8 Months Prior
The winter dances around their fire, the icy air is filled with an eerie silence which differs from the shouts and cries and sounds she has heard all day. Robb Stark took his third victory today, but in the midst of triumph came defeat; they returned with her husband tethered to a wooden board, his eyes closed in an eternal sleep.
And now the night engulfs her, and she has had a bit too much to drink, and the war still rushes around them, even if their men aren't fighting right now. She sits on a log next to the man who led her late husband into battle today, and the only words they've exchanged are those of condolences and reassurances that his death was no one's fault but the enemy.
She speaks up, aware that her future is spiraling in a direction she hadn't fully prepared for. "Renly is dead, and my brother will wear black until Death comes to take him too."
Robb contemplates her words for a moment. "And you?"
"I must find a man who will clothe me in white again. Maybe this one won't be afraid to put a child in me." She says this with confidence, though her cheeks glow a brilliant shade of red anyway. She turns her gaze upon the swirling fire and shivers, drawing her cloak around her shoulders.
"Why, my lady, must you find someone to wed you so quickly?"
"Oh, my dear Robb, you are so good at the game of war, yet you know not of how to play the game of thrones. I hope the Frey girl has knowledge of this sort of thing for your sake."
His brow furrows in either insult or thought, but when he speaks she knows it's the latter. "How am I to wed someone I have never met? I will not cast my eyes upon her until our wedding day, and then she will not grace my sight again until the war is over."
"Your lady mother had to marry Lord Eddard with nothing but hope in her heart. And I, with Renly. As it is with every maiden who holds any sort of title to her name. We do not get the pleasure of marrying for love. That might come later if we're lucky."
"Who will you hope to love next, my lady?"
She looks at him, her stare unwavering. "No one. My heart is already filled."
He glances down towards the ground which offers him relief from her intense gaze. She cannot trust that her words mean anything of significance to him; sometimes she fears the only way to grab hold of his attention is by smacking him with a sword.
In the distance, the sound of a pipe drifts through the air, and soon it is joined by a collection of voices and the words to a song she does not know. It is neither happy nor sad; she does not know if it is in celebration of their victory or in mourning of their loss. But it reminds her of home – of bards and harps and fiddlers, of deep, soothing voices and dancing flowers in the breeze. Perhaps this is why she never liked the silence; she would sooner hear the croon of a dog or the clang of two swords than nothing at all. Her life was filled with music before she came to this foreign place.
"Do they sing much in Winterfell?" she asks, staring at the fire rather than her companion.
He lets out a gentle laugh and she is filled with warmth. He heats her cold blood that she worried had turned to ice already. "Not unless we had a reason," he replies. "My sister had a lovely voice. I wish I could hear it again."
"You will," she reassures him.
"And in Highgarden?"
Her laugh matches his. "A reason was scarcely needed, your grace. Music flooded the castle and we danced – my brothers and I."
"Are you any good?"
"There is too much wine in your belly, Robb," she jests, shaking her head in amusement.
"And yet not enough in my head, my flower. You must show me your dancing one day."
"One day," she repeats, sounding more like a crow than she wishes to.
"Not to a song that's played for a dying man or one that supposed to encourage the men to march into war. It will be a song for us. The bards will write of us, you know – of the wolf and the rose and how the southern air warmed winter – and every lord and lady will shake with envy at our story, for they will never come to know a friendship like ours."
Suddenly her drink seems too heavy in her stomach, her mind too hazy, dizzying with a rush of emotion and a man she never believed could weave such words. It shouldn't have surprised her; someone who can convince others to follow him into war should be able to speak in splendor. "You talk of madness, Robb Stark," she says softly, her face warm with heat.
"Who is it that has filled your heart, Margaery?" he asks, unexpectedly fierce. "You'll tell me most everything, but you have not spoken of love until tonight. Is it someone from your home whom you have been missing since you were a girl? Is it your noble husband that we lost in battle today?"
She shivers, but not from the cold. "I loved Renly… just not in the same way that I love you."
And then his lips are on hers and it seems all the air has left her lungs, her head spinning with delight. She kisses him back, dropping her hands from the cloak she has drawn around her to touch his face, his neck, his heart. "Robb," she breathes out, finding a moment to break from him. "Robb, my wolf, my king, my love…" He looks at her with wearied eyes as if he knows which words will come next, which he very well might.
"The Frey girl."
She holds her head high as she walks into the castle of The Late Lord Frey, the heels of her shoes clicking on the stone floor. Loras made the journey to The Twins with her; he did not ask many questions, but any mention of The Young Wolf brought a small smile to his face. She gives a slight curtsy to the old man sitting in his black oak throne, clutching the arms of the chair with his gray hands.
"I trust you received my raven?" She asks not for an answer but to enlighten Walder Frey; she is not here for idle conversation.
"Yes, yes," he mutters, waving an arm as if to dismiss her. "I do not understand why Robb Stark wishes to reject the offer to take one of my daughters or granddaughters for a wife. Or why he sent his delicate flower to come bargain for him."
She stands her ground. "He did not send me. I came of my own accord to argue for a deal that will benefit you far more than a Stark-Frey marriage."
Frey squints his eyes closed and clenches his jaw. "Speak up, girl, and make it quick."
"As you may have noticed, your men seem to be fairing very well in battle. The Stark bannermen dwindle in number, but the Frey men have not been burdened by this war. You have many capable boys that could be out fighting, but they stay in the safety of this castle with their sisters while others are out risking their lives for the betterment of the north. The King of Winter is prepared to position your men on the frontlines and commission your boys for war."
The old man hisses, spit flying from between the few teeth he has left. "That boy is as much a king as I am."
Her eyes narrow. "That boy commands your army and has three victories to his name."
"What do you know? You're just a silly girl playing at a man's game."
"My brother, Ser Loras, is just outside. Would you like me to bring him in and have him tell you exactly what I've been trying to say?"
Frey goes silent, and she knows this is her moment to strike.
"Of course, there are far grander things that will come to you if you agree to abide by my terms. When Robb has won the war - and he will – he'll be appointing all knew knights and lords. Your daughters will have the pick of the lot, and you will have all the wealth you've ever desired."
He nods his head, a wide smile growing on his weathered face; she knows she has won.
"And what will become of the Stark boy? He'll find few women as… impressionable as my daughters."
"Save your pity for a poor soul who needs it and don't pretend to care about Robb." She raises her eyebrows, a smile itching at the corners of her lips. "Good day, Lord Frey."
She turns and walks towards the doors where her brother will be awaiting her return, but a crackling voice halts her steps.
"Be careful, girl. Love will be your greatest weakness."
She thinks of Lady Catelyn's eyes that only shine when she talks of her late husband, of her steel-plated heart that beats with strength because she has something worth fighting for. She thinks of her brother and how he smiled when Renly was in the same room, how he draws his sword in the Baratheon name. She thinks of Robb's red hair, his freckly arms, his laugh that infects her, his soft lips on hers.
"You're wrong, Lord Frey," she says. "It will be my greatest strength."