Medieval AU!
Sara’s mother is thrilled to have finally arranged a marriage contract for her daughter to prestigious House Toynbee, accepted without even having the two intended meet each other. At last, her girl is going to have to behave like a proper young lady, and if not, well, she’s their problem now.
And then comes the wedding day, when the two heirs finally meet…
[AN: If you start humming the GoT theme during this, I’ll know exactly why :) ]
He was getting married tomorrow, and he had yet to meet his bride. Mortimer of House Toynbee (emblem, a mother toad with her young in her back; motto, Loyalty to brothers, poison to others) would rather much do things the way the common folk arranged it. But high blood meant high expectations, and love was something not often in the equation.
House Toynbee was army-rich, but armies needed feeding. They had managed the stopgap of hiring their armies off as mercenaries for the highest bidder, but that was starting to go bad. And in the case of marry wealth or go to war, Toynbee preferred to keep whatever passed for a shaky peace with their immediate neighbours and long-time intermittent skirmish partners, House Maximov (emblem, a purple helm; motto, We hold fast).
His elder brother Lance had wed their elder daughter Wanda on the theory that a marriage would cement an alliance. Last Mort had heard, things were just as frosty between the bride and groom as they were between the houses.
Before last year, the Toynbees hadn’t even heard of House Adrien (emblem, an open book; motto, Wit and wisdom), but thanks to a zealous messenger, a very flattering painting and a scrip containing all the information one could want to know about the Adriens… Mort found himself suddenly betrothed to a minor house with a talent for generating wealth.
Their sole daughter was bringing with her, amongst other things, a small fortune of a dowry and another small fortune of something called ‘seed money’ for her to invest.
Women handling money. It didn’t seem right.
Someone was arguing, down the long hall. Mort crept up by hiding in successive arrases so he could listen in.
“…too late to back out of it now,” screeched the harridan that was his future mother-in-law. “You’re up to your armpits in debt and that girl is your only salvation.”
“You sold me a coquette, and you’ve delivered a giraffe,” boomed his father, Frederic. “It will look ridiculous.”
“More ridiculous than Tyrion Lannister and his wife?”
“Tyrion Lannister is ridiculous on his own. He’s used to it. We have our dignity.”
“Dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack,” said the harridan.
The next arras was occupied by a tall, thin creature and a lot of moisture. They were crying. Soft, silent and above all thick tears that evidently could not be stopped.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
“…was going t’ get away,” the tall one whimpered. “It was a long enough journey just to get here, but it’s going to be four times as long going back, with her in my ear the whole way.”
His hand found hers. “No you won’t. I won’t let them send you back.” For a highborn, she had some interestingly calloused hands. He could make out an interesting weave to her hair, and dark, dark eyes set in a pale, long face. “Good day, m'lady. I am Mortimer Toynbee of house Toynbee, and I’m… your regrettable fiancee.”
“Sara Adrien of House Adrien,” she sighed. “Also regrettable.”
The tapestry thrust aside just as he was kissing her hand. The harridan, bedecked in rosy pink, held the cloth aside in one set of claws and pointed at the two of them with the other.
“Well. They have to get married now,” she shrieked in triumph.
Sara was very tall. Tall enough to be a man, but not as muscular. She wore a rather plain dress in a mottled red, reminiscent of autumn leaves. The complicated weave was the lacing of the dress. Her actual hair was caught up in a snood beneath her veil.
“You work pretty fast, boy,” said his father. “Two minutes behind a tapestry and you have to get married.”
“She was crying,” said Mort stupidly. “You never leave a girl to cry alone.”
Lady Adrien thrust the two of them out into the open. “Where is that dratted chaperone? Ruise! Roooo-eeeeeeeeeeeeeese!”
The coquette appeared. This had been the girl who sat in place of Sara while Sara was doing other things. Mort was secretly glad he wasn’t marrying her. He’d dreaded a wedded life of eternal boredom with someone who merely looked a pretty little thing.
Ruise saw Sara and gasped. “M'lady, I swear I only looked away for a minute–”
“It’s all right, dear,” Sara began.
“YOU! Not another word!”
Sara flinched and winced as the harridan set to verbally abusing the coquette, who weathered it all in stony silence. Father boggled while Mort held resolutely to his fiancee’s calloused hand.
Father shooed them out to the balcony and the sunshine.
“It’s all my fault,” Sara managed. “If only–”
He kissed her hand again, because it was closer, and said, “I would lay the blame more on your mother at this point. I will not be cruel and promise love where it doesn’t yet blossom, but I can promise you an escape from her.”
Her fingers twitched as if plucking at something. At least, the freed ones did. “If I can look at your financial documents, I can begin sorting out what’s going amiss with your family funds. I can promise stability. At least, monetary stability.”
He caressed her calluses. “You work.”
“I like to be useful. And when things are stressful… I play the harp. I’ve been playing it a lot, lately.”
Yes. She was seventeen. Old, for a virgin bride. Her mother’s anxiety for a good match must have been… incredibly stressful.
“Do you play well?”
“Some… tell me so,” Sara allowed.
It took ten minutes to interrupt Lady Jaquelline Adrien’s harangue and a further five to gain permission to listen to Lady Sara play.
But once she did… it was more than worth the wait.
“Father,” he whispered during a small break. “How much bother would it be to move the wedding up to tonight?”
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