notes: WARNING: This is unreliable narration. Severely unreliable, perhaps. The POV character sees only what he wants to see. Many things aren't the way he tells them.

One of the things I so love doing when I write ASOIAF is creating conflictive narratives. The next chapter will be more objective about the wedding.

The Spare of the Spare (Marq II)

Smiles, as Marq Whent had come to understand, were of different kinds. A loving mother's, a proud father's, an approving mentor's, a gracious sibling's, a thankful subject's - they were the ones that came encased in warmth and were delivered with pleasure. A new lover's, a brother-in-arms', a trusting liege's - these were tentative, with the potential of growing into something cherished. There were smiles of mischief, that his elder brothers had cast at him more often than not. Smiles of innocence. Smiles of appeasement; of pure, unhindered bliss.

And then there was the king's crooked, considering upturn of lips that brought a shiver down Marq's spine. Dear gods, what cruel jape was at play when this man was sent down to the realms of men?

Ser Jaime was the most taken aback of any in the group. "Your Grace…" he began, unsure.

"Yes," Aerys said, snapping back from whatever insanity had been flowing through his mind. "Oh, don't be so stunned, boy. Marriage, you say. A lady. I had been young as you once, you know. Not to say I am not young anymore, for I am so! I have long to live yet, as certain people ought to remember."

Thus the king began again, the momentary lurch of foreboding forgotten within his insinuations and snideness. Each remark he made was thrown towards his imaginary rivals, or to where Prince Rhaegar rode, looking unaffected and unbroken despite the blame game that was being played. Ser Jaime cautiously mentioned the wedding that awaited at the castle only for King Aerys to laugh, "Oh, it is not me you must worry about, boy. It is another, who may find gossiping around with his upstart friends more appealing than watching the Hand's son speaking his wedding vows."

Marq was reproachful of the mad glint that had formed in the king's dull violet eyes. Another time, the man grumbled the goodness of his intentions to all who wished to listen. "I only meant to teach a lesson! None must be so bold so as to face the dragon's wrath without fear. Yet they decide that I am wrong. Me! Now, boy, you must be a better heir to Tywin than that, mustn't you?"

"Of course, Your Grace," Ser Jaime said, betraying only veiled discomfort atop his palfrey. Prince Rhaegar intervened then, suggesting that perhaps his kingly father ought to conserve his energy for the true arrival at Harrenhal.

"The lords and ladies might wonder where their king's words disappeared to, Father," the silver prince said with a soft smile, which Marq was sure must have brought many a maiden to her knees. Might be that it shall do the same for Lysa, he thought unreasonably. She succumbed to Lannister, after all.

"Just as they might wonder where their prince's place did," King Aerys returned with a frown. His pet eunuch, mildly unhappy outside of the wheelhouse, tittered enigmatically.

There was, however, a decline in complaints after that. It seemed that despite the visible discord between the heir to the throne and his father, there was to some extent an understanding there. Boundaries. Marq hoped they would help temper the fickleness of these royals in the days to come.

When Harrenhal did approach in the horizon, the noblemen that had never seen it in true found their voices stuck in their throats. The towers rose into the skies, the bat sigils above floating so high that everyone had to crane their neck to fully admire the sight before them. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, who looked to be another of the king's pets, stuttered in his speech before crooning about Balerion's might. Lord Celtigar praised the dragons of Aegon the Conqueror as well, enraptured by the burnt mess that was the seat of Marq's lady mother. Prince Rhaegar did not especially make the effort of commenting on the castle while the Targaryen madness that had manifested in the king made itself known prominently in the second coming of his frightening upturn of lips. It made the Whent wonder, somewhat worriedly, just what went through the man's mind at times like these.

In the hours that he had been away from his home, the courtyard had been transformed into an even livelier version of what it had become in the days since they had begun receiving guests for the tourney. A plethora of banners hung high behind the nobles that had gathered to greet the arriving company. At the fore stood the Lady of Harrenhal herself, Shella Whent, beaming radiantly beside her cousin and husband, the Lord Protector.

Marq had always known that theirs was a marriage of convenience; tying the bloodclaim of a cadet branch of the house to that of the main line. Their mother had once told his sister Anisa of how she had not particularly got along well with their father as a youth. In the years after their betrothal had been arranged, though, and Uncle Oswell had taken the white, the relationship had come to one of mutual understanding. As Marq's eyes flew to Lysa's figure bringing up one end of a row with Janna Tyrell and a few Vale maidens, he felt a pang in his chest. When your infatuation fades and you feel only disappointment for this boy you wish to marry, how will you face it? Will you accept your mistakes and move forward, reconciled with your past, understanding of your husband? Or will you see your future differently?

What will be my part in it?

He would miss her. He knew that now, faced with inevitability. Marq doubted his cousin could change her mind, though; not now that everything was near ready and the wedding a certainty. Harrenhal was abuzz with an air of festivity and celebration, and in the middle of it, Marq felt out of place. Unneeded. Perhaps even lost.

"Chambers have been prepared especially in your honour, my princess. If you wish so, my son Marq can show you to them."

Duty, however, called for him, and he followed through with it.

Elia Martell was an olive-skinned beauty, graceful and delicate in her expressions. Her lush Martell hair gleamed as her dark eyes sparkled, amused. She seemed more curious than anything else about being a guest at a castle with such a dark history. The princess did not let her pregnant belly hide her; as a matter of fact, she shined through despite it. Her impeccable courtesies only served to alleviate her further in Marq's eyes. Many might have dismissed the Dornishwoman as insignificant, but he knew, without doubt, after observing her for a good few minutes, that she was one woman who embodied what a Queen ought to be.

As he escorted Princess Elia's entourage to their rooms in the Kingspyre, he connected names to the faces of her ladies-in-waiting. The eldest among them was the most beautiful by far, her haunting eyes a shade deeper than traditional Targaryen violet and her hair an ebony sheath she had arranged into an elaborate style. In spite of himself, Marq could not help looking at her a moment longer than was appropriate. Her pale, almost northern cheeks... Her full lips...

"Captivated, are you, Ser Marq?" Lady Ashara Dayne laughed, noticing his straying eye. There was an intriguing look on her face, something akin to delectation. He flushed, caught in the act.

By the Seven, Marq, get a grip on yourself. Now that it had come up, he could not let go of the memory of the last time an unacquainted lady had been so forward with him. Mary Mertyns had asked him to a dance so many years ago on the grounds of Storm's End, and he had acquiesced then, giving in to her irreverent person and ever-inquiring nature on the first night of the tourney. For days he had been embroiled in paradise.. and then Robert Baratheon had appeared.

"- Men who so rely upon a woman's company," the then Stormlands heir had japed, a brief glance to Marq. They had been younger then; barely three and ten or perhaps a nameday more.

"I am my lord father's heir," Mary had whispered the day before Baratheon had made his opinions known. "Your mother would approve of the match, surely."

He had looked to the two of them and chosen to walk away to his knight-master instead. I will never rely upon a woman's company, he had decided then. Not if it means that I will earn only scorn for it. His stand had only strengthened the concluding feast of the tourney. Marq's friendship with Lady Mary that had encompassed two weeks at the time had turned to ashes in his mouth on seeing her arm in arm with Baratheon.

He had undoubtedly been a different man then. Turning back time, an entirely new set of circumstances might have been created. Wasted opportunities. Irrevocable actions. But he had chosen to forget, looking only to libraries and knowledge hence. Until Riverrun...

Realising that Lady Ashara was yet laughing, the Whent brought himself out of his stupor. "I - I apologise, my lady," he said, flustered. The comely Dornishwoman let out another musical laugh at his expense,

"Leave the poor knight be, Ashara," Princess Elia scolded, though not without her own smile. Two other ladies, crownlanders by their insignia, let out short sniggers.

The future queen turned to Marq. "I do so apologise on the lady's behalf, good ser. I am afraid she has a fondness for teasing men."

"And here I was thinking my antics delighted you, princess," Ashara Dayne giggled in response as Marq shook his head.

The familiarity between the princess and her lady-in-waiting was strange, but he ignored it in favour of the other strange occurrence: that of the last of the women glaring daggers everywhere around.

She was barely a woman, truthfully; about Lysa's age at least. Yet her radiance, too, shined through in her hair, glittering like spun gold, and her flawless, doll-like skin. The emerald green confirmed what Marq suspected: this was none other than the sister Ser Jaime had mentioned before.

Ceranne… Cerenna… no, Cersei. That was her name. She did indeed resemble her twin brother in appearance; overwhelmingly so. Marq did not have a hard time imagining what a frustrated, hateful Jaime Lannister could look like, and in her state of anger, Cersei Lannister mirrored that image very much indeed.

It was not particularly hard to deduce just what had stirred the girl's nerves so. Yet another person unhappy about what the day entails. Marq did not even blame her. To have something so big about a loved person sprung up so suddenly…

He sighed. It does not do to dwell on such thoughts, Marq, he repeated to himself. Lysa has chosen. All you can do now is support her in that choice.

Sunlight melted into evening soon enough, all gathered at the castle and invited for the event slipping into some of their best clothes. The hastily refurbished sept in the Tower of Ghosts displayed a cascade of colours and a myriad of voices. Harrenhal had been many things over the centuries, but Marq found it hard to remember an event when it had been this vibrant; this celebratory. His parents' wedding had been a dull affair, as was often told in the keeps, while his aunt had wed Lord Tully at Riverrun itself. The early Whents and the Lothstons before had considered Harren the Black's last mark on the world as an inauspicious place. Marq was not one to trust in superstition so easily, but many other nobles did trust in it and did so fervently, as he learnt.

Ser Karyl Vance of Wayfarer's Rest and his good-father, Lord Goodbrook, both grumbled about how disliked by the gods weddings were that had clearly been organised bare days before. Two Waynwood ladies from a cadet branch considered loudly in the garden about not attending altogether, eventually won over by a collaboration of their elder sister and Marq's own sister Anisa. Lord Celtigar of Claw Isle, a member of the king's retinue, voiced his opinions about the Harrenhal sept. But they were not the only ones wondering about the sudden nature of the event.

"Fools, the whole lot of them," said the dowager Lady Tyrell when she was being escorted to the ceremony, uncaring of eavesdroppers. Her son, daughters and good-son, Lord Redwyne, all accompanied her, and Marq even received a half-apologetic smile from Lady Janna when she realised that he had heard the old woman. "Not that I could have expected better from that oaf Blackfish. Not after he spurned my sister so!"

He did not doubt the words 'Kingsguard', 'Hand of the King', 'Jaime Lannister', 'the Tully girl' and 'Casterly Rock' would be often heard in gossip circles in the coming days. Lord Tully would most certainly find himself astounded - he had been a man to speculate about Marq's own feelings for Lysa months prior. I wonder what he will think of this development. There would not have been hesitation on his part in saying that Hoster Tully would have been the biggest supporter of the wedding had he been at Harrenhal.

In the Lord Paramount's absence, though, the duties of the father of the bride had been undertaken by Ser Brynden. While Marq's mother and father busied themselves in smothering his recently arrived brother Arlan, normally a squire in the capital, Marq himself assisted his former knight-master in his duties. Gerion Lannister, never serious and ever joking, proved to be useful in organising the train-carriers from among Westerlands youth. Immediately after, of course, the man decided that he was more interested in talking to a giggly Dornishwoman than doing anything productive.

When the time crept closer to what had been arranged and the guests seemed more or less gathered, Ser Gerion was nowhere to be seen. Neither was, surprisingly or unsurprisingly, Ser Jaime himself.

"By the Seven, where is he?" cursed Ser Brynden. Lysa was being helped into jewellery by Anisa, just about ready to face the septon.

Marq sighed. "I'll fetch him, Ser," he assured the Tully knight, and with that, set off to the locate the wayward bridegroom.

A chamber in the higher floors of the Tower of Ghosts had been given to the Lannister for the eve, and Marq frustrated himself climbing to it from the sept, which was at the very bottom. The stone walls, lined with the occasional tapestry or banner, seemed to mesh together. Only moments left now…

How could I let her to do this? For so long he had kept those thoughts away, and now he knew it had been wise. Marq's head felt as though it were on fire. His rationality was gone. Why could I not just tell her, be plain about it?

He could hear a raven croak in his mind. 'Craven!' came its voice, and Marq remembered only the moments he had spent alone with his beautiful cousin, listening to her view of the world and telling her his own. That was the thing about her: she was never reluctant about new things; about knowledge and learning. Ever since that first time in the library, he had cherished conversations with her. She had her shortcomings; her flaws and her weaknesses, but who did not? For Marq, it did not matter. Lysa Tully was unlike any lady he had met; a breath of fresh air in his life of a mediocre third son.

In the end, however, that is all I am. A third son. Not a lord and not an heir; not even a knight who can hope for a better tomorrow. I'm just a spare of the spare… and if Jaime Lannister makes her happy, even if only for now, then it is my duty to respect that. She does not answer to me…

A loud sound interrupted his thoughts in the corridor outside the room allotted to Ser Jaime, The shatter broke through the silence that had been reigning in the top flights of the Tower of Ghosts, resonating within the ashen walls. Marq knew his lady mother was sure to be angry over how someone had dropped glassware on the floor inside. But who? My soon to be good-cousin?

The door was closed, but upon edging cautiously closer, he heard an agitated voice escape from the chamber. Perhaps Ser Gerion did indeed come here. Marq frowned.

There were more murmurings inside. With another cautious step, he went close enough to the door to make out the words that were being spoken.

"- is and always has been permitting of the match, Cersei." That was Jaime Lannister, but he sounded more… strained. More restrictive. Apprehensive.

The other person in his company, his sister Cersei, seemed to stomp her foot against the floor. "No, what did she do that you were so bewitched?" she demanded. "That fish-whore, in those rags of hers, what did she do?"

There was a pause on Ser Jaime's part. "It's not like that, Sister -"

"Of course it is! What else could it be?" Cersei Lannister was not one to be patient. "What did she do, Jaime? Tell me. Don't be like Father! Don't hide things from me, Jaime, please just -"

I shouldn't be doing this, Marq thought. I shouldn't listen. Their quarrel is their own. I shouldn't…

But they were talking about Lysa. How could he not?

"Cersei, I…" Ser Jaime trailed off in response. Another pause. "Lysa isn't the bad sort. And Tyrion…" His tone was almost pleading.

"The imp?" questioned Lady Cersei, with even more contempt than before. "So it's him, isn't it? That wretched, ungrateful dwarf - what does he have anything do with anything?"

The heir to Casterly Rock hesitated. "Cersei, you have to understand."

There was another loud crash inside, jerking Marq from his position beside the door. This time, it seemed, one of the Lannister twins had dropped a goblet or something of the sort.

"Understand? Understand, Jaime?" The noise of flesh slapping against flesh. "How could you? No, how dare you? You promised me, remember? In King's Landing, after your Ser Arthur knighted you."

Lady Cersei suddenly spoke in a deeper voice, seemingly attempting to imitate her brother. "'I swear it, sweet sister, I'll be your lionknight.' What happened to that, Jaime? Or have you forgotten that, too, like you've forgotten seven entire years?"

A thought took Marq by surprise, and he couldn't help but shiver at it. Lady Cersei had reacted to her brother's impending marriage as he might have to Lysa's had he been more the more vocal sort. He had kept everything so repressed, so contained… but Lady Cersei's speech reminded him far too much of what he had thought at first.

"I will never marry someone my father wants me too," Lysa had scoffed, so many moons ago in Riverrun, as he had tried to tell her what a woman's duty ought to be. 'Jaime Lannister is a bit of a sycophant', she had written once from Casterly Rock. What changed since then? What happened to your words, to the hours we spent together?

Once more, Marq bit back his words. It is her choice and hers alone. My duty is to respect it.

Yet Lady Cersei being so reminiscent of his own mind confused him. He did not understand it, and things he did not understand were things he did not like. The Targaryens marry brother to sister, and have done so for the longest time. Is it possible that Lady Cersei…

No, Marq thought firmly. It was a bizarre consideration. A Lannister loving her own brother in the manner of the dragonlords of old was an unthinkable feat. It had to be Lady Cersei feeling betrayed by the spur-of-the-moment plan. Just as I was.

"I'm sorry. I can't…" Jaime Lannister muttered; quieter, fainter.

Lady Cersei's voice shockingly softened. "You can, Jaime. You can say no. His Grace will surely accept you to his Kingsguard, even now. You can change things."

Marq could have shouted on the spot had he not kept his cool. No, you idiot! Lysa wants to marry you! She wants to save you from the Kingsguard, not condemn you to it! You cannot change things now! You cannot say no!

The door handle tempted him. I could barge in now, drag him out…

"Jaime?" Lady Cersei asked again.

But the Lannister knight did not respond. There was an agonising burst that was heard courtesy of his sister, followed by the sound of another goblet slamming down. Flesh slapping against flesh; feet stomping the floor. In that moment, Marq Whent almost desired to join Cersei Lannister in venting out everything he felt inside.

"Fine!" she screeched. "Have it your way then. Go fuck that fish-whore for all I care. Perhaps that disgusting, ugly brother of yours can join in. That's what you want, isn't it?"

He quickly hid himself behind a pillar on the other side of the staircase as Ser Jaime's sister walked away, uncaring of the noise the door made as it banged against the doorframe. With a blur of glistening blonde hair and a bubble of rage around her, she disappeared into the darkness, leaving Marq alone in the corridor.

She had called his cousin a whore… I shouldn't have listened in. He felt uncomfortable, as though he had committed a sin. But that was nothing compared to what Marq felt when he walked inside Ser Jaime's room to see the knight clutching his head, blind to the world around him.

He cleared his throat. Perhaps this is the devastation the dragons will be leaving behind this time. A half-hearted wedding, inauspicious from its conception, he decided darkly. I am sorry, Lysa. I am sorry.

"I can't…" the knight was still murmuring.

"Ser Jaime?" Marq asked, his discomfort clear.

The bridegroom, dressed in Lannister finery, did not look up. A trance had taken him, capturing him in it. "I can't," he muttered.

"Ser Jaime?"

At this second call, at least, the addressed listened. "I… Ser Marq?" he questioned, puzzled.

"It is time, Ser Jaime," Marq responded simply, choosing to ignore the disheveled appearance of the knight before him.

"Time for…?"

Seven hells, Ser Jaime, could you not even pretend to be eager for the wedding? Marq shook his head in disbelief, wondering what the world had come to. Why would you wish to become this boy's lady, Lysa?

"The wedding," he answered.

"Right." Jaime Lannister blinked. He doesn't want to do it. "Of course…"

Accompanying the groom to the sept proved to be silent but tedious. Marq found it hard to think in those moments, hollow and numb as he felt. She chose him, he repeated to himself. She chose him.

But what did Lysa know? She's just a girl. A girl who has seen four and ten namedays, but a girl still, whose duty was to marry a respectable lord or heir and bear him children - a duty she had already taken steps towards.

It was difficult to fault someone only doing their duty, but the thought nagged him nonetheless.

The sept itself, when they finally reached, was packed with impatient noblemen and women. Lady Tyrell was fanning herself in the heat. The Starks seemed most uninterested in the proceedings. Robert Baratheon and his group of friends japed around amicably. Lord Arryn, Lord Royce and other more serious men waited in peace, conversing so softly that their voices were irrelevant when taken with the others in the seven-sided sept. The royal family, it seemed, had only recently arrived, and Princess Elia was steadying herself in her position in the front row beside her princely husband. The White Swords of the Kingsguard stood tall and attentive in their shadows, but the strange part was King Aerys not being present.

Marq's heartbeat escalated with dread as he quietly walked to a place beside three of his siblings and both his parents. Ser Jaime driftingly took his place at the septon's side, flanked by Arlan, Marq's younger brother, who proudly held the Lannister cloak on an argent pillow. Another glance further down the row revealed that Lady Cersei, just as Marq had seen her moments before, was being urgently whispered to by her uncle Ser Gerion, who bore an expression of pure boredom on his face. The Lannister twin went to retort, likely with anger, but whatever she was about speak, she did not find the opportunity to - for it was at that very second that the doors of the sept opened, and in walked the bride, led to her future by Aerys II Targaryen himself.

Where is Ser Brynden? Marq frowned, a million thoughts rushing through. It was supposed to her uncle leading Lysa in, not the king. But that is a thought for later, with a proper explanation no doubt. As of this moment…

She was beautiful. He could never deny that, not even if she were put next to Ashara Dayne or Cersei Lannister or even Elia Martell. Now, in a Tully blue gown and jewels befitting her station, Marq admired her even more. The silver maiden cloak sagged her shoulders, and even awkwardly balancing herself on the king's arms, looking slightly uncomfortable in the attire, she was the most wonderful bride he was sure he would ever see.

King Aerys escorted Lysa to the altar, and as did the two young Westerlands girls chosen to carry the train of her gown. As soon as they had taken their places, Lord Commander Hightower of the Kingsguard following the king, the ceremony began.

Ser Jaime and Lysa first took the seven vows, looking upon each other, her a tad more eager than him. Then came the seven blessings, the seven promises and eventually a wedding song was played; one of the better music troupes that had arrived at Harrenhal engaging the gathered crowd into a rendition of Jenny's Oldstones Heart.

Soon enough it was time. The demure septon raised his voice and asked, "In the light of the Seven, I call upon any who protest the union and challenge it in the face of gods and men. Speak now, or forever hold your peace."

Speak now, or forever hold your peace.

Deafening silence. Marq dared to sneak a glance at the king, who did not look to bear any animosity from the distance. Perhaps this wedding was for nothing, after all. A farce; a mummer's farce.

He did not move. He did not speak. The septon continued, turning to Ser Jaime. "You may now bring the bride under your protection," he said.

Perhaps it was what Marq's eyes had wished to see, but in the moments of exchanging the Tully cloak for a Lannister one, there was only hesitation and reluctance in the groom's movements. Arlan helped him, but even then Ser Jaime fumbled, avoiding everyone's eyes.

He would have rather become a Kingsguard, Lysa, Marq desired to scream as he watched his cousin beam at her almost-husband. But it was too late already.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady wife," vowed the heir to Casterly Rock.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord husband," said Lysa simultaneously.

Marq froze. The two of them kissed, chastely and appropriately, yet it was a kiss too much. Their hands were placed together and the cloth dipped in the seven holy oils wrapped around them. Man and woman, husband and wife; one for all of eternity.

The septon looked to the gods above. "Here in the sight of gods and men," he declared, following through with a meaningful gaze at the two before him, "I do solemnly proclaim Jaime of House Lannister and Lysa of House Tully to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

And cursed be he indeed.

notes: Next: The Royal Spectator [Elia]

With regards to Jaime in this chapter, his decisions really hit him hard, and by the end of it, he follows through with the ceremony despite being at best lukewarm about it. Cersei, obviously, isn't about to let it go so soon. Neither is he. Eventually, the cracks and prematurity of the marriage between Lysa and Jaime will start showing, and it's going to hurt.

Marq is a repressed narrator, making everything sound much worse than it actually is. Lysa, for example, has an entire side he has chosen to ignore (while also unconsciously acknowledging its existence). He's put her on a pedestal - think Littlefinger and Cat, but a much milder version.

He's older than Lysa. But he's not that much smarter when it comes to the ways of love.

So young love in that sense is a supreme theme in this chapter. Marq pines after Lysa, Lysa pines after Jaime, while Jaime and Cersei have their thing going.

And yes, Aerys doing the father's duties is absolutely an allusion to dear Joff :D

Hope you liked the chapter. Cheers!