The festivities of the wedding night echoed through the chambers of Alnwick. Ser Edmund moved with calculated grace, all the while knowing the fate he had conspired for Ser Clangor. Torchlight flickered across his angular features as he approached the table where the soon-to-be-bedded groom sat with easy arrogance, surrounded by fawning courtiers. "Ser Clangor," Ser Edmund's voice was low. "This night, the rights of the first bedding fall to me, as Warden. I shall lie with the bride."

Ser Clangor's response came as a boisterous chuckle, painting lighthearted indifference onto a grave matter. "Aye, take the maiden for all she's worth," he sneered, a lecherous grin upon his face. "I care not to bed her first—I prefer a wench who knows her way around a cock,"

The Warden of the Marches nodded as he watched Ser Clangor stagger towards another cup of wine. He turned his mind briefly on the assassin's work, who, even now, waited in the alleys for the signal to fulfill his silent contract. By morning, Ser Clangor would be but a tragic memory, leaving him a void to be filled.

The chamber was cast in soft candlelight, the air scented with the faint hint of herbs. And there, waiting in the satin grandeur of the wedding bed, was she, the bride, adorned in white and a picture of purity, starkly contrasting to the dark figure that entered. Ser Edmund's throat tightened ever so slightly at the sight as he closed the door behind him.

Standing tall, his presence filled the chamber. Those impenetrable dark blue eyes fixed upon her.

"The night was to bring thee into the arms of another," he intoned, his voice gruff. “I fear Ser Clangor shan't be joining thee, for I have claimed the rights due to me." His chest swelled as he readied himself for the deed. "I shall be the first, the only," he pronounced, moving closer to her, his stature alone commanding. This was more than just a claim; he would seed her womb before the breaking of dawn, and her teats would be filled by the end of Lent. "Come, present thyself to me.”