly attached to the hide.
"My wedding gift to the bride and groom!" the Greatjon roared proudly over the music. "Killed it myself in the deep pines! It's for the nursery floor! Good for keeping the bairns warm, and it scares the hounds away!"
Rhaenys looked at the massive, glassy eyes of the dead bear. She blinked, entirely unused to receiving severed animal heads as tokens of affection, but she quickly recovered her poise. "It is a magnificent pelt, Lord Umber. You honor us."
Cregan took a long drink of his ale to mask his smirk, thoroughly enjoying the sheer absurdity of presenting a stuffed bear head for a nursery. "We thank you, Lord Umber."
Wyman Manderly's face was flushed a deep, violent red as he watched the exchange. Suddenly, a loud, slurred voice cut through the music from the Karstark benches.
"The bedding!" shouted a drunken lord, slamming his heavy tankard repeatedly against the wood. "To the bedding!"
The call was immediately taken up by a dozen other men. "The bedding! Carry them up!"
The music stopped. The Greatjon hopped down from the dais, grinning wickedly as he cracked his massive knuckles. The tradition was ancient and entirely lacking in dignity. The men of the hall would grab the bride, carrying her to the bedchamber while tearing away her clothes, shouting bawdy jokes. The women would do the same to the groom. It was a chaotic, invasive ritual that the North adhered to with stubborn pride.
Scores of drunken lords and knights began to surge forward from the lower tables, their eyes fixed firmly on the high table.
Rhaenys stiffened, her hand instinctively dropping to the table, searching for a knife that wasn't there. The idea of dozens of strange, drunken men grabbing at her and tearing her dress sent a sharp spike of anger and panic into her chest.
Cregan felt the shift in her presence immediately.
He looked at the approaching mob of drunken lords. He looked at his father, Ned, who was sitting back in his chair with a faint, amused smile, clearly intending to let the tradition play out.
Cregan did not share his father's amusement. He was not about to let half the Northern army put their hands on his wife.
"Hold on," Cregan muttered to Rhaenys.
Before Rhaenys could ask what he meant, Cregan stood up. He moved with the sudden, explosive speed drilled into him by a lifetime of training.
He reached down, hooked one arm behind Rhaenys's knees, and the other around her back. In a single, fluid motion, he swept her out of her chair and hoisted her high against his chest in a secure, tight hold.
Rhaenys let out a startled gasp, dropping her wine goblet. It clattered loudly onto the wooden table.
"Hey!" the Greatjon shouted, pointing a massive, sausage-thick finger at the heir. "Put her down, lad! It's tradition! We have to carry her!"
"Find another bride to carry, Umber!" Cregan shouted back, his voice booming over the crowd.
Cregan didn't wait for a response. He turned and bolted.
He moved swiftly around the heavy oak of the high table, planting his boots firmly on the stone floor of the main hall, completely bypassing the steps of the dais. Rhaenys grabbed him tightly around the neck to secure herself as he hit the ground running.
"Stop him!" William Dustin laughed, lunging forward to grab Cregan's cloak.
Cregan let his years of training take over. He ducked beneath Dustin's grasping hand, side-stepped a stumbling guardsman, and broke into a dead sprint down the center aisle of the Great Hall.
The room erupted into absolute chaos.
"Get him!" Roose Bolton's heir shouted, joining the pursuit.
[A/N: Domeric Bolton is alive as Ramsay Snow was killed by wolf pack members when they were patrolling all over north looking for Bandits. He was on one of his hunting spree with his dogs and the wolf pack members killed him for his cruelty. Roose Bolton didn't even acknowledge his existence.]
Dozens of lords and guardsmen scrambled over benches and tables, trying to cut off the heir's escape. It was a mass, drunken stampede.
Cregan moved like a ghost through the timber forest of the hall. He ducked a flailing arm, spun past a falling chair, and accelerated. He carried Rhaenys's weight as if she were made of feathers. His heavy boots thudded loudly against the stone, effortlessly outpacing the drunken mob behind him.
Rhaenys, realizing exactly what he was doing, threw her head back and let out a bright, ringing laugh. "Run, you heavy fool! They're catching up!"
"They couldn't catch me if I was carrying a horse!" Cregan shot back, dodging a flying loaf of bread thrown by a frustrated Karstark spearman.
He reached the heavy double doors at the back of the hall. He didn't slow down to push them open; he simply hit the wood with his shoulder, blasting the heavy doors wide open and spilling out into the freezing night air of the courtyard.
"Close the doors!" Cregan yelled at the two stunned Wolfguards standing watch outside.
The guards blinked, saw the massive mob of drunken lords surging down the aisle behind the heir, and immediately grabbed the heavy iron rings, slamming the oak doors shut and dropping the crossbar just as the Greatjon slammed into the wood from the inside.
The heavy thud of the giant hitting the door echoed in the courtyard, followed by a muffled string of curses.
Cregan didn't stop. He carried Rhaenys rapidly across the snow-covered yard, making a direct line for the Great Keep.
He took the stone stairs two at a time, his focus entirely on reaching the safety of their chambers. He navigated the quiet corridors, bypassing the baffled night watchmen, until he reached his heavy oak door.
He kicked the door open, stepped inside, and kicked it shut behind him. He reached over with his free hand and slammed the heavy iron deadbolt into place with a resounding clack.
Cregan leaned his back against the heavy wood, his chest heaving as the heat of the sprint slowly faded.
He looked down. Rhaenys was still held securely against his chest. Her dark hair had fallen out of its perfect braid, framing her face in wild curls. She was looking up at him, her dark eyes shining with pure, unadulterated amusement.
"You robbed them of their tradition," Rhaenys teased, her arms still wrapped loosely around his neck. "Your lords are going to be deeply offended."
"They will survive," Cregan said, his breathing steadying. He looked at the heavy silk and fur of her dress, completely untouched and untorn. "No one touches you but me."
Rhaenys's smile softened into something darker, heavier. She let her legs drop to the floor, sliding down his body until her boots hit the stone, though she did not step away. She reached up, resting her palms flat against his chest.
"Then I suggest you stop standing by the door," Rhaenys murmured, her voice dropping to a quiet, demanding whisper.
Cregan didn't argue. He reached for the heavy iron clasp of the Stark cloak resting on her shoulders, leaving the drunken lords and the cold of the North firmly locked outside.