Note: PLEASE READ
Hello again. I've been holding onto this last installment for a while because I was unsure about it, but a review I read by an anonymous writer got me motivated to put it up. To all of you, let me explain that this last installment chronicles two weeks from Robb's point of view: the week he spent deciding on a bride at the Twins and a week in the present time. I'll be posting two at a time (hopefully) as quickly as I posted Absolutes and Definitives.
And to that one individual who posted that beautiful review: thank you, anonymous reader. I'm glad that this tale has helped you feel better whenever you were feeling down and I'm very lucky to have you as a reader. If anyone out there doubts the power of words, know that this anonymous reader's lone review changed my mind about sitting on this story.
The Twins, Past. Day One.
I feel my impending doom long before I even see the Twins. They stand tall and proud, still and strong, but I can't help but feel like they're taunting me.
"Ha ha!" They seem to sing. "You've lost the girl and now you get a goblin!"
"They're a pleasant bunch of girls," Mother insists. "A very pleasant bunch. Quite a few terribly pretty ones."
I'm still inclined to believe they're goblins. My head hurts too much to care. I'm not even sure how I'm sitting upright on Shadow right now. He trots slowly, as if sensing my apprehension.
Mother talks on and on about how she knew Walder Frey since she was a little girl, but she always seems to glaze over certain subjects about him. I understand why the instant the doors are open and I catch sight of a few little girls of his own running out of sight. And by little, I mean like barely out of the toddler stage in their lives. Not granddaughters. Daughters. His daughters.
So he's that sort, then isn't he? Well, at least I'll have a wide range to choose from.
"Twenty one," Mother says quietly, tilting her chin discreetly to the girls seated at a long table below. "Those are the eligibles."
My eyes hurt and I don't want to look at them. Mother reaches under the table and squeezes my leg.
"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head to snap out of it.
"I know it's difficult," she says quietly as Walder bursts into a fit of laughter beside her at something I can't be bothered to comprehend. "But you are doing what's best for the North. And the North needs one of these girls to come back to Winterfell with us."
Hearing her say it doesn't make it easier. In truth, it just makes me angry. Why should one of these shallow clams get to come with me and walk the halls of my home? Why should one of these little feather-brained chits become the mistress of Winterfell? Which one of them is even worthy of laying eyes on the castle or sleeping in my bedchamber or saying my name or—
Be fair, Robb. Be fair. Don't be bitter. It's not their fault. They didn't ask you to make this deal. And they didn't ask you to want to break it so badly. And they didn't ask you to hurt from being here. You did that all by yourself. So suck it up and take a look at that table.
There's one with hair that's dark and straight, like hers. There's one with eyes that are big and brown, like hers. There's one that laughs a little like she did.
"That one seems nice," I say, gesturing distantly to a blonde with a similar smile.
"She does," Mother says. "She does. We'll get her name when they come to greet you."
No, no, no, I don't want to know her name. I want the name of the one next to her because she has the same exact hands that she did.
"No, the brunette," I say quickly.
Mother smiles at me. "She's a lovely one, isn't she?"
Now the thing you must know about the twenty one eligibles is that none of them are ugly. Not one. There are more than a few Plain Jeynes, yes, but none of them could ever be called ugly because when you find something pretty on one, it's a sensational type of pretty. There's a girl towards the far back of the table whose face is utterly forgettable, but she has the most devastatingly gorgeous hands I've ever seen on anyone—including her. There's another one who's slightly less forgettable than the one before her, and she has the silkiest looking mane of blonde. It catches the dim light of the candles and shines like sunlight. One of them has a lush pair of lips I didn't even think could exist even though the rest of her is totally normal. See what I mean?
Mother's eyes dart discreetly from girl to girl until she's covered the whole table, and then they stop to rest in one particular area and they don't move for a long while. I can see it. She's found the Big Ten. The top contenders. The girls I'd be a fool not to consider. Which automatically means that I shouldn't even consider the other eleven. Well, that simplifies things for me. Thanks, Ma.
The twenty one eligibles come to greet us in pairs. I barely catch names, only curtsies and distant smiles. Mother does most of the talking, which is good because I'm more distracted by the wine.
"I've narrowed it down to ten," Mother tells me as soon as the last of them has taken her seat back at their table. "Ten worthy of consideration, but bear in mind that you have to dance with all twenty one of them at the ball."
"What ball?"
"You remember?" she nudged me, rolling her eyes. "Lord Walder is throwing a ball to celebrate your successful campaign."
Oh, yeah. Why did I not remember that? Oh…that's right. I was completely drunk by then. She had just left the encampment for Ironrath.
Heartache is like a stomachache. But not the sort of stomachache like you're full of food or you drank too much. It's a stomachache like you're hungry. Starving. Famished. Ravenous. Like you haven't eaten in days. It's a hungry stomachache in your chest. My heart feels hungry. It's a stupid way of putting it, but there it is. And to be perfectly honest with myself, I'm afraid. Because she's gone and now there's a Talisa sized hole here where she used to be and I'm afraid that the Big Ten won't be able to fill it back up. And now it's here again—that longing. Not for her, but for those days when she wasn't there, before I met her, before her smiles and her stares and her thoughtful looks when I would have been able to come in here and pick one of the Big Ten easily. I miss when it didn't hurt. And missing a time when it didn't hurt is what ends up hurting the most. And I'm terrified that I'll never stop missing that time, that there might never come a day when I wake up and she's not the first thing I think about, when I'll smile and really mean it.
"Eyes forward, Robb," Mother had said that night. "Eyes forward."
"What sort of heart doesn't look back?"
"The sort that knows that what we build for the future can outlast the fancies and trifles of the past."
"She's not a fancy," I said. "She's not a trifle."
"Yes, she's not many things," Mother said. "She's not a fancy and she's not a trifle. But she's also not what you promised Walder Frey. If you were someone else, then you could choose, but you are the King in the North. And it's not just your future that hinges on this agreement. It's your kingdom's future. It's your family's future. Sansa is trapped in King's Landing at the mercy of that poisonous inbred little monster, Gods only know if we'll ever see Arya again, and Bran and Rickon—my poor little boys…"
There wasn't much choice, in the end. Talisa or the North—and my family along with it.
The Big Ten and Why I Shouldn't Marry Any of Them
Reina Frey: The most obvious choice if beauty were my primary concern, this girl is upbeat, kind, and endlessly charming as I noticed myself when a lull in conversation at our table caused me to overhear several minutes worth of revealing discourse between her and her fellow ranking sisters.
"That spotted muslin makes you look like a pudding," she says to a girl I can't see. "You should have worn the red."
"And you?"
"Well, you know me. I'd charm the breeches off that gorgeous ginger if I wore nothing at all."
Aradel Frey: Another obvious choice as far as looks go. Bonus points for being tied to House Mormont. Deducted points for having an incurable sneer that Talisa would never be caught with.
Rhea Frey:
"He's a pretty lad, isn't he? I'd have the whole damn castle watch me ride him until he breaks in half."
No, thank you.
Bria Frey: Apparently the only daughter among nine children from one mother, daughter of Walder Frey's longest lasting bride. Nice smile, terrible posture. Talisa had perfect posture.
Roslin Frey: Pretty in a sweet, quiet way, this is a girl who looks like she spends most of her time stitching in the darkest corner of the keep. I'm not interested in marrying a girl who looks afraid of her own shadow.
Israel Frey: Pretty—although unconventionally so. Otherwise sort of forgettable.
Lucyan Frey: Has a very normal pretty face, excellent mouth, and the most confident glint in her eyes that says 'I will suck your cock, your money from your coffers and your soul from your body.'
Jaclyn Frey:
"You know that the bloody merchant has started charging a transport tax through Pentos now? I had to pay double for the tiles on the mosaic tub!" says one who's name I've already forgotten.
"A mosaic?" responds Jaclyn. "What is that? Is that good?"
No.
Walda Frey:
"The King is so handsome! Oh, his hair's like a cherry pie, I could stroke it for hours. Cherry pie…where's the pie? I'm hungry."
Marlow Frey:
"I'll tell you what part of him I'd stroke—it wouldn't be his hair."
For the good of the North. For the good of the North. For the good of the North. For the good of the North.
Show me the Mother's mercy and kill me now.