(121-06-14) The Wedding of Maege and Vidomir
The Wedding of Maege and Vidomir
Summary: Maege and Vidomir get married, the Rains of Castemere plays and all the guests are murdered. Or not.
Date: 06/14/2014
Related: None
Players:
Vidomir..Maege..Maera..Cregan..Carolis..Angharad..

Of all the places considered to be 'of the North,' the Dreadfort, home to House Bolton, is certainly ranked among the more ill-conceived locations to host a wedding. However, the staff of the Bolton fortress have been hard at work for days — weeks, even — bringing a bit of cheer to the grounds. Where normally the Bolton standard flies alone above the Dreadfort, today it shares space with both the colors of House Mormont and a single banner bearing the sigil of House Stark that has claimed the peak of the highest tower. There is a suspicious lack of flowers just about anywhere in the castle save for a spare collection in the hall, but perhaps it is more fitting for the Dreadfort. Instead, the walls bare tapestries depicting battles from wars fought long ago, and wherever a Bolton flayed man is found, the bear of House Mormont hangs directly beside it.

All that, however, is merely to greet the guests, for everyone has already been shown to the Weirwood. There are no chairs outside, but those who have come to witness the marriage have been arranged into roughly two standing groups, with unarmed servants lining the makeshift 'aisle' to ensure that no one gets in the way of the brides procession. Of course, the whole thing is staged in front of a large weirwood tree with a face carved into it, leaking long-frozen tears of sap, and standing directly in front of that tree, is Lord Vidomir Bolton himself, dressed in a pitch black, velvet doublet marked with pink stitching and embroidery with a long, predominately black cloak with healthy dose of Bolton pink worked in. Though it is a happy occasion, he wears a mask of neutrality, looking out into the open air as if lost in thought while he waits for the ceremony to begin.

Once everyone is in place, there is not much time to wait before Maege enters the Weirwood. Her dress is lovely, though not elaborate - a deep green with dark pink embroidery. Her Maiden's cloak in Mormont colors lies across her shoulders. The tall woman looks neither overjoyed, nor sad as she approaches the Heart Tree where the man who will soon be her husband stands. Her expression, instead, is serious and thoughtful, though there is a bit of a quirk of her lips upward when she sees Vidomir. Though there is no hurry in her steps, she is soon in front of the tree, standing next to him.

Lady Mormont, Mistress of Bear Island and elder sister of the bride, steps forward from the front row when Maege approaches the wierwood tree. Those that do not know the lady would say she has a grim look on her face. Those that do know her would know that is simply how her face looks. Still, her expression softens slightly as she approaches her sister from behind, and reaches around to unclasp the heavy green and gray Maiden's cloak. She gathers it up carefully as she moves off to the side so Lord Bolton may cloak the bride.

Spotting Maege walking down the aisle, Vidomir himself can't help but break that mask with a slight grin of his own, and try as he might to suppress it, it lingers throughout the ceremony. As she steps up beside him, he leans over and lowers his voice, whispering something quietly to her before he straightens and watches Maera approach.

When his soon-to-be wife's maiden cloak is removed, he reaches a hand up to undo his own, and pull it off his shoulder in a bit of sweeping gesture that sends the tail fluttering out a touch. Stepping around her, he pulls the cloak up and drapes it around her shoulders, letting it take the place of her maiden cloak to symbolize that she is now under his protection — despite the fact that idea of someone protecting a bear of House Mormont is practically laughable. Once finished, he returns to his previous spot and holds out his hand for her's.

Whatever it is that Vidomir says, it causes Maege's quirk of a smile to grow wider. Then, as Maera approaches, Maege's gives her elder sister an expression that is easy to read as a fond one. Once the weight of the Maiden's Cloak is taken and her sister steps away, she turns just slightly toward Lord Bolton. Though a slight shift, he does not have so far to go to rest his cloak on her shoulders. With that finished, she straightens and reaches out her hand for his.

Once Maege and Vidomir's hands are clasped, Maera exchanges the maiden's cloak for a length of cord. She moves around the couple to stand near the wierwood, and begins to wrap the cord around their hands. As she wraps she begins to speak in a rough language easily identified as the Old Tongue. Those that understand the nearly forgotten language will recognize the words as an invocation to the Old Gods to protect and bless the couple. The cord is knotted securely.

As Maera binds their hands as says the words before the Heart tree, Vidomir turns his head so he can look Maege in the eye as he responds — at the same time as his bride — "By the Old Gods, I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days." He speaks with a solemn finality, and judging by the look on his face, it seems more like he's taking the vows /very/ seriously.

Maege's smile fades once Maera starts to wrap their hands. The time for seriousness is at hand. It seems it is not just Vidomir that sees these vows as a solemn thing. Lies are supposedly unable to be spoken in a Weirwood. Vows taken in them are by their very nature sacred. Her voice easily carries in a clear and unwavering tone as she says, "By the Old Gods, I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days."

"What is bound cannot be unbound." Maera calls out for all to hear, "And these two are bound before the Gods. Let no one come between them." She gives the bound hands a light squeeze, and steps away from the couple so they might be viewed in their newly joined state by the witnesses. Witnesses who are undoubtably more eager to begin feasting than gawk for too long.

Luckily, those witnesses need not wait any longer, as the wedding ceremony finishes and the whole party is moved into the great hall of the Dreadfort. As soon as they find their seats — with newly married couple at the head table, of course — an army of servants begin bustling in, armed to the teeth with platters of meat, vegetable, and probably even a few minerals. Wine flows like water, and a group of minstrels begin playing in the corner, starting with an up beat song to set the mood and carry it through well into the night.


Seated at the head table with Vidomir, Maege has a glass of wine and is looking a bit flush, though happy. The music is playing and the food is good and they are married. With a bit of a lean to Vidomir, she asks in a teasing tone, "Is there dancing allowed in the Dreadfort?" With a name like Dreadfort, she is not sure there is. It is a serious place, of course, and as she watches a few couples already move out on to the dance floor, she adds, "If not, we should be sure to make an example of them."

Beside his new wife, of course, is Vidomir, a plate in front of him piled high with various courses, many of which looks hardly touched. Though he too has a glass of wine, it is still mostly full and the Lord of the Dreadfort seems, perhaps, even paler then usual, though even he can't help but appear happy. When Maege leans over, he responds with the same, gaze settled first on the dancer, then on her, "Dancing is allowed if you say it is. You are the Lady of the Dreadfort, now…" However, his small grin twitches up a fraction and he continues, "However, yes, traditionally, it has never been forbidden. There is just rarely occasion to do so."

Seated next to the bride on the opposite side of the groom is Maera Mormont. While the newlywed couple are both struggling to eat the Lady of Bear Island is seemingly having no such issues. She sups on a slab of roast beef with all the vigor that they lack, and only pauses to pick up a pitcher of wine, and lean over to refill Maege's cup. "If you get the Lord of the Dreadfort to do a northron reel I will be sufficiently impressed." She holds out the pitcher in offering to Vidomir with a light smirk. "More wine, My Lord?"

"Ah, then I guess we will spare them." Maege smiles and takes a little food. Lady of the Dreadfort - that is her and it might take a little while for her to get used to it. "Not hungry?" She asks, though her own plate is not empty. She has, though, eaten more than her new husband. With a soft laugh, she adds to her sister, "Well, there is certainly some time for that to happen. However, I think more wine will be needed."

"You threaten to overfill my cup," Vidomir responds to Maera with a shake of his head, "I would prefer to keep my wits about me for the evening, lest someone attempt to make a fool of me." He eyes her accusingly, but with a smile that says it's all in good humor. Then, back to Maege, he shakes his head when she asks after his plate, "I'm simply dreading the discussion I will have to have with my— our steward concerning the cost of the banquet. You will find he can be a tedious sort when it comes to expenses."

Maera sits the pitcher of wine down, and leans back with a wry sort of look. "A fool out of my good-brother? Never." She picks up her knife, and carves into her food with refined efficiency while shifting her attention to the other occupied tables in the Hall.

"Ah, well, the food has already been bought, so we might as well enjoy it or it will go to waste. Then he will have much more to be tedious about." Maege grins and takes another bite of her food. Seeing as his wine cup will not be filled, she shrugs her shoulder at Maera's attempt to loosen the Bolton up. The trio sits at the head table, watching the festivities start and a few people take the dance floor as a happy jig plays. "Now that you've seen me wed," she tells Maera with a wry smile, "We must find someone for Tanda."

It may not be the principle reason why he -has- to make the journey north, but Lord Cregan Stark seems glad to be here nonetheless. At least, relatively speaking— the Northrons of honor are a grim lot indeed, his own smiles small, though they carry well enough to warm the Winter Wolf's ice-hewn eyes for some time. The history between Stark and Bolton may not be the brightest story in the Realm, but between the Lord Stark an the Lord Bolton there is substantially more camaraderie than one might expect; even if that dynamic has shifted drastically since the days when the wolf pup served as squire to the infamous warlord joining to Mormont— the House one of his, and the Starks, oldest allies, to say nothing of friends.

It's the other Northern lords that draw Cregan's attention in the first moments of the feast, however, passing from table to table to greet (and perhaps periodically placate) important guests offered the bread and salt of the Dreadfort; not the North's most common gathering, no. After a passing of time, Cregan returns to the head table and takes his own seat at Vidomir's side, opposite Maera's position relative to Maege, a steady hand clasping Lord Bolton on the shoulder, "A fine ceremony, and a finer couple." He notes, lifting his own glass to them before offering more loudly, "To the unity and security of the North, and the joining of my ferocious friends!" Then, Lord Stark drinks, and gladly.

There is one in every family. While Cregan holds up the responsibility of being grim and taciturn, Carolis is dancing. He's somehow managed to get flocked by a group of little girls, and he's teaching them a reel. There is laughter, because little kids and complicated dances are comedy gold.

Vidomir's smile turns to a smirk, and he nods once, then twice in awknowledgement of Maege's point. "True enough," he eventually concedes, though he only takes a small bite of his food, washed down by a sip of wine. When the discussion turns to finding a match for Tanda, Vidomir looks over to both Maege and Maera, making a definite attempt to pay attention right up until Cregan returns to the table and his attention focuses right back on his Liege Lord. "As usual, we are in agreement, My Lord," he replies, settling back a bit in his chair. When the toast is called out, he does his duty and drains his glass, and servants respond by hurrying over to refill it for him and anyone else who needs it.

"Tanda?" Maera lets out a little snort. "I just married off my heir." She makes a little face, "I suppose it's my turn now. If you're all married off I can't expect you to bring up the next cropping of Mormonts, now can I?" She picks up her cup, and takes a faint swallow with a light grimace, "I hear Lord Flint's youngest son is a strapping young man, and not too clever or ambitious." She has another swallow from her cup, "Or perhaps I will take a Karstark? They're ambitious, but not overly clever. And that is the problem with being limited to second sons. The further from inheritance they get the more ambitious they become, and the more clever they fancy themselves." She stops her musings to lift her cup in toast before drinking deeply.

Maege smiles at Cregan. "Thank you, my lord," she tells him as she raises and then drinks to the cheers. It would not do if she wasn't. And at least it is finally getting Vidomir to take some wine. "To the North!" With a laugh at Carolis' and the young children's antics, she puts the glass back down. To Maera, "I doubt I would do well as your heir. I am only a few years younger than you and I would see you live well into your elder years. The Karstarks are a good family, though I'm sure we could find someone who is less ambitious, but still clever. A moment." Then, she moves leans toward Vidomir, saying softly, with a grin, "Is there anything that may help your enjoyment of the feast? If you don't start eating and drinking, many may think I dragged you to the Heart Tree by force and you are attempting to shorten your sentence by starving yourself." Though she is saying this in a teasing way, there is a bit of concern under her voice.

Carolis gets the children at least able to hop and leap without stomping on each other's feet just in time for the song to change, and the circus show begins again. Eventually, he begs off the grabby little hands and lamenting voices and makes his way toward the table. "They're like a pack of wolves out there," he says amiably. He claims his seat beside Lord Stark, heir presumptive that he is. Getting him to eat isn't an issue. Once he's acquired some food, he digs right in.

"Carolis has a similar perspective. That it's my turn." Cregan notes down the table towards Maera and Maege, shaking his head with a small half-smile. The idea of marriage is still a daunting one, it's clear— ironic, perhaps, for a youth who's already had to put down a rebellion and faces several more deadly conspiracies even tonight. The glance is cast dubiously but fondly towards his brother, and the younger Stark's appetite stokes Cregan's own, digging into the fine fare with an appreciative murmur. After those first bites, a bit more wine is savored, and he has to note, his own voice dropping, "Anyone who believes Lord Bolton can be forced against his will doesn't know the man." It's like Vidomir isn't sitting between them at all, for the moment.

"There are the beginnings of a pack of wolves up here," Vidomir responds to Carolis joining them, giving the younger Stark a short nod and a grin in greeting. However, in a twist that surely shocks no one, his attention is easily acquired by Maege and he turns to lean towards her as well so that their quiet conversation isn't drowned out by the noise of the banquet. "If it will set your mind at ease, I will eat," he begins, but as Cregan gives his own answer, Vidomir's lips turn into a forced grin — or, more accurately, a grin that is intended to /look/ forced. "You wound me, My Lord. Do I not I follow /your/ every command?"

"You are Warden of the North, My Lord. May I take the time to remind you that I still have two other sisters who are unattached?" Maera gives Cregan a little quirk of her lips. "Perhaps Lord Bolton is simply nervous." She suggests with the faintest of grins before she leans over to whisper something into her sister's ear. Her grin broadens slightly, and she gives Maege a light little poke in the side with her elbow. She hides her merriment with the rim of her cup, and when it leaves her lips a rather neutral look takes it's place. "I hear we are to venture further North, My Lord." This is undoubtably meant for Cregan.
Maera whispers: You might as well take the man upstairs and get it over with so he can drink without fear of disappointing you.

Carolis flashes Vidomir a warm grin, and he eats. His appetite for drink is more modest, however, at least when he's not in a battle camp. "It's a fairly serious undertaking," he says. "To take a lady from her home and make her your own. Of course she would be lucky to be Lady Stark." To his brother, he says, suddenly solemn, "You're a great deal kinder than you are comely." He raises his goblet to that, a sentiment he will toast.

"I did not know packs of wolves danced," Maege tells Carolis with a grin. "Perhaps that's a trick only shown at weddings." As for Cregan, she can't help but laugh. "But, those people also know the reputation of the Mormonts. I would say it would be a fair fight, do you not, my Lord?" Not one to make Lord Bolton ignore his guests, she only shakes her head. The elbow from Maera has taken her attention and she leans in to hear her words. There's a bit of a laugh and she nods, whispering something back. Then, she turns back to her husband. "No, it is fine. Perhaps we should make our exit before the rest of the hall becomes too rowdy." As she speaks to him, she misses the question Maera poses to Cregan.
You paged Maera with 'You're probably right.'

A rather, well, wolfish grin answers Vidomir's assertion. "I don't recall having to force you, and gods be good I never will." Cregan observes simply of his relationship with the Bolton overlord. It's certainly not a contest he looks forward to— while not the most politically savvy High Lord in the history of Westeros, to put it exceptionally mildly, what the Winter Wolf does have is a keen attention to his advisors. The grin simultaneously widens and softens at Maera's pointed reminder, and he simply nods to her after a moment— amusingly, Carolis' assessment helps formulate his own thoughts. "A serious thing indeed. I haven't seen Tanda for years, and Ulyka is more suited to be promised to Carolis." One good turn deserves another. Ugly, is he? "Fair, in a sense that I suspect I would see scorched earth stretch from side to side." He answers of Maege's assessment, entirely more good naturedly than if such a conflict were imminent.

Carolis eyes Cregan like he's grown another head. "I'm not getting married," he says. "Besides, you'll have to take it up with my stalwart companions. I don't know what's gotten into them, but they're playing matchmaker. I believe their current prospect is a Targaryen, or maybe she's a Tyrell. I'm avoiding the whole thing." He shakes his head. This is craziness, man. He cuts into another slab of meat. The man can put away the chow. "Besides, it would be unseemly to marry before my brother. It would look like I'm rushing to put my own heir forward. People would talk."

Maera almost chokes on her wine at Carolis' comment in regards to Cregan's kindness in comparison to his comeliness. She sits her cup down, "If Lord Stark is kinder than he is comely than he must be the kindest man in the North." She does cast a look Carolis' way before commenting, "Ulyka is only four and ten, and while common propriety says she is ready, I do not think she will be mature enough until she is at least sixteen. Perhaps even a few years more than that. An extended betrothal would certainly give Lord Stark time to find a wife before you were wed, Lord Carolis." She grins at the young lord before leaning back.

"They rarely do," Vidomir puts to his wife, parroting her grin to Carolis, "But it is an awkward sight to behold. You can not decide whether you're supposed to look away, help them, or laugh." To the elder Stark, however, he bows his head only slightly, "Of course not, My Lord. I live to serve, after all." Speaking of serving, though Maege may not catch Maera's question, he surely does, and he coughs lightly, before drinking another mouthful of wine. "Perhaps we should," he finally answers his wife, looking over to her and lowering his voice, "It may save a lot of headaches."

Lady Angharad Tyrell, has been seated at one of the side tables near, but apart from, her Mormont-Bolton cousins — with the Tyrells, her frowning husband among them. When there is a moment between courses to slip away, the approaches the high table, slipping up behind to place a hand on the bride's shoulder. "Maege — you look beautiful. There hasn't been a moment to say so, until now. I had to fight three other ladies on my way up here. I stowed them behind a tapestry."

Carolis's got the Stark eyebrows, and it shows when they furrow with a look of quintessential dubiousness. "Perhaps," he grants Lady Maera. "If she can skewer a man without breaking sweat, she might even pass muster with my keepers. They're mad, rushing me to the Heart Tree while a perfectly fi- good enou- passably serviceable Lord sits right here." He claps his brother on the shoulder. Then the children mob him, and their legions have grown. "Lord Carol, Lord Carol…" The younger of the Brothers Stark takes another swallow from his goblet, and he says wryly, "If you'll pardon me, friends, the maids of Westeros ever pine for me." As he lets them drag him back onto the floor, he gives Angharad a warm smile. Then he's back to dancing with the kids. The youth has infinite patience and humor for the little ones.

"Thank you, Angharad!" Maege turns to her cousin with a happy smile, a mischievous twinkle there for her kinswoman. "I am glad you could make it and for letting us know. I'll be sure to tell the servants to mind the mess." Then, the image of the the wolves dancing pulls a laugh from her. To Carolis, she good-naturedly shakes her head. "Oh, I am sure we could do much better than your stalwart companions. Ulyka is a fine young woman and an even better musician. Especially if you're avoiding the whole thing, it may be much easier to make the match." There is a definite teasing in her voice as she starts to take Maera's side. The Mormont double team. But neither Stark is able to get out of this easily enough. To Cregan, she tells him, "I would be most upset if you attempted to convince my husband to to do anything against his will. I thought that was supposed to be my new task. And, as you can see, he is quite willing to serve." At his nod, she stands. "Speaking of, it may be time for us to be upstairs while we can do so without a ruckus."

It's a rare event, and thankfully difficult to notice over the music and conversation filling the hall— at least for any not in their immediate company— as Cregan all but chokes on his wine for a moment with Maera's words. There's a double-take of those wintery eyes aside to the elder Mormont, a hard swallow, and a second drink, longer than the one that preceded it. Carolis and his elder brother may be, on the surface, as different as night and day— but now and then mannerisms or emotions line up remarkably well, don't they?

"Yes, your job now, indeed." He settles on anwering Maege, instead. "If anyone can keep Lord Vidomir in line, I have the utmost confidence it will be you." Which is spoken with no malice and only slightly more seriousness, as he lifts a glass to the couple anew. With nary a hint of stoking the crowd into demanding a bedding ceremony, at that. A look travels from Angharad to his brother's sudden departure amidst the younglings, and then back to the Tyrell, a smile appearing somewhat suddenly— he's not the greatest actor in the room, but there seems to be little lack of affability to compensate. "Lady Angharad. I couldn't agree more, it was a lovely ceremony and a mighty partnership, as well." It serves to punctuate his toast to the newlyweds belatedly, as well as greet the bride's cousin.

It's rare that the Lord of Winterfell is left wordless. Maera leans back further in her chair to give her liege Lord a victorious look at his reaction. She picks her own cup up to drink from it, but sits it down before it gets to her lips as it appears Maege and Vidomir are making their departure. She reaches over to touch her sister's arm briefly. The words that come out of her mouth are delivered in a deadpan.

"Just close your eyes and think of Bear Island."

Angharad kisses the bride's cheek quickly, not wishing to keep the newlyweds from their departure, and flashes a smile at Vidomir. "Fear her properly, my lord cousin," she tells the Bolton lord with warmth and merriment. They're all one, big, happy family now, yes? She blinks at Cregan, his smile causing hers to dim a fraction, high spirits deferring to a skeptical lift of her brows. It's only a moment, however, before she's dipping a curtsy, smile back in place. "Lord Stark. How nice to see you." She's brought along her wine and is, conveniently, taking a sip when Maera gives her wedding-night advice. There is a subsequent coughing fit when the Tyrell snarfs Arbor red up her nose.

The thing about having a squire is, you learn quickly how to order them around. When that squire's your future liege lord, however? It makes for an interesting dynamic. All the same, somewhere along the lines, Vidomir learned a thing or two about command, and on rare occasions, he brings what he knows to bare. As he stands with Maege, Vidomir looks down on Cregan and gives him an all to familiar look from the days when it would be followed by a command to go fetch this piece of armor, or that weapon, "Try not to overdue it, My Lord. I would hate to be disturbed with the news that Lord Stark has burned down half my hall in a drunken revalry."

Shame it probably won't work on Maera.

As he's addressed by Angharad, he can't help but chuckle and shake his head, "Do not worry, My Lady, I have since the day I met her." And with that, he offers Maege his arm, gives a nod to one of the servants stationed by a curious little door set just behind the high table, and starts leading Maege that way. "A door with a bloody past," he murmurs to his bride as they approach it, "I'm sure you can discern what purpose it might have served. With luck, it'll never be used for that purpose again, however I find it makes a decidely useful way to escape before the steward notices you're breaking your fast."

The smile that remains on Cregan's features is warmer, more natural than the one he summoned when Carolis departed the table, and there seems to be no ill will to speak of— he's not a man who's known for hiding such, after all. It only grows into a hearty chuckle driven from his gut when Angharad makes his own subtler choking look decisively graceful. Gods bless her, for that. "I make no promises." Cregan offers, lifting a hand to clasp Vidomir's arm and giving the Lord Bolton a firm and affirming squeeze, "You know how I get." And he does, even if it's not at all what either Lord's words might suggest. "Enjoy your night. Both of you." He'd tell Vidomir to lay back and think of the Dreadfort, but really… that's like focusing on baseball to kill the mood.

As she has left her wine glass on the table, Maege can only nod to Cregan with a smile. "Thank you, my lord. We are honored." The solemnity is quickly done away with, though, once and there is a delighted laugh at Maera's advice. "Bear Island is never far from my thoughts, sister. Make sure to keep everyone on their best behavior." The look she gives her is certainly not deadpan. She gives a bit of a wink to Angharad. "Enjoy your evening. Good night." As she is led through the door, she looks at it. "I am sure I can, but you are right it is certainly handy for our exit."

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