Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 40: We Stand Together
"Come the dawn, we're going home."
– Lord Robb Stark
Ghost shook the water from his snow-white coat and bared his teeth at the rain. The day was damp and grey, a drizzle had begun to fall, and they'd left Riverrun not an hour past; northward to see Robb Stark wed to his frey bride. Lord Walder Frey was – despite his reputation for being late – ironically not a man to be kept waiting.
Jon saw Greywind dart past his horse, swift as an arrow loosed from a longbow, off to catch up with his master ahead of them.
"Never ceases to amaze me, these beasts," said Lothar Frey to nobody in particular as they rode.
"Hunting no doubt Ser," Jon answered; earning a scowl from the Frey who held little love for bastards.
Lothar was a plump man, with close-set eyes and a pointed beard of dark hair. He was well-spoken for a Frey; though lame from his twisted leg.
"Your own doesn't join him though Ser Snow," the Frey hummed, eyeing the white wolf warily as it padded silently beside them.
"Ghost hunts when he wishes," the reply came too easily; uncaring as Jon was atop his horse. He longed to be rid of this Frey sooner than later.
"He'd catch nothing so fine as my own sisters!" Lame Lothar boasted, smug and loud. "Why, I wager a guess that even now all the fair maidens are dancing round the Twins chanting 'Lady Stark, Lady Stark, Lady Stark.' They'll be holding swatches of Stark grey-and-white to their cheeks; dreaming how they'd look in their bride's cloak…"
He turned in the saddle to smile at Edmure. "You are strangely quiet, Lord Tully. Are you not thrilled for your nephew; I wonder?"
"As thrilled as I was at the Stone Mill just before the warhorns," Edmure Tully grumbled not so quietly, only half in jest from his chestnut mare.
Lothar gave a good-natured laugh. "Let us pray this wedding ends happier than that blunder eh Tully?"
And may the gods protect us if it does not. Lord Edmure still boasted a black eye from where Robb had floored him for his damn Stone Mill.
"Excuse me my lords," Jon butted in, seeing a chance to flee from both men. "I should check on my brother."
He put heels to his horse, leaving Lord Tully and Lame Lothar to each other's fine company.
Riding at a trot he spared a nod to Ryder as he passed the man, the newest commander of their scouts and outriders in place of Ser Brynden; who'd been put in command of Riverrun and its forces in light of Edmure's blunder at the Stone Mill. Jon didn't know what to think, honestly, his brother had put too much faith in his uncle…
Ser Brynden would hold the Trident if any man could though in their absence. They'd miss the man, to be sure, he'd played a part in every victory they'd won.
At the rear of Ryder's forward scouts their host stretched several miles. The Greatjon led the van, full of plodding warhorses with steelclad men on their backs. Next came the baggage train, a procession of wayns laden with food, fodder, camp supplies, wedding gifts, and the wounded too weak to walk, under the watchful eye of Ser Wendel Manderly and his White Harbor knights. Herds of sheep and goats and scrawny cattle trailed behind, and then a little tail of footsore camp followers. Even farther back was Robin Flint and the rearguard. There was no enemy in back of them for hundreds of leagues, but Robb would take no chances for trouble.
Thirty-five hundred was their number, thirty-five hundred who had been blooded in the Whispering Wood, who had reddened their swords at the Battle of the Camps, at Oxcross, Ashemark, and the Crag, and all through the gold-rich hills of the Lannister west. Aside from Lord Edmure's modest retinue of friends, the lords of the Trident had remained behind to hold the riverlands while Robb marched to secure the north. Ahead awaited his bride and the next battle, then the next and the next…
The drizzle that had sent them off turned into a soft steady rain by midday and continued well past nightfall. The next day, they never saw the sun at all, but rode beneath leaden skies with their hoods up to keep the water from their eyes. It was a heavy rain, turning roads to mud and fields to quagmires, swelling the rivers and stripping the trees of their leaves. The constant patter made idle chatter more bother than it was worth, so most men spoke only when they had something to say.
"Why so gloomy eh, Snow," Dacey Mormont stopped to speak as they rode. She was tall and lean atop her stallion, dressed in mail and leather, with the black bear of House Mormont on shield and surcoat. Jon didn't know why the woman had been intent on speaking with him of late; but she'd made some effort to do so…
"The weather is rather terrible my lady," he shot her a smirk in reply.
And there was the matter of Willam's absence. They'd heard nothing since news arrived of Duskendale…
"I have fought beside your brother in every battle," Dacey said cheerfully, seeming to note his worry. "We've not lost a battle yet!"
Northmen did not lack for courage, no matter the odds stacked against them, there wasn't a man or woman here that didn't have the strength to keep fighting.
"How'd you think our Lady Stark's to look?"
"What one?" Dacey smirked devilishly. "Tully or-"
"You know the one my lady…"
"Frey," she hummed, not trying in the slightest to fight that frown that grew on her features.
"You don't suppose all Lord Walder's daughters look like him, do you?"
"With so many different mothers," Dacey supposed aloud. "Some ought to be comely, no? Why does it matter eh?"
"I suppose it doesn't," Jon admitted. Cersei Lannister was a beautiful woman, and look how she'd ended up… perhaps Robb would be better off with a Frey…
"Looks ain't everything ya know…"
"I know that my lady," Jon tried not to blush at the notion.
"Name's Dacey," she insisted. "How many times I got to tell ye eh?"
"At least once more My Lady," Jon failed to hide his smirk despite the downpour of rain.
She huffed at him, rolling her eyes. "Strong and healthy with a good head and a loyal heart, is what we ought to hope for Jon…"
That… sounded about right…
"Aye," Jon agreed easily enough. "A loyal heart..."
The next day they followed the course of a twisting stream on the floor of the same pinched narrow valley they'd ridden through before the Battle of Riverrun. It was warmer back then, Jon remembered, the trees were still green, and the stream did not overflow its banks. Fallen leaves choked the flow now and lay in sodden snarls among the rocks and roots, and the trees had exchanged their green raiment for leaves of dull gold spotted with brown and a red that resembled rust and dry blood.
Only the spruce and the soldier pines still showed green to them, thrusting up at the belly of the clouds like tall dark spears striking the very sky above them.
More than the trees have died since then, Jon reflected sombrely. And even more would die before they were done…
Five days later, their scouts rode back to warn them that the rising waters had washed out the wooden bridge at Fairmarket. Galbart Glover and two of his bolder men had tried swimming their mounts across the turbulent Blue Fork at Ramsford. Two of the horses had been swept under and drowned, and one of the riders; Glover himself managed to cling to a rock until they could pull him in. "The river hasn't run this high since spring," Edmure told them. "If this rain keeps falling, it will go higher yet..."
"There's a bridge further upstream, near Oldstones," Lothar Frey suggested. "It's older and smaller, but if it still stands-"
"It's gone," Qrow Ryder informed the man. "Washed away even before the one at Fairmarket, long gone now…"
Robb looked to his uncle. "Is there another bridge?"
"The fords will be impassable," Edmure tried to remember. "If not the Blue Fork, we'll have to go around it, through Hag's Mire."
Bogs and bad roads, or none at all, The way ahead would be slowing to crawl…
"Lord Walder will wait, I'm sure," said Robb. "Lothar sent him a bird from Riverrun, he knows we are coming."
"Lord Bolton should've gotten across the Trident before the rains," Jon added his voice. Those present eyed him as he spoke, though none seemed prepared to argue. "The kingsroad runs straight north, he'll have an easy march. Even afoot, he should reach the Twins before us – no matter our route."
"And then to the North," Robb agreed with him quickly, scratching Grey Wind behind his ear.
"By the causeway?" Edmure asked with a blank look. "Up against Moat Cailin?"
He gave his uncle an enigmatic smile. "That's one way to go," Robb said, his tone laced with some hidden meaning.
They reached Oldstones after eight more days of steady rain and made camp upon a hill overlooking the Blue Fork, within a ruined stronghold of the ancient river kings. Its foundations remained amongst the weeds to show where the walls and keeps had stood, but the local smallfolk had long ago made off with most of the stones to raise their barns and septs and holdfasts. Yet in the centre of the ruins was a great carved sepulchre resting in waist-high brown grass amongst a stand of ash.
The lid of the sepulchre had been carved into a likeness of the man whose bones lay beneath, but the rain and the wind had done their work of ages.
The king had worn a beard, they could see, but otherwise his face was smooth and featureless, with only vague suggestions of a mouth, a nose, eyes, and the crown about the temples. His hands folded over the shaft of a stone warhammer that lay upon his chest. Once the warhammer would have been carved with runes that told its name and history, but all that the centuries had worn away. The stone itself was cracked and crumbling, while wild roses crept up over the king's feet almost to his chest.
It was there that Edmure found his nephew, standing sombre in the gathering dusk with only Greywind sitting beside him. The rain had stopped for once, and he was bareheaded. "Do you know if this castle has a name, Uncle?" he asked quietly as the man approached with some degree of caution.
"Oldstones," Edmure answered. "If it had another name before that, I'm afraid I don't know it…"
"Like the song," Robb remembered. "Jenny of Oldstones, with the flowers in her hair?"
"We're all just songs in the end," Edmure supposed with a frown. "If we're lucky…"
Robb studied the sepulchre, kneeling to read the faded runes at its base. They were ancient, but he could make out the words.
"Here lies Tristifer," he began. "The Fourth of His Name, King of the Rivers and the Hills..."
"King Tristifer Mudd," Edmure eyed the statue with a newfound respect. "He ruled the Trident to the Neck, thousands of years before Jenny and her prince, in the days when the kingdoms of the First Men were falling one after the other before the onslaught of the Andals. The Hammer of justice, they called him. He fought a hundred battles and won nine-and-ninety, or so the singers say, and when he raised this castle, it was the strongest in Westeros."
"What happened to him?" Robb asked, turning to face his uncle only to find a frown on his face.
"He died," Edmure answered. "In his hundredth battle, when seven Andal kings joined forces against him. The fifth Tristifer was not his equal, and soon the kingdom was lost, and then the castle, and last of all the line. With Tristifer the Fifth died House Mudd, that had ruled the riverlands for a thousand years before the Andals came."
"His heir failed him." Robb ran a hand over the rough weathered stone.
"A heavy burden," Edmure replied, thinking on his own grand failings of late.
"Uncle-"
"Robb-"
The two stared at each other for a moment.
"I'm sorry," Edmure sighed the words. "For the Mill… if I'd known…"
"I know," Robb dismissed it. "It's done – we can't change the past Uncle."
"You're wiser than your years lad," he smiled at the boy. "Your parents would be proud…"
They'd been Prince Willam's words though, not his own, not truly; not his wisdom.
"Never look backwards," he'd told them once before. "You're not going that way."
He'd not spent so much time with the prince as Jon had, but he'd learnt a thing or two from the man.
"I struck you before," Robb chuckled at the notion, seeming so unlike him in hindsight. Father would not be amused. "I was angry, but I shouldn't have done it."
"I understand," Edmure hummed. He'd not, at first – in truth he'd ranted and raged – but with a clearer mind he could understand. His actions at the Stone Mill had allowed Tywin to turn tail for King's Landing when Robb had laid a trap for the man. Now where was Tywin? Lost to them, gods know where… and they'd heard no news…
"I should've informed you of the whole plan," Robb's eyes stayed on the old king's grave.
"We've all made mistakes lad…"
"Some grander than others," Robb sighed. "Gods, how did I come to this Uncle?"
"Lannisters," seemed the only response that came to mind.
"Aye," Robb huffed at that sound reasoning "Fucking Lannisters…"
He could only prey that they wouldn't end up like King Tristifer, in ruins; faded from memory.
Day followed day, and still the rain kept falling. All the way up the Blue Fork they rode, past Sevenstreams where the river unravelled into a confusion of rills and brooks, then through Hag's Mire, where glistening green pools waited to swallow the unwary and the soft ground sucked at the hooves of their horses like a hungry babe at its mother's breast. The going was worse than slow. Half the wayns had to be abandoned to the muck, their loads distributed amongst mules and draft horses.
Lord Jason Mallister caught up with them amidst the bogs of Hag's Mire. There was more than an hour of daylight remaining when he rode up with his column, but Robb called a halt at once, calling the lords to his tent. Jon entered to find his brother seated beside a brazier, a map across his lap. Grey Wind slept at his feet. The Greatjon was with him, along with Glover, Ryder, Maege Mormont, Tully, Theon and some fleshy balding man with a cringing look to him who Jon did not know.
"Snow!" The Greatjon bellowed at him happily, smirking like a madman.
"Lord Umber," Jon bow his head in respect.
"What took ya so long eh lad!?" Umber's grin grew tendfold. "Busy courting the Mormont girl eh!?"
"I-" Jon couldn't quite fight the blush that betrayed him. "I wasn't-"
"What's your intentions towards my daughter eh boy?"
"Lady Mormont," Jon stared wide-eyed at Lady Maege. "I'd never-"
Robb was laughing at him. "Please my lords, my lady, spare my brother your wrath."
"Just fucking with the lad is all," the Greatjon chuckled at his expense.
"Speak for yourself," Lady Mormont huffed, eyeing Jon like a bear might eye its next meal.
Lord Umber's laughter only grew tenfold at that all awhile Jon mumbled a reply, feeling years younger all of a sudden.
"Now that we're all here," Mallister interrupted as Ghost pawed his way inside the tent over towards the warmth of the brazier. "I bring good tidings…"
"We are in bloody sore need of some," Qrow Ryder spoke with a frown etched onto his face, listening to the rain patter down noisily against the canvas overhead.
Robb waited for Theon to close the tent flap as Jon walked over, hand on his sword's pommel as he waited. "The gods have heard our prayers, my lords. Lord Jason here has brought us the captain of the Myraham, a merchant out of Oldtown. Captain, please tell my lords here what you told me."
"Aye, my Lords." He licked his thick lips nervously. "My last port of call afore Seagard, that was Lordsport on Pyke. The ironmen kept me there more'n half a year, the bastards did. King Balon's command they said. Only, well, the long and the short of it is, he's dead..."
"Dead?" Theon's heart skipped a beat, sinking to a pit in his stomach. "A- Are you sure?"
The shabby little captain nodded. "You know how Pyke's built on a headland, and part on rocks and islands off the shore, with bridges between?"
Theon could only nod – barely recalling his childhood – the captain continued on with his tale of the late Iron Kings ill-fated fall from his own castle.
"The way I heard it in Lordsport, there was a blow coming in from the west, rain and thunder, and old King Balon was crossing one of them bridges when the wind got hold of it and just tore the thing to pieces. He washed up two days later, all bloated and broken. Crabs ate his eyes, I hear..."
The Greatjon laughed in reply, uncaring for the forlorn look on Theon's face. "King crabs, I hope, to sup upon such royal jelly, eh?"
The captain bobbed his head. "Aye, but that's not all of it, no!" He leaned forward. "The brother's back…"
"Victarion?" asked Galbart Glover, surprised by the notion.
"Euyyan," the captain said with a grim look.
"Euron," Theon corrected with a low growl at thought of his rather infamously hated uncle.
"Oh, aye then m'lord," the captain deflated some. "Crow's Eye, I heard, as black a pirate as ever raised a sail. He's been gone for years, but Lord Balon was no sooner cold than there he was, sailing into Lordsport in his Silence. Black sails and a red hull and crewed by mutes. He'd been to Asshai and back, I heard. Wherever he was, though, he's home now, and he marched right into Pyke and sat his arse in the Seastone Chair, and drowned Lord Botley in a cask of seawater when he objected."
"You're certain of this," Jon asked the captain, one hand stroking Ghost's fur as he kept a close eye on Theon. The young man looked at a loss for words.
"That was when I ran back to Myraham and slipped anchor," the man confirmed. "I hoped to get away whilst things were confused. And so I did, and here I am..."
"Captain," said Robb when the man was done, "you have my thanks, and you will not go unrewarded. Lord Jason will take you back to your ship when we are done."
"Wait outside," Jon added only when it became clear the captain wasn't going to take his leave.
"That I will, my Lord. That I will."
No sooner had he left the pavilion than the Greatjon began to laugh, but Robb silenced him with a mere look.
"Euron Greyjoy is no man's notion of a king, if half of what Theon told me is true…"
"It's true," Theon muttered darkly, his eyes narrowed no nobody in particular.
"By the laws, it makes Theon the rightful heir…"
"Not our laws," Theon shook his head. "We've a Kingsmoot, if Euron's won it then…"
"By the King's laws Theon," Robb countered his friend easily. "I'm sorry about your father – but by the realms laws, you are your father's heir."
Jon wasn't sorry – neither was Robb truly, nor anyone else among them – but Theon was still, despite everything, Robb's friend.
"There's a daughter as well," Galbart Glover reminded them. "The one who holds Deepwood Motte, and Robett's wife and child…"
"Asha," Theon answered under the glare of Glover. "My sister…"
None of them had any love for him, not since the Crag. Not since the news came.
"If she stays at Deepwood Motte that's all she can hope to hold," said Robb. "What's true for the others is even more true for her. She will need to sail home to oust Euron and press her own claim." He son turned to Lord Jason Mallister. "You have a fleet at Seagard, do you not Lord Mallister?"
"A fleet? Half a dozen longships and two war galleys. Enough to defend my own shores, but I could not hope to meet the Iron Fleet."
"Nor would I ask it of you. The ironborn will be setting sail toward Pyke, I expect. Theon has told me how his people think. Every captain a king on his own deck. They will all want a voice in the succession. My lord, I need two of your longships to sail around the Cape of Eagles and up the Neck to Greywater Watch."
Lord Jason hesitated. "A dozen streams drain the wetwood, all shallow, silty, and uncharted. I would not even call them rivers. The channels are ever drifting and changing. There are endless sandbars, deadfalls, and tangles of rotting trees. And Greywater Watch moves. How are my ships to find it?"
"Go upriver flying my banner. The crannogmen will find you. I want two ships to double the chances of my message reaching Howland Reed. Lady Maege shall go on one, Galbart on the second." He turned to the two he'd named. "You'll carry letters for those lords of mine who remain in the north, but all the commands within will be false, in case you have the misfortune to be taken. If that happens, you must tell them that you were sailing for the north. Back to Bear Island, or for the Stony Shore." He tapped a finger on the map. "Moat Cailin is the key. Lord Balon knew that. It's why he sent his brother Victarion there with the hard heart of the Greyjoy strength."
"Succession squabbles or no, the ironborn are not such fools as to abandon Moat Cailin," said Lady Maege doubtfully.
"No," Robb admitted. "Victarion will leave the best part of his garrison, I'd guess. Every man he takes will be one less man we need to fight, however. And he will take many of his captains, count on that. The leaders. He will need such men to speak for him if he hopes to sit the Seastone Chair."
"You cannot mean to attack up the causeway," said Galbart Glover. "The approaches are too narrow. No one has ever taken the Moat."
"From the south," said Robb. "But if we can attack from the north and west simultaneously and take the ironmen in the rear while they are beating off what they think is my main thrust up the causeway, then we have a chance. Once I link up with Lord Bolton and the Freys, I will have more than twelve thousand men. I mean to divide them into three battles and start up the causeway a half-day apart. If the Greyjoys have eyes south of the Neck, they will see my whole strength rushing headlong at Moat Cailin."
Jon watched his brother share his plans and found them well thought out. It didn't seem like any present had doubts either, all eager to take back the North.
"Roose Bolton will have the rearguard, while Jon and I command the centre. Greatjon, I'd have you lead the van against Moat Cailin proper. Your attack must be so fierce that the ironborn have no leisure to wonder if anyone is creeping down on them from the north to take them in the rear..."
Jon knew full well why his brother sought to place Umber in the van. No man would make a louder showing of a siege than an Umber.
The Greatjon chuckled. "Your creepers best come fast, or my men will swarm those walls and win the Moat. I'll make a gift of it when you come dawdling up."
"That's a gift I should be glad to have," said Robb with the first genuine smirk he'd held for a while.
Edmure however was frowning. "You talk of attacking the ironmen in the rear, but how do you mean to get north of them?"
"There are ways through the Neck that are not on any map, Uncle. Ways known only to the crannogmen-narrow trails between the bogs, and wet roads through the reeds that only boats can follow." He turned to his two messengers. "Tell Howland Reed that he is to send guides to me, two days after I have started up the causeway. To the centre battle, where my own standard flies. Three hosts will leave the Twins, but only two will reach Moat Cailin. Mine own battle will melt away into the Neck, to remerge on the Fever. If we move swiftly once I'm wed, we can all be in position by year's end. We will fall upon the Moat from three sides on the first day of the new century, as the ironmen are waking with hammers beating at their heads from the mead, they'll quaff the night before. The castle will be ours once more…"
"I like this plan," said the Greatjon. "I like it well lad."
Galbart Glover rubbed his mouth. "There are risks. If the crannogmen should fail you…"
"My father vouched for the worth of Howland Reed." Robb rolled up the map. "They will not fail us."
"Send me instead," Theon spoke up, earning the eyes of every man and woman present.
"Theon," Robb began with a frown. "You-"
"I'm their lord," he countered confidently. "You said it yourself. I can do this Robb…"
"You can't trust a Greyjoy lad," the Greatjon argued with a scoffed.
Robb was considering it. Jon could read his brother well enough, the look on his face was a thing of conflict.
"And what would you do, Theon?" Jon asked him, speaking before more objections could be raised against such an idea.
"I'd tell them to open the gates," Theon explained, leaning onto the table with a fire in his eyes. "I'm the Lord of Pyke, let me prove it – let me win you this castle without bloodshed. I can do this Robb," he looked, almost pleading with the whole table. "I need to do this; it's my people, my responsibility. Trust me…"
"They'd kill you," Robb frowned at the thought of losing his friend.
"What kind of Lord of Pyke would I be if I can't do this much?"
"The dead kind," the Greatjon scoffed at the notion. "So eager to join your father, eh Greyjoy?"
"My father is in King's Landing," Theon growled his defiant reply at the giant lord without a hint of the doubt he felt.
That much earned the smallest of grins from the Greatjon. He said nothing, but it was enough.
"I don't like it," Robb's frown deepened tenfold. "It's too risky…"
"Fight with your head brother," Jon echoed some words Willam taught him. "Not your heart…"
Robb wanted to argue, but he knew couldn't quite do it. The sigh was one of defeat.
"I can do it," Theon insisted once more, shooting a thankful glance at Snow.
"If you can't," Robb told him coldly. "I can't halt the plan for you Theon…"
"And if he tells them our plans?" Qrow cut in, eyeing the kraken with suspicion.
"I wouldn't," Theon eyed Ryder back. And even if he did, what good would it do them?
"What difference would it make," Jon asked aloud. "They'll be surrounded regardless, no?"
"At least let me try," Theon said with that still determined stare. It was the look of a man with something to prove.
"So be it," Robb found the words heavier than he'd have liked.
"Can't say I'll ever trust a Greyjoy," the Lady Mormont huffed at the notion.
"Worst case," Qrow hummed. "They kill him, or he turns cloak; then we kill him…"
Theon didn't voice the curse that threatened to burst out as an anger brewed.
"Theon," Robb looked to his brother-by-choice.
"Trust me," Theon replied confidently.
The silence was uncomfortable. Jon merely gave a nod to his brother, and that was that.
"I trust you," Robb told the Greyjoy. "If you fail though I can't stop-"
"I won't fail," Theon's old cocky smile returned in a heartbeat.
Time would tell how little the word of a kraken was worth.
They heard the Green Fork before they saw it, an endless susurrus, like the growl of some great hungry beast stalking its prey.
It was a boiling torrent, half as wide as it had been last year, when Robb had divided his army here and vowed to take a Frey to bride as the price of his crossing. He needed Lord Walder and his bridge then, and he needs them even more now. There was no way to ford this, nor swim across. It could be a moon's turn before the waters fell again.
As they neared the Twins, Robb had called his brother and uncle to ride beside him. Olyvar Frey bore his banner, the direwolf of Stark on its ice-white field.
The gatehouse towers emerged from the rain like ghosts, hazy grey apparitions that grew more solid the closer they rode. The Frey stronghold was not one castle but two; mirror images in wet stone standing on opposite sides of the water, linked by a great arched bridge. From the centre of its span rose the Water Tower, the river running straight and swift below. Channels had been cut from the banks, to form moats that made each twin an island. The rains had turned the moats to shallow lakes.
Across the turbulent waters, Jon could see several thousand men encamped around the eastern castle, their banners hanging like so many drowned cats from the lances outside their tents. The rain made it impossible to distinguish colours. Most were grey, it seemed, though beneath such skies the whole world seemed grey.
"Tread lightly here, nephew," Edmure cautioned. "Lord Walder has a thin skin and a sharp tongue; bloody unpleasant man…"
"I shall be as sweet as a septon," Robb replied jokingly, earning a scoff of amusement from his uncle.
Jon shifted his saddle uncomfortably. "Think they've a feast prepared by now?"
"I'm more wet than hungry brother," Robb answered with his sodden red locks of hair.
He'd not asked out of hunger, but for guest rights and the comfort that offered.
Freys rode out from the western gatehouse then, wrapped in heavy cloaks of thick grey wool.
Ser Ryman met them first alongside his three sons all of whom looked fleshy, broad and stupid; as most expected of Freys.
They halted to let their hosts come to them. Robb's banner drooped on its staff, and the steady sound of rainfall mingled with the rush of the swollen Green Fork on their right. Grey Wind and Ghost edged forward, tails stiff, watching through slitted eyes of dark gold and blood red. When the Freys were a half-dozen yards away Greywind growled, a deep rumble that seemed almost one with rush of the river. Robb looked startled at the showing. "Greywind, to me!"
The direwolf looked ready to leap forward, snarling at the Freys with the intent to kill them all… if not for Ghost nudging his brother…
Ser Ryman's palfrey shied off with a whinny of fear at the sound of it, but the others remained steady.
"Ghost, with us," Jon muttered to his wolf, earning a glance of understanding in silence.
The Freys looked shaked by the wolves. "You come late," one of the knights told them.
"The rains delayed us," said Robb. "I sent a bird…"
Ser Ryman cleared his throat. "I trust there's chambers prepared for Lord Stark in the Water Tower," he asked his kinsmen with the careful courtesy of an Heir.
"As well as for Lord Tully and Lady Stark," came the answer, ushering them towards the castle. "Your lords are also welcome to partake of the wedding feast…"
"And my men?" asked Robb of the nameless Frey – no doubt some cousin too distant for anyone to care for in truth.
They were told how Lord Walder regrated that he couldn't feed nor house so large a host but vowed how their men would not be neglected. If they'd cross and set up their camp beside the Freys, they'd said, there was enough casks of wine and ale for all to drink the health of Lord Stark and his bride to be.
They'd raised three great feast tents on the far bank, to provide them with some shelter from the rains, it seemed.
"Lord Walder is most kind. My men will thank him. They have had a long and wet ride."
Edmure Tully edged his horse forward. "Let's get out of the rain then…"
"Lord Frey awaits you within," promised the Frey in charge of their greeting. "Let's continue this out of the rain?"
"Gladly," Ser Ryman moved forward eagerly. "If you would follow me Lord Stark, my father awaits us."
Edmure fell in beside Robb and Jon. "The Late Lord Frey might have seen fit to welcome us in person," he complained. "I am his liege lord…"
"When you are one-and-ninety, Uncle, see how eager you are to go riding in the rain."
Greywind balked in the middle of the drawbridge, shook the rain off, and howled at the portcullis.
"A dry kennel and a leg of mutton will see him right again," said Lothar Frey cheerfully. "Shall I summon our master of hounds?"
"He's a direwolf, not a dog," said Robb, barely containing the snarl on his lips.
"They stay with us," Jon added from atop his horse, Ghost to his side; eyeing the Freys curiously.
They found Lord Frey propped up in his high seat with a cushion beneath him and an ermine robe across his lap. His chair was black oak, its back carved into the semblance of two stout towers joined by an arched bridge, so massive that its embrace turned the old man into a grotesque child. There was something of the vulture about Lord Walder, and rather more of the weasel. His bald head, spotted with age, thrust out from his scrawny shoulders on a long pink neck. Loose skin dangled beneath his receding chin, his eyes were runny and clouded, and his toothless mouth moved constantly, sucking at the empty air as a babe sucking at his mother's breast.
The eighth Lady Frey stood beside Lord Walder's high seat. At his feet sat a somewhat younger version of himself, a stooped thin man of fifty whose costly garb of blue wool and grey satin was strangely accented by a crown and collar ornamented with tiny brass bells. The likeness between him and his lord was striking, save for their eyes; Lord Frey's small, dim, and suspicious, the other's large, amiable, and vacant. Edmure recalled that one of Lord Walder's brood had fathered a halfwit long years ago.
Frey sons, daughters, children, grandchildren, husbands, wives, and servants crowded the rest of the hall. But it was the old man who spoke. "You will forgive me if I do not rise to greet you, I know. My legs no longer work as they did, though that which hangs between 'em serves well enough, heh."
His mouth split in a toothless smile as he eyed Robb almost hungrily. "Took your time getting here eh boy…"
"We northmen are used to snows Lord Walder," Robb answered him. "Rain is quite a different thing entirely…"
"That it is. Heh." That heh seemed to please the lackwit, who bobbed his head from side to side, jingling crown and collar. "Heh," Lord Walder said, " you'll have to forgive my Aegon the noise. He has less wits than a crannogman, and I don't let me out much. One of Stevron's boys. We call him Jinglebell."
"Ser Stevron mentioned him, my lord." Robb smiled kindly at the lackwit. "Well met, Aegon. Your father was a brave man."
Jinglebell jingled his bells. A thin line of spit ran from one corner of his mouth when he smiled.
"Save your breath boy. You'd do as well talking to a chamberpot." Lord Walder shifted his gaze to the others. "And young Ser Edmure, the victor of the Stone Mill. Lord Tully now, I'll need to remember that. You're the fifth Lord Tully I've known. I outlived the other four, heh, funny how that happens isn't it?"
Edmure could only glare at the old man with no small amount of contempt for those words.
Your bride is about here somewhere. I suppose you want a look at your options, eh boy?"
Robb tried his best not to blush at the notion of picking.
"I would, my lord..."
"Then you'll have it! A lord's choice – you'll see – only the best for family, heh. Clothed though. They're modest girls, maids all. You won't see them naked till the bedding." Lord Walder cackled. "Heh. Soon enough, soon enough." He craned his head about. "Benfrey, go fetch your sister, she'd a looker! Be quick about it, Lord Stark's come all the way from Riverrun!" A young knight in a quartered surcoat bowed and took his leave, and the old man turned back to Lord Edmure.
"Perhaps we'll find you a nice pair to take home eh Tully?"
"The notion honours mean, Lord Frey…"
Edmure's words dripped with a thick nausea.
"That's the look," old Walder scoffed at his liege. "Young men soon forget their pride once they've their hands on a firm pair of teats though Tully!"
Edmure fought the scowl on his face with unpractised restraint.
"No matter," Lord Frey waved it away, uncaring. "North's five times the size of the Riverlands, heh, far greater price that!"
As the man waggled his fingers, a flurry of femininity left their places by the walls to line up beneath the dais.
Jinglebell started to rise as well, his bells ringing merrily, but Lady Frey grabbed the lackwit's sleeve and tugged him back down.
Lord Walder named the names. "My daughter Arwyn," he said of a girl of fourteen. "Shirei, my youngest trueborn daughter. Ami and Marianne are granddaughters. I married Ami to Ser Pate of Sevenstreams, but the Mountain killed the oaf so I got her back. That's a Cersei, but we call her Little Bee instead, her mother's a Beesbury you see; bloody cleaver that. More granddaughters, far too many. One's a Walda, and the others… well, they have names, whatever they are…"
"I'm Merry, Lord Grandfather," one girl said shyly.
"You're noisy, that's for certain. Next to Noisy is my daughter Tyta. Then another Walda. Alyx, Marissa… are you Marissa? I thought you were. She's not always bald. The maester shaved her hair off, but he swears it will soon grow back. The twins are Serra and Sarra."
He squinted down at one of the younger girls. "Heh, are you another Walda?"
The girl could not have been more than four. "I'm Ser Aemon Rivers's Walda, lord great grandfather."
She curtsied as well as any child of four or five could muster.
"How long have you been talking? Not that you're like to have anything sensible to say, your father never did. He's a bastard's son besides, heh. Go away, I wanted only Freys up here. The Lord of Winterfell has no interest in base stock!" Lord Walder glanced to Robb, as Jinglebell bobbed his head and chimed. "There they are Lord Stark, all maidens. Well, and one widow, but there's some who like a woman broken in, heh. You've the lords pick of the lot boy!"
"An impossible choice, my lord," said Robb with careful courtesy. "They're all too lovely."
Lord Walder snorted. "And they say my eyes are bad. Some would do well enough; I suppose. Others… well, it makes no matter. I've saved the best for last!"
Ser Benfrey led her into the hall. They looked enough alike to be full siblings. Judging from their age, both were children of the sixth Lady Frey; a Rosby…
"And here she is, Lord Stark!" Walder Frey said with a toothless smile. "Roslin Frey, my most precious little blossom, heh."
Roslin was small for her years, her skin as white as if she had just risen from a milk bath. Her face was comely, with a small chin, delicate nose, and big brown eyes. Thick chestnut hair fell in loose waves to a thin waist. Beneath the lacy bodice of her pale blue gown, her breasts looked small but shapely.
"My Lord." The girl curtseyed. "I hope I am not a disappointment to you..."
Far from it, thought Jon. His brother's face had lit up at the sight of her.
"You are a delight to me, my lady," Robb said without much thought.
Roslin had a small gap between two of her front teeth that made her shy with her smiles, but the flaw was almost endearing.
"My lord is kind," the Lady Roslin said to Robb.
"My lady is beautiful," Robb smiled, seemingly unaware of all the jealous glares the other Frey women were shooting.
"Robb," Jon cleared his throat to grab his brother's attention away from the pretty face.
At a glance – pulling his eyes away from Roslin – Robb saw the faces of those who'd cared…
"My ladies of Frey," Robb looked desperately uncomfortable, but he faced it without flinching while Roslin was blushing a brighter red than Lannister crimson. "I was pledged to marry one of you, an impossible choice, but I must choose one. The fault is not in you. I am certain you'll all find fine husbands, better one's than I even…
The smaller girls fidgeted anxiously. Their older sisters waited for Lord Walder on his black oak throne. Jinglebell rocked back and forth, bells chiming on his collar.
"Good," the Lord of the Crossing said. "That was very good, Lord Stark. Well said, well said; knew you'd take a shining to this one!"
"The lady is a beauty my lord," Robb regained some of his composure. "As are they all…"
Theon's not-so-quiet scoff at that statement went largely unacknowledged, besides a glare from Robb shot his way.
"Benfrey," Lord Walder barked at the man. "See your sister back to her chambers, she has a wedding to prepare for. And a bedding, heh, the sweetest part. For all, for all." His mouth moved in and out. "We'll have music, such sweet music, and wine, heh, the red will run, and we'll make us a Lady of Winterfell. But now you're weary, and wet as well, dripping on my floor. There's fires waiting for you, and hot mulled wine, and baths if you want 'em. Lothar, show our guests to their quarters!"
"I need to see my men across the river, my lord," Robb said instead, his mind focused once more.
"They shan't get lost," Lord Walder complained. "They've crossed before, haven't they? When you came down from the north. You wanted crossing and I gave it to you, and you never said mayhaps, heh. But suit yourself. Lead each man across by the hand if you like, it's naught to me boy; just don't go leaving without your bride!"
"Lord Frey," Jon decided to speak where his brother had forgotten. "Some food would be most welcome. We have ridden many leagues in the rain…"
Walder Frey's mouth moved in and out. "Food, heh. A loaf of bread, a bite of cheese, mayhaps a sausage… but who are You boy?"
"Ser Jon Snow," Robb answered for him. "My brother, your Lordship…"
"Ah, the bastard knight," old Walder's smile grew. "You married boy? Take your pick, mend one of the hearts your brother broke tonight, heh!"
Jon blinked. "You honor me my lord," he decided quickly. "I'm afraid I have nothing to offer them how-"
"I suppose," Walder scoffed him. "What about you eh Greyjoy, heard your father took a nasty tumble into some rocks…"
"Some wine to think it over perhaps," Robb leapt to his friend's rescue as Theon's knuckles turned white. "And salt for the bread, my Lord?"
"Bread and salt. Heh. Of course, of course." The old man clapped his hands together, and servants came into the hall, bearing flagons of wine and trays of bread, cheese, and butter. Lord Walder took a cup of red himself and raised it high with a spotted hand. "My guests," he said. "Be welcome beneath my roof, and at my table…"
"We thank you for your hospitality, my lord," Robb replied. Edmure echoed him, along with the Greatjon, Ser Marq Piper, Jon and the others. They drank his wine and ate his bread and butter. Jon tasted the wine and nibbled at some bread, making a mental note to keep his voice to himself least Lord Frey try marrying him off again…
What would the man do, Jon couldn't help but wonder, if he knew the truth of his birth? The last son of the dragon beneath his roof… heh…
Outside of the great hall – after Robb's men had crossed the bridge – it was an easy enough thing to find the flayed lord of House Bolton.
Lord Bolton stood before the fire in a pale pink cloak trimmed with white fur, damp from the rain. One could Feel the gloom in the room, as even the Greatjon seemed sombre and subdued; with grim faces all around. "We've found Tywin then," came Qrow's voice, laced with malice as he glared daggers at Edmure.
Word had arrived with Bolton it seemed; they'd missed the ravens by barely a day after leaving. No doubt Lord Frey knew too, but he'd said nothing.
"Lannister's at the Blackwater," said Ser Wendel unhappily. "No word from Prince Willam or the King neither… it's a disaster…
All of Westeros would know of the losses at the Blackwater by now if they didn't already. It was by far the first and grandest of their losses.
"And further word from Winterfell," Robb added. "The Night's Watch calls for aid; there's a damn wildling army marching on them it's said…"
Bolton's pale eyes gleamed. "My son, Ramsay, is amassing forces at the Dreadfort. I'd intended them to fight Ironborn, but-"
"Your son was accused of grievous crimes was he not," Jon told him sharply. "Murder, rape, and worse…"
"Yes," Roose Bolton said coldly. "His blood is tainted, that cannot be denied. Yet he is a good fighter, as cunning as he is fearless. He swears that he shall not sheathe his sword so long as a single Greyjoy remains in the north. Perhaps such service might atone in some small measure for whatever crimes his bastard blood has led him to commit." He shrugged. "Or not. When the war is done, Lord Stark shall weigh and judge. By then I hope to have a trueborn son by Lady Walda…"
Once more Jon found this man to be chilling. The implications of 'bastard blood' was not lost on him either.
"Enough," Robb put a stop to the bickering. "Our focus is the Moat. We must look forward, not backwards…"
"How many men have you brought from Harrenhal to us, Lord Bolton?" Jon asked the man pointedly.
His queer colourless eyes studied Jon's face a moment before he answered. "Some five hundred horse and three-thousand-foot, Ser Snow. Dreadfort men all, in chief, and some from Karhold among them too. I regret there are not more, but many remained behind to hold the Riverlands in our absence..."
"Gives us near twelve thousand men," Lord Karstark hummed his thoughts, confidently enough; for the Iron Islands did not boast great strength on land.
"It should be enough," said Robb. "You will have command of my rear guard, Lord Bolton. Come the dawn, we're going home."
Drums began to pound, pound, pound, and Jon's head pounded with them. Pipes wailed and flutes trilled from the musician's gallery at the foot of the great hall as they entered; fiddles screeched, horns blew, the skins skirled a lively tune, but the drumming drove them all. The sounds echoed off the rafters, whilst the guests ate, drank, and shouted at one another below. Walder Frey must've been deaf as a stone to call this music. Jon sipped a cup of Arbor Red and watched Frey's fool Jinglebell prance to the sounds of what sounded like Alysanne. At least he thought it was meant to be Alysanne. With these players, the song might have been The Bear and the Maiden Fair.
A fire roared in the hearth, the air was hot and thick, with rows of torches burning smoky from iron sconces on the walls. Yet most of the heat came off the bodies of the wedding guests, jammed in so thick along the benches that every man who tried to lift his cup poked his neighbour in the ribs. A far cry from Winterfells hall…
Jon was seated up on the dias – at his brother's insistence – stating how he had ever right to sit by his side; just as he'd been by his side throughout the war.
Lord Walder had placed him between Ser Ryman Frey and Roose Bolton, while Robb was seated by the Lord Frey himself and his soon-to-be-wife Roslin Frey.
Ser Ryman drank as if Westeros was about to run short of wine and sweated it all out under his arms. He had bathed in lemonwater, by the smell of him, but no lemon could mask so much sour sweat. Roose Bolton was no more pleasant. He sipped hippocras in preference to wine or mead and ate but little.
Jon still found the Bolton lord to be unsettling, with his ice-chipped eyes and pale skin. He'd brought thousands of men with a side of foul news.
Robb and Roslin and ate from a single plate, drank from a single cup, and exchanged chaste smiles.
He looked happy, truly; for the first time in a long time – and Jon felt glad for his brother. The war wasn't over, but tonight at least seemed at peace.
Roslin's smile had a true quality to it, mixed with some healthy anxiety over her bedding no doubt. Jon had gotten better at reading smiles than he'd ever thought he'd get – one talent that had come in handy throughout the war – be it reading their enemies, or their supposed friends. He couldn't find any malice in Roslin's smile.
"Enjoying the feast, Jon?"
Dacey's smile was easy to read. Jon doubted this woman was even capable of lying…
"Aye," he lied poorly and immediately scolded himself for it. When had it became so easy to slip into a falsehood?
"Liar," She read him like a book and smirked knowingly. "Come, dance with me."
Dance? Jon's brain seemed to crash and burn, unsure what to say or do all of a sudden.
"I-" He stumbled over the words, nervously looking up at her dark brown eyes. "I don't know how, my lady."
"It's Dacey," she rolled her eyes at him. "And it's no matter – I'll teach ya Snow."
"Go on brother," Robb took notice from his seat, all cunning smiles at him. "Bad for your health to deny a Mormont lady."
"Lord Stark is wise," Dacey's smirk grew as she practically dragged Jon down to the hall for her dance.
It was a clumsy thing. He didn't know what to do with hands – or his feet for that matter – though it only seemed to amuse the lady.
"Your brother seems happy," she spoke to him, taking his hands and putting them on her waist.
"Aye," Jon's smile was genuine at that. "Reminds me of when we were younger…"
"You're still rather young Snow," she winked at him playfully.
"I'm almost eight-and-ten my lady…"
Dacey rolled her eyes again, but her smile made him blush. She was as graceful on the dance floor as in the training yard.
She was older than him by several years – in her early twenties – but still unmarried. It was said that Mormonts married their maces, or their swords, or bears. Dacey wore a dress in place of a hauberk tonight, Lady Maege's eldest daughter was quite pretty in Jon's opinion; tall and willowy, with a shy smile that made her long face light up.
"Enjoying yaself eh Snow!?"
The call came from beside him in the hall, with some Frey girl in his arms.
"Karstark," Dacey narrowed her eyes at the clearly drunk young man. "Want something?"
"Oh no," Torrhen Karstark laughed. "I'd never get between a bear and her territory!"
Dacey looked entirely ready to floor the drunk man, but her face changed in a heartbeat – as if she'd thought of something genius.
"Wise man," she pulled Jon closer to her then. "Now piss off Karstark…"
"Ser Snow," Torrhen took an unsteady bow and returned to his drunken dancing with a blushing Frey girl.
Jon couldn't blame the man for his state, in all honestly; he'd lost one brother at Riverrun and now another was dead or captured at the Blackwater.
Robb was dancing with each of the Frey girls one by one throughout the night, with his bride and the eighth Lady Frey, with the widow Ami and Roose Bolton's wife Fat Walda, with the pimply twins Serra and Sarra, even with Shirei, Lord Walder's youngest, who must have been all of six and looked wholly out of her element.
"Your sisters dance very well," Robb later said to Ser Ryman Frey, trying to be pleasant with his new in-laws.
"They're aunts and cousins." Ser Ryman drank a swallow of wine, the sweat trickling down his cheek into his beard.
A sour man, and in his cups. The Late Lord Frey did not stint on the drink, nor his guest's food. The ale, wine, and mead were flowing as fast as the river outside. The Greatjon was already roaring drunk. Lord Walder's son Merrett was matching him cup for cup, but Ser Whalen Frey had passed out trying to keep up with the two of them.
Smalljon Umber and Robin Flint were near Robb at all times, to the other side of Fair Walda and Alyx, respectively. None of them were drinking; along with Patrek Mallister and Dacey. A wedding feast was not a battle, but there were always dangers when men were in their cups. They all loved Rob fiercely and guarded him well.
"Everyone thought my lord would choose Fair Walda," Lady Walda Bolton told Ser Wendel, shouting to be heard above the music. Fat Walda was a round pink butterball of a girl with watery blue eyes, limp yellow hair, and a huge bosom, yet her voice was a fluttering squeak. It was hard to picture her in the Dreadfort in her pink lace and cape of vair. "My lord grandfather offered Roose his bride's weight in silver as a dowry, though, so my lord of Bolton picked me." The girl's chins jiggled when she laughed. "I weigh six stone more than Fair Walda, but that was the first time I was glad of it. I'm Lady Bolton now and my cousin's still a maid, and she'll be nineteen soon, poor thing."
The Lord of the Dreadfort paid the chatter no mind, Jon saw. Sometimes he tasted a bite of this, a spoon of that, tearing bread from the loaf with short strong fingers, but the meal could not distract him. Bolton watched them all with the glare of a hawk eyeing rabbits… waiting… watching… as cold and unmoving as the Wall…
By this hour tomorrow they'd off to another battle, this time with the ironmen at Moat Cailin. Strange, how that prospect seemed almost a relief.
The drums were pounding, and Jon could not help but think how battle was a welcome reprieve to the business of weddings. He could feel a headache brewing.
Above the din came a sudden snarling as two dogs fell upon each other over a scrap of meat. They rolled across the floor, snapping and biting, as a howl of mirth went up. Someone doused them with a flagon of ale and they broke apart. One limped toward the dais. Lord Walder's toothless mouth opened in a bark of laughter as the dripping wet dog shook ale and hair all over three of his grandsons. The sight of the dogs made Jon think of Greywind, who even now growled at any Frey that came close…
There was an intelligence to it though, Jon noted, the wolf made exceptions for a select few Freys like Robb's squire and his sister Roslin.
The Greatjon had drunk another of Lord Walder's brood under the table now, Petyr Pimple this time. The lad has a third his capacity, what did he expect?
Lord Umber wiped his mouth, stood, and began to sing. "A bear there was, a bear, a BEAR! All black and brown and covered with hair!" His voice was not at all bad, though somewhat thick from drink. Unfortunately, the fiddlers and drummers and flutists up above were playing "Flowers of Spring," which suited the words of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" as well as snails might suit a bowl of porridge. Even poor Jinglebell covered his ears at the cacophony of singing.
Northmen didn't care though – raising their cups to the man and laughing as he sang heartily. Jon fed Ghost a leg of lamb under the table.
The cramped hall was in a constant uproar of guests and servants coming and going. A second feast, for knights and lords of somewhat lesser rank, was roaring along in the other castle too. Lord Walder had exiled his baseborn children and their offspring to that side of the river, so that Robb's northmen had taken to referring to it as "the bastard feast." Some guests were no doubt stealing off to see if the bastards were having a better time than they were. Some might even be venturing as far as the camps. The Freys had provided wagons of wine, ale and mead, so the common soldiers could drink to the wedding of Winterfell and the Twins.
Robb sat down beside his brother then. "A few more hours and we're done, Jon," he said in a low voice, as the Greatjon sang of the maid with honey in her hair.
"Congratulation are in order brother," Jon smiled at him, raising his cup up gladly.
"Aye," Robb's smile faltered. "It feels wrong, feasting and laughing while father lingers in a cell… or in a ditch…"
"That it does," Jon couldn't help but agree.
There'd heard nothing from Ned Stark since the war began. No offer for prisoner exchanges, no replies to demands; nothing at all.
"Forward," Robb muttered, taking a gulp of wine. "That's what Will would tell us…"
"Aye," Jon supposed, but he knew how bad Willam was at taking his own advice. He'd admitted as much.
"Do as I say Snow," he'd jest with a fake smile. "Never as I do. You'll live longer that way."
Robb got to his feet again. "You should meet her Jon," he spoke of his wife. "She's quite lovely…"
"I don't doubt it," Jon cracked a smile for his sake. "I'll have plenty of time for that after the war, no?"
"Aye," Robb nodded. "I'll been thinking actually…"
"Gods save us…"
"Oh shut up," Robb scoffed at him. "The Moat…"
"What of it?" Jon pondered, pushing away his empty cup. "The plan will work."
"It will," there was no room for doubts. "And once it's ours again, I aim to rebuild it. It'll need a new Lord."
Jon blinked. Moat Cailin was ancient, even as half a ruin it had protected the north from southern invasions for thousands of years.
"It would take a fortune to rebuild it…"
"Ah well," Robb's smile turned feral. "Good thing we've all that Lannister gold then eh?"
Jon couldn't help the chuckle at that notion. Lannister gold paying for the defence of the North.
"You could take the name Cailin, or Castark maybe," Robb tested the name. "I don't know; never been good at names…"
"It's too much Robb," came the reply, earning a frown. "I'm a bastard to them, you know that-"
"Dacey's taken a fancy to you," Robb smirked. "You're my brother – now and always – the lords know it. We all do Jon."
"It should be Bran," Jon shook his head. "Rickon even…"
"Bran wants to be a Kingsguard someday, and Rickon is still a child."
"I don't know what to say…"
"Think on it," Robb insisted, absently stroking Ghost's fur as the wolf licked his hand.
"Let's take the damn thing first brother…"
Robb laughed at that. "Aye, that first – lordships second though!"
"Piss of Lord Stark," Jon didn't contain the smile at his brother.
"As you command Lord Castark," Robb bowed in jest as he departed, off to sit with his soon-to-be wife.
The musicians were playing "Iron Lances" now, while the Greatjon sang "The Lusty Lad."
Someone should acquaint them with each other, Jon mused, it might improve the damn harmony…
Elsewhere in the hall, Ser Marq Piper and Ser Danwell Frey played a drinking game, Lame Lothar said something amusing to Ser Hosteen, one of the younger Freys juggled three daggers for a group of giggly girls. The servers were bringing out huge silver platters piled high with cuts of juicy pink lamb cuts.
Seated betwixt his black oak towers, the Lord of the Crossing clapped his spotted hands together. The noise they made was so faint that even those on the dais scarce heard it, but Ser Aenys and Ser Hosteen saw and began to pound their cups on the table. Lame Lothar joined them, then Marq Piper and Ser Danwell and Ser Raymund. Half the guests were soon pounding. Finally, even the mob of musicians in the gallery took note. The piping, drumming, and fiddling trailed off into quiet.
"Lord Stark," Lord Walder called out to Robb, "the septon has prayed his prayers, some words have been said, and my sweet Roslin is wrapped in her wolf's cloak, but you are not yet man and wife! A sword needs a sheath, heh, and a wedding needs a bedding! What do you say? Shall we get to the good part of the damn wedding!?"
A score or more of Walder Frey's sons and grandsons began to bang their cups again, shouting, "To bed! To bed! To bed with them!" Roslin had gone white. Jon wondered whether it was the prospect of losing her maidenhead that frightened her, or the bedding itself. With so many siblings, she was not like to be a stranger to the custom…
It was a strange custom – an Andal one, Willam would say – and though Robb planned to swear his vows once more under the Gods at Winterfell; for now this would do.
Robb raised a hand to quiet the room. "If you think the time is now, Lord Walder, by all means!"
A roar of approval greeted his pronouncement. Up in the gallery the musicians took up their pipes and horns and fiddles again and began to play "The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown." Jinglebell hopped from foot to foot, his bells ringing. Then the general cry of "Bed them! Bed them!" went up again.
The guests swarmed the dais, the drunkest in the forefront as ever. The men and boys surrounded Roslin and lifted her into the air whilst the maids and mothers in the hall pulled Robb to his feet and began tugging at his clothing. He was laughing, though the music was too loud to hear. All heard the Greatjon, though. "Give this little bride to me," he bellowed as he shoved through the other men and threw Roslin over one shoulder. "Look at this little thing! No meat on her at all!"
Jon felt sorry for the girl. She looked like she might die from embarrassment, clutching the Greatjon as if she feared he might drop her from his great height.
As man and maid were carried from the hall, a trail of clothing behind them, with Greywind sticking to the Greatjon's like a shadow.
One man yelled "Winter is coming lads!" followed by Theon's voice yelling "Sooner than she'd like!"
Dacey touched Jon lightly on the arm and whispered in his ear "fancy a drink Snow?"
"Aye," he fought against the blush that threatened to betray him. "I could use one my lady."
"Dacey," she scolded him, one eyebrow raised – daring him to argue.
"Lady Dacey," Jon smirked innocently at her as Ghost looked at them both judgingly.
"Stubborn bastard," she dragged him to the nearest table. "Come on, I ain't drinking alone!"
Ghost's tail was wagging as he followed. The bear woman would give him more lamb, he knew; he liked this human.
My Note(s): It feels really gods damn weird to write a 'happy' version of the Red Wedding. Not going to lie, it's strange; I kept having to remember that I WASN'T going to slaughter all of these characters. Yet. Lot of things happen this chapters to be honest, only minor diversions from canon but very much a "ripples in the water" vibe; with Theon set to try proving himself/Robb trusting him (because trusting a Greyjoy always goes well) and the Freys/Boltons not betraying the Starks. Yet. I promise nothing.
Not gonna to lie I had Greywind being aggro towards the Freys purely to scare the shit out of you :) your tears sustain me; it's how I stay so damn good looking.
Max207: There's the odd typo here and there but nothing I fuss over. It's usually pretty damn obvious what the intention is, so if I miss anything I'm not bothered.
Jaimerey7000: Willam's father is dead by this point – previous chapters have stated this – that's why Rodrik is king. Willam isn't aware of his father's death though.
246vili: Genocide is such a strong word (fairly true in in Thousand/Hundred Islands case) but in Ibben's case there's still natives in the mountains and those who fled during the conquest; with every city/town/port put to the sword essentially. I wouldn't expect the same level of butchers work in Westeros (Lannisters might be an exception) because ultimately 'genocide' in Westeros would be an entirely different matter compared to Ibben or the Islands; whom had no alliances or true friends to call on.
Lyarra's entrance was indeed from Medivh, seemed fitting given the parallels :) and I always liked that scene from Warcraft back in the old days when it didn't suck heh.
Dave: Thanks for commenting as always Dave, glad you're enjoying it :) now please excuse me while I go 'chat' with Betman for a moment :D
Betmen123: I have but one reply good sir, ya ready for it? You suuuuure? Here it goes…. Fuck You :D I've an entire segment of the next chapter dedicated to your insult against my vocabulary! The sheer nerve of it – hmpf – but joking aside, there's a lotta PoV jumps in the last chapter and 'Fuck' is a pretty common go-to curse, isn't like the cultural equivalent of Norse Vikings (or even Northmen in canon) are going to boast a robust 'repertoire' now, are they? Flowery fucking southern words? Pfft. PFFT I SAY!
Willam's an exception, he's worldly, spent years in the Empire and picked up things. There is meant to be a subtle difference there between him and the other Starks.
As for Rodrik's words, his father was known as a bloodthirsty killer; but he doesn't see his father that way. It might not be "original" but that's because children often hold their parents on a pedestal. It's also true that the man didn't find any joy in it, but that's the fucking point (see what I did there?) he was talking about Duty and doing what a king Needs to do instead of what he Wants to do, because neither father nor son enjoy doing what they see as being Necessary for the security of their people.
You can call it delusional or argue he's wrong but it's what he was taught and it's what he believes. You don't have to like it. Rodrik doesn't care what you like :P