Before you read (whoever's reading this) just a quick note:
I'm not one of those people who can just brush off things that people say about them or to them. I got some reviews from a guest that have sort of annoyed me. So before you read any further, let me just clarify one certain point. Whoever you are—two things—one: don't call me honey. I'm a grown ass writer, not a fucking seventh grader stealing your boyfriend. You don't have to talk down to me to get your point across. Two: this is fanfiction that I am writing straight out of my asshole. No shit percentages and blueprints didn't exist back then. Neither did wedding bands. You ever notice how the use of modern concepts in a medieval world made Shrek cooler? I'm not going for realistic—I'm going for entertaining. So if you're—as you so graciously put it—'upset and it's only page 1', then that's how you know that you should probably go looking for something more realistic. Sorry it doesn't come up to your high standards, but like I said—it's only fanfiction, and I'm only human.
I'm not one of those people who can pretend that I don't care when people say things that hurt me. Easily upset, slow to heal. So tread carefully to keep things from getting nasty.
For the rest of you reading this thing with an open mind, sorry you had to read that.
-.-
I don't give a single shit about the name. I certainly hope I made that clear by not really reacting to hearing him say it. Yes, I am peeved to no end that it had to come out. Yes, I am irritated that the entire marriage thing has been reset. Yes, it's annoying to have to start over. But I'll tell you what's not annoying? Robb doesn't touch me for two days straight. I'm not joking. He sleeps on the other side of the bed. I can't even smell the wood smoke in bed. It's fucking glorious. I could sing with glee.
Don't get me wrong. I saw Edmure in the hallway this morning and I had to duck out and take a shortcut to the planning room. No way in hell am I going to be able to look certain witnesses in the eye for a long, long, long time.
On the other hand, this awkwardness means that when we do eventually start talking to each other again, we won't be saying much besides 'lock the door', 'someone could be watching' and 'how do you untie this fucking corset'. So we're going to go back to the whole seven/twelve hours a night schedule. I am not looking forward to that.
But then the gears in my head start to work. Robb's feeling awkward and sort of embarrassed and maybe a little guilty. So I could hope that he's feeling awkward and sort of embarrassed and maybe a little guilty enough to let me go off to Riverrun as an attempt to make amends or to give us both some time to recover. The only recovery I'm going to be needing is the recovery of my head and my sleeping pattern and maybe my vagina. My ego doesn't really hurt all that much. Not as much as he might think. I mean, what did I expect? I was there—dressed like her, smelling like her. Of course it would have slipped out eventually.
So of course because all good things must come to an end, Robb's bodily silence is broken by the third night. I'm settling into bed, ready for another night of tossing and turning for four hours before I slip into a half slumber for maybe an hour or two before I awaken again and stay hidden under the covers until Mira or Julia comes and gets me to start a new day. But tonight Robb touches my shoulder delicately.
Oh, shit. Are we gonna start that phase already? Cause I was really hoping for another week maybe. Or maybe we could pick up on it when I get back from Riverrun. And no, just in case you were wondering—I'm not intending to write to you while I'm gone. I was sort of hoping to use the time to deny the existence of my marriage at all. Of course if you're antsy, then maybe I could have someone write you letters to keep you up to date on what's going on during the negotiations. But other than that…sorry, ginger. You won't be getting a peep out of me once I hightail it outta here.
His touch is soft, but he feels cold. Not physically. Emotionally. He feels like he's holding back, waiting for the rejection. Well, hell. I'm not gonna shake him off. That's rude as fuck. Plus I need some semblance of kindness to exist between us if I ever want to see Winterfell shrink in the distance as I ride off to the Riverlands.
I turn over and smile at him, holding out my hand. He takes the invitation to wrap his arm around me. So he just wants to spoon. Good. Not in the mood to take off my nightgown tonight. Bad news is it's not easy to toss and turn when he's got me like this. But whatever. The first awkward bridge has been melted. The rest will melt once I'm out of this place. Maybe I might have to write him a letter after all.
As I'm not tossing and turning during my non-slumber, I notice that Robb's steady breathing is absent beside me. So I'm not the only one in here lying wide awake. He doesn't move or say anything. He just stays awake, probably staring at the ceiling and it's weird. After a while, he seems to notice me watching him.
"Tell me, Israel," he says. "Have you ever been in love?"
Oh, eat something.
"Yes," I say.
Lie. Big, fat, bold faced lie through my teeth. I've never been in love, okay? I don't know what the fuck it does to people aside from what I've seen it do to Robb.
"With who?"
"A young man," I say. "The son of a strawberry farmer. He used to bring the fruit to the Twins by the cart every week. He always used to keep the biggest, sweetest ones in a separate bucket and save them especially for me."
Not a total lie. The fat, duck-footed old fuck who delivered strawberries to the Twins used to save me the best ones—granted I had to bribe him to do it.
"Did you ever tell him how you felt?"
"I came close once," I say.
"Why didn't you?" he asks.
"Because…" what the fuck sort of questions are these? Exactly what is he hoping to accomplish by this? "I suppose it would have made things complicated if I had," I say. "There is no way any lord or father would approve of such a match for his daughter—no matter how unlikely she is to ever wed anyone else."
"Do you ever think of him?" Robb asks.
Sure. I think of him all the time. I think of the way his belly would jiggle when he laughed and the way the hairs of his handlebar moustache would flutter when he breathed and how you could always count on him to vomit up his insides right by the bridge on his way over every single week. You don't forget someone so stupid and ridiculous that they eliminate the need to hire professional entertainment to keep you amused.
"Sometimes," I say. "I have not seen him in many years."
"Do you think he thinks of you?" Robb asks.
Well, maybe he thinks of the coins I put in his pocket every week in exchange for those big, juicy strawberries. With all the ale it's purchased him—and now that there's no one to pay him extra in exchange for the first pick—I'd say he thinks of me quite often.
"He and I are cut from the same cloth," I say at last. "Neither of us enjoy looking back. Eyes forward, all the time. It's the only way to carry through life."
Translation: Stop grilling me about the farmer and shut up so I can continue (failing) to fall asleep.
"I suppose it's efficient," Robb says. "Eyes forward. But what sort of person doesn't look back?"
The sort of person who doesn't fucking care.
"A person who believes that good fortune will come again," I say. "A person who understands that there is more than one way to live happily ever after."
And the award for Greatest Instance of Talking Out of Your Asshole goes to Israel Frey.
Robb doesn't say much after that, and I use this advantage to roll over and pretend to be asleep. After a while, he wraps his arm around my waist again, but this time he's asleep and I'm left to my nightly schedule again.
The next morning, I'm eager to get out of bed and to the council chambers. But Robb has gone for a ride with Lord Bryndon, which means the meeting will be delayed until later this evening. No matter. I've won. He's lucky—I didn't even need to probe his ass to get the job done. Now that is efficient. And to think all I had to do to win him over was talk out of my ass for a few minutes about some lost love. I guess he just needed someone to make him feel less shitty about himself—relate to him by being a person in love trapped in an arranged marriage. Sorry, Red—I have no fucking clue how you feel. Not sorry, Red—I don't give two shits how you feel. But I'll pretend if it gets me out of here. If I had known before that Robb was this easy then I'd have done it ages ago, made things simpler for the both of us. Ah, who cares? Too late to turn back now. Better late than never, I always say (I never say that—do it on time or get the fuck out).
So I've decided not to poison Robb tonight. He's been through enough and I need to give him some promise of normality before I leave for Riverrun. So I leave his wineglass untouched at the dinner table tonight, and then after we're all fed, we gather in the council chamber.
Ser Holland has been walking around with a sack over his head for a while now. He's still mortified about the strip tease he gave us all at the feast. It doesn't help too much that Edmure tosses silver coins at him every time he sees him. People whistle at him in the halls and everything. It's almost bad enough to eclipse the whole Talisa thing. Almost. But of course those few witnesses aren't going to be saying much. They're all sort of awkward about it. Except Ser Garret. He still snorts back laughs when he sees me. It's got me thinking that maybe I can just penetrate him instead. Or beat him to death with my proverbial dick.
Once we're all assembled, Robb pulls out a letter.
"This arrived yesterday," he says. "A set date and time for the negotiations has been fixed. Stannis' man Seaworth is on the move to Riverrun. Uncle Edmure, pack light—you'll need to move fast and return even faster. I need you here before the month is out."
"Of course, Your Grace," Edmure says.
Um…wait. What? Excuse me? Edmure Tully? I'm the one who's going to Riverrun, remember? You called me Talisa and now I'm leaving to spare us both the awkwardness?
I needed this time to pull myself together. I cannot physically handle losing any more sleep. I cannot emotionally handle dealing with these people. Riverrun was supposed to be my escape, my time to heal. Are you fucking kidding me? Was it seriously not enough for you to drag me here into the navel of the Northern kingdom's turmoil? Do you seriously have to go and steal my chance to calm my brain from this mess, too?
Of course it doesn't take too long for me to see the sense in Robb's decision. Or at least—to see Robb's version of the sense. He's never really struck me as the type to run away from his problems. So he'll maybe keep me here in Winterfell until we've smoothed this patch over because he seems to be under the impression that the Talisa thing is my only problem. Um, excuse me, asshole. It's not. Believe it or not, your little twinkle-eyed whore is the least of my problems. You specifically are not even close to being in the negatives on my list of priorities.
Alright, gingersnap. If you're gonna keep me here, then you'd better have a fucking good reason. I didn't fuck you on a desk in the study so you could stab me in the back without an explanation. Unless you're doing that annoying thing where kings do whatever the fuck they want because they have this ridiculous idea that they can simply because they're kings.
Hang on a minute, you crusty ballsack. You left me here in this shithole for months with your mom and your family and your judgmental friends and I didn't say a fucking word. I rebuilt this place for you. I dealt with these dickrags for you. I'm pretty sure you've never even heard of a person who can do all the shit I've done from the moment Ned Stark squirted you into Catelyn Tully twenty three years ago—the day the world turned inexplicably black.
The meeting takes other turns. The coffers are filling up rapidly. Some weapons shortage in the patrol areas by the Northern borders is being taken care of by a distant lord. I don't care to hear the rest. As soon as the meeting is over, I'm out the door and down the halls, heading straight for the bedchambers.
"Leave me," I say to Mira and Julia, who curtsey and close the door behind them as they exit.
I collapse onto the seat, pick up a pillow, and scream into it until my throat hurts and I'm all out of breath. I cannot handle sleeping another night on this pillow. If I don't go to Riverrun, my entire being will implode and Robb Stark is going to be the one to lick the mess clean. You ever been so sick of something that it makes your chest feel suddenly too heavy to carry? That weird twist at the top of your stomach that makes you inhale deeply to try and get rid of it? I've been feeling that way for months now. Without a break. That breathing mistake had no right to go stripping me of my only opportunity to get rid of this horrible feeling. I need to go back to the Riverlands. I need to stop by the Twins and see Father and Reina and Bria and Aradel and Walda and Roslin and sponge the critical faces and whispers of 'Frey girl' from my mind. I need to walk along the apple trees by the stone fence with my sketchbook in one hand and my wine flask in the other. I'm so frustrated my fucking brain is hurting. Robb Stark has undone me.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. The door opens and Robb enters quietly, closing the door behind him. I could stick him with my letter opener. I could hit him in the face with the fire poker. I could probably push him out the window. I could. And I should. But because I have no proverbial balls to go with that proverbial dick, I just sit up and stare intensely at the letter I got from Septa Eleanor this morning, thanking me kindly for the extra clothing I sent to a band of orphans she's been tending to. If Robb has a brain in his head—and if by some miracle that brain is larger than a walnut—then he'll get the hint to leave me the fuck alone.
"I know that you wanted to attend the negotiations," Robb says.
So there's nothing in between those ears, then? Why am I not surprised?
"Hm," I just make the noise because it'd be rude to flat out ignore him. But I still keep my eyes glued to the page, hoping that he'll take the hint to keep this brief. I'm not in the mood, gingersnap. Say what you want then get the fuck out of my face before I gingersnap you.
"You understand why I had to choose him, Israel."
Um, no I fucking don't.
"Not really," I say. "But I'll pretend I do if it pleases Your Grace."
Shit. Shouldn't have said that. Inviting conversation right now is unwise. But how could I resist the chance to just spread a little frustration outward, away from me? Just showing him that I'm upset seems to have eased my mind a bit.
"It's not that I don't think you can do it," Robb says. "You've proven yourself to be more than capable. It's just that…with everything out there—the Boltons still at large—there's an unnecessary risk you'd be exposed to. The war may be over, but some people out there are still fighting."
Did you seriously just talk to me about the Bolton problem?
"Are we discussing them now?" I ask. Screw ignoring. Square the fuck up, you ginger genetic whoopsie. "So they're no longer taboo? You didn't seem so keen on mentioning them to me when they almost sacked Riverrun."
"I didn't see the need to tell you and worry you about a problem that had already been resolved," Robb says. He reaches forward to take my hand, but I jerk it back. No way, you cheeky shit. You don't get to touch me after all the shit you've done.
"Hunting Ramsay Snow across the border is something that is going to be negotiated," I say. "I'd hardly call that a 'resolved' problem. You're keeping secrets, Robb, and that would not matter to me if they were not truly important problems."
"Ramsay Snow is not a truly important problem," Robb says. "He's a minor fugitive and soon we'll have him. No need to magnify something insignificant."
"Edmure Tully arriving at sunrise seeking an immediate audience with the Crown is not what I'd call insignificant, Robb," I say. "I hadn't even been aware that the Boltons were a problem until he showed up in the entrance courtyard while you were away. What in the world gave you the impression that keeping me in the dark about this was a good idea?"
"I told you, there was no sense in worry—"
"Please," I stop him, dropping the letter at last. "Do not say you didn't want to worry me. I've been handling far worse than the Boltons since I arrived here. I needed that trip to Riverrun. I am sick with all sorts of misery and the Boltons are the least of my concerns, but I'd have appreciated being given some clue what was going on so I didn't look absolutely dumbstruck when your uncle came to inform me that the boy had crossed the border."
"It didn't occur to me that you would be so desperate to know."
"Clearly, because we both know where your thoughts have been since I arrived."
I leave that to simmer in the silence between us. He doesn't like hearing it, and I'm pissed off so I go the extra mile. Go big or go home, right?
"I have never been in love, Robb," I say to him. "I hated the fat old cat that brought strawberries to the Twins. There. I said it."
"Why didn't you just say that before?"
"Because you didn't want to hear that. You wanted to believe that I might possibly be as miserable as you so you didn't have to feel so bad about yourself. You wanted someone to join your pity party, so I did. But clearly I didn't do it well enough."
"I don't want your pity," Robb says, his brow furrowing in irritation.
"Are you joking?" I ask. "You live for my pity." Shit. Don't say that. "You depend on it." Keep it together, Israel. "You feed off of it. As if I care about the girl or your little romance enough to actively make the effort to turn your head so your eyes are facing forward where they should have been in the first place."
"Clearly you care a lot more than you're letting on," Robb says. "Because if you didn't, then you wouldn't have patched up her visit here while I was gone."
How long has he known about that?
"So clearly I'm not the only one keeping secrets," he says.
"This was a secret that actually needed to be kept," I say.
"Why? Sending her away was enough. You didn't have to behave as though she'd never been here."
"Why? Are you sorry you didn't get in a kiss goodbye?"
Shut up, Israel. You're not good at fights. You never have been. And this is turning sour fast. By Gods, why can't I shut up?
"I'm shocked you'd think I'm some sort of lecherous animal that would pounce on her at the first opportunity," Robb says. "Times have changed. We can be cordial to one another. What did you think would happen? We're grown adults."
"Well, clearly I have no way of knowing what you'd do," I say, rising to my feet to meet his eyes. Shit. Not tall enough. Crane your neck, honey. It's okay. "Since as I distinctly recall, I had to duck out of the corridor just yesterday morning to avoid running into Edmure, who was present at the very same feast where you—in the presence of no small crowd of people that we happen to interact with regularly—saw fit to call me Talisa."
Robb just stares at me for a moment. Not like he's been owned or silenced. I can see it on his face that I have not won this round. No. He looks rather like he's been stricken by some wonderful idea.
"Talisa," he says after a moment.
I raise a brow at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"Talisa," he says again. "Talisa. Talisa. Talisa."
"Are you mad?"
"Talisa. Talisa. Talisa." He's throwing the name in my face like a fucking rock he's trying to break me with.
"How old are you, Robb?" I ask him, shoving him out of my way as I go to my vanity and pull loose my hairpins. "What do you want? Do you want me to cry? To turn into a shrieking shrew? The nagging wife?"
"I want you to do something!" he says at last, holding his arms out. "Something other than just stand there like an ice sculpture taking everything I throw at you! I buy you a bottle of honeysuckle and tell you I like it and suddenly you're using it every day! I buy you a dress that I know you'll hate and you wear it to the feast! I tell you your hair looks nice one way and you keep it like that! What's wrong with you? Don't you ever get tired of just being an empty shell for people to fill up with whatever they want from you? Don't you ever feel anything?"
"Are you trying to tell me that you gave me honeysuckle oil and that gown because you were testing me?"
"I am," he says. "Right after I learned that you sent her away. I gave you those things to see what you would do. I thought you'd throw them away, but I found you using them and I couldn't believe my bloody eyes. It was like watching someone give a pig farmer a bottle of red ink and call it wine, watching them lap it up. Don't you ever get tired of being a mannequin? Do you have any idea how many times I've tripped over the stick coming out of your ass?"
"So you chose Edmure Tully because you want to punish me for failing your little experiment?" I ask. I gesture to myself. I'm back in my own gowns now. I've been bathing in juniper since the feast.
"This is not about the Riverrun thing," he says. "I need to know that I haven't married a machine."
"You think I'm a machine?"
"I don't know what you are," he says. "All I know is that I could freeze milk on your back."
"Is this because I wouldn't let you finger me under the table?" I ask. "So sorry I don't fancy the idea of being molested in the Great Hall. I don't know what your wartime experience has done to your psyche, but I'm fairly sure that Aunt Catelyn taught you it's rude and improper to be sucking someone's face off over roast lamb and apple cider."
Robb looks to the ceiling. "A miracle!" he yells. "I'm getting a lesson in propriety from a Frey girl!"
Crash.
Stop.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
I did not just hear the words 'Frey girl' escape his lips. Hearing them from the hateful fucks outside of these chambers is one thing. Hearing it from Robb—the only person here that I could count on to be on my side—has brought the insult a little closer to home. I stare at him. My mind is literally drawing a blank.
"I'm—I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head.
Robb's face seems to fall a little. Tell me you've seen that you just entered the point of no return. You do. But it's too late. Your sudden remorse doesn't comfort me. The words are out there between us and there's no taking them back now. My hands start to shake.
No, Israel. Do not cry. You've handled haters and pressure and fear and worry these past few months and you haven't cried once. Don't do it now. Crying right now would be the equivalent to drowning in a brass bathtub.
A tear trickles down my cheek. Shit. I can't fucking believe that I'm about to cry.
"Is that its own species?" I ask him. "Frey girl? Does that somehow devalue me as a human or something?"
Robb closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He reaches forward to wipe the tear from my face. I swat his hand away. I do not want to breathe the same air as you right now, you dried up fuck-wad.
"I'm sorry—"
"I know what everyone around here says about my father," I say. "But I'll let you in on a little secret that I'm not sure many people seem to be aware of—House Frey existed long before he did. And it will continue to exist long after he is gone. Yes, I'm a Frey girl—people here say it like it's the ugliest thing in the world. You think I'm actually enjoying this? You think I like having to worry about what everyone else needs—to be everything they want me to be, whenever they want me to be it? There's always someone to please, some perceived wrinkle to iron out. And you—you've drained me the most of all. What have I been to you but the best wife I can be? What would you have me be, then, if not your wife? Would you have me run naked through the halls and bend over for you every time you feel the urge to mount something? Would you have me smile at you and present my mouth for a romp in the council chambers? So it turns out that tending to an entire kingdom—rebuilding your home and pleasing your people and coping with this land of hateful glares and disappointed scowls—isn't enough for you? No, you want a wife that's fun and spontaneous and says exactly what she's thinking! Dammit, why can't my wife be like that? Why can't she be the sort of girl who wouldn't mind waking up before the sunrise to go for a morning ride? You think I failed your little experiment, Robb? I'm facing scrutiny on all ends, doubt every single which way I turn, and you see fit to test my grit? So sorry that I'm not the wife you wanted! So sorry I've disappointed you! So sorry that the girl you chose out of twenty one girls like an apple at the marketplace turned out to be such a rotten purchase! Yes, our marriage is not as exciting as a tryst in the woods. Of course that's my fault! Of course I'm the one to blame! How could it be anyone else's fault? It has to be me—I'm the Frey girl!"
So it turns out that I'm not any good at fighting, but outbursts might really be my thing. We just stand there, staring at each other. I notice immediately how quiet it is out in the hallway. I can't even imagine how many people are probably huddled up against the door, trying to make out what's being said. We probably roused the whole fucking castle. I don't care. I'm through—one hundred percent through—with this nonsense. That's an absolute. I reach for my cloak and lunge for the door.
"Enjoy your humanity, Robb," I say to him as I pull open the door. At least seventeen people straighten themselves up, stutter out apologies, and pretend to be doing something else.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"Perhaps I'm off to go howl at the moon," I say. "Whatever my breed of Frey girl does when the sun goes down."
"Israel—"
I make a sound halfway between a tired sigh and an aggravated yell. It's not an attractive sound, nor is it an inviting one. I'm headed straight for the stable. Phillip is feeling better now, and even if she wasn't I'd have taken her anyways. Demon, Silver and Philippa follow us out of the stables and towards the tree line. The only real thought that can get through my head is that I am so fucking done.