Sobbing. I have work tomorrow and I stayed up past midnight for this one. Tomorrow's going to be miserable.


Chapter Twenty-Nine: Corlin


Corlin Frey knew that all Frey males were worthless pigs.

And that was exactly what he knew himself to be.

"Pretty boy," Davra hissed to him, sending his milk crashing down into his lap and clank from the long wooden benches that made up the Great Hall in the Twins. At nine, Davra was making out to be a whelp of a boy, his teeth crooked, shoulders hunched forward so that his chin seemed to be framed by bony wings. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for in height, though, and neither was a characteristic that he or his sister possessed.

"I'll tell father-" Willa was up, a rowdy mess of auburn curls making her little body seem oddly boxy, her skirts the elegant blue of a dress too fine for even Walder Frey's children. It was their mother that gave her those items, shipped them here all nice and neat, and dressed them in a way that made it every clear that her children were different.

Corlin still didn't know if it was a blessing or a curse that Willa thought so highly of their mother and father when both were so decidedly lacking.

Corlin's hand snapped out, curling around her much smaller one. He gave a thin, flippant smile. "It's alright, Willa. He's right. I am pretty." Davra's smile wilted a bit, tightening and shrinking like vegetables put on the skillet. "I would much prefer to have looks than whatever vile disease this one has."

Later that evening, Davra would receive ten lashes for hitting Corlin. Corlin could see it all from their mother's rooms, her voice lilting as she consoled him. As if he was the one who was being flayed. As if he was the one that was screaming and wetting himself in front of their father right now, begging for his mother, who had died only so many years ago.

He hated them both with every fiber of his being, with every beating muscle and organ he held in his tiny body. He hated the long, smiling way that Walder stared at his sister and hated his mother even more for the way that she allowed it. Hated the halls that held all of the children that Walder Frey had brought into this world like a forest with too many trees, the roots winding around each other, encroaching until one strangled the other.

"You look sad," Willa whispered. She was always like that - always looking, always thinking. That was who she was; Corlin was certain that every ounce of intelligence had gone to her at birth.

Tucked safely beyond the gaze of anyone who would wander into the decrepit garden, Willa and Corlin watched as the water beat harshly against the rock that harbored the Twins. Corlin always thought that was shocking - how that slab of earth just didn't break away, leaving them afloat. How would his father rage then? How would he terrorize his children?

Corlin picked at the dry skin around his nails, watching as a bead of blood pooled around the cuticle. He could still smell the girl in the stairwell on his skin, taste the last bit of mint that she had chewed on before she had pressed her lips to his. In truth, he didn't really know when the fascination had started or when it had become something… calming, something that made it easier to live here.

So he dove into the world of another body - the simple escape of two sets of lunges sharing a single breath, of the feel of a soft breast beneath his fingers or the strong line of a throat beneath his lips. He enjoyed the act of love-making - or fucking, as his brothers so crassly put it. For him, it wasn't as simple, though. For him, the act of blissful ignorance that came with another person was a moment of silence - a moment that he cherished and held tightly to.

"I'm always sad, sister," Corlin murmured, giving her a tight smile that she didn't seem swayed by. When they were little, those expressions would have easily consoled her. Now she was too observant. He hid his face, craning his head down so that he could watch the skin peel away from his nail beds. "Women like sad boys better. They think they can fix us."

Sometimes he wondered what it would feel like to shed this skin and don another. Even for a second. Even for a moment.

The first time he kissed a boy - ah, well, he was really a man, wasn't he? He had come to their house to wed his third eldest sister. In truth, he couldn't remember the entirety of his sister's - the Frey brood was so big, after all. That had always been his sister's arena of expertise - putting names to faces, histories to house sigils.

Corlin remembered wondering how Samurel's adam's apple would feel against his tongue. It wasn't some terrible revelation - it wasn't even really a surprise. Corlin enjoyed sex. He enjoyed the feel of a body against his own, and finding out that gender didn't particularly matter to him wasn't exactly a shock.

But it would matter to his father, and it would matter to his brothers so that was that. He wouldn't allow them to drag down his sister - and that was who they would go for wasn't it? That was who they would target - the one who still had a way of influencing their father even through his vileness. No. Corlin wouldn't allow her to be dragged through the mud because of his actions.

One night of blissful exploring. One night of allowing himself to be held down, allowing a bigger hand than his own to run through his hair and collar his throat.

Sometimes, he would sneak out to the little hiding spot in the garden and close his eyes and remember it. Sometimes he would think, waver outside of a brothel in the crowded streets of the Twins. He could pay someone. He could disguise himself. He could ask them to meet him somewhere private. He could have that night again one more time.

But then his interest would wane and he would wander away. The truth was that although his mind dragged him back to that road from time to time, it wasn't an irresistible urge. He would have enjoyed it - maybe even preferred it some nights - but what he really craved would always be the form of another person underneath him, overtop of him. Someone to make him feel whole. Even for a second. Even for a moment.

"He wants you to marry." Willa. Always the practical one.

He forced a small smile, his eyes still on that distant tree line. Sometimes it felt like they were being held captive - like that bridge wasn't really there, and they were just adrift on a rock in the middle of the ocean.

Corlin gave his sister an easy smile, leaning back into the cold brick of the twins. Ah, there it is, darling sister. I can act too. I'm adapting. Her brow crinkled in annoyance at the carefree expression. "He wants all of us to marry. It's too bad his cock won't stop pumping out offspring."

"Corlin-" she scolded him, but he knew it was all for show. She didn't express it very often, but he knew how little she cared for their father. After all, he had been there for most of the trauma. How much could you love a man that touched you like he wanted to own you?

"His pastures are overflowing, Willa," Corlin drawled, and he waved a hand at the dying, withered garden beside them in mocking tribute. "He has too many broods to give away and too few people willing to take them."

Willa was silent for a moment, her face lacking any of the fire that he knew she held deep within her. At some point, when he wasn't looking, she had stuffed all of that righteous fury down. Where had it gone, he wondered, searching across the freckles that dotted her round cheeks, the pink tip of her button nose. Where are you hiding it?

"When will we be sold off for rations and wealth, I wonder," she finally said quietly, and Corlin couldn't help the derisive snort that burst from him.

Distantly, they saw Cemrin's wedding procession making its way sluggishly across the bridge. He tipped his chin up. "What do you call that, then?"

The truth was that there was never going to be a time where he willingly gave himself to anyone. He had seen too much of what happened to people when they bound themselves to another. They grew bitter, enraged at a life that they fancifully imagined themselves to have if only there wasn't another warming their bed. It was a laughable farce.

"I love you," Arrei breathed into his throat and he wondered if it would be too harsh to push her hands away from where they were clenched in his shirt. If he went to dinner ruffled up one more time his father would demand to know the girl and- "I want to spend every morning waking up to you and night in your arms. I want to bear your children and-"

"I don't want children," Corlin blurted out, just as shocked at the spewing of words as she was. He forced an easy smile. "See, Daisy darling? We're not the same. You want something that I can't give you. You want stability and-"

Arrei's pretty ebony eyes filled with tears, her skin heating to a dusky brown. "I want love, Corlin. You said-"

"Fucking and loving are two different things, Arrei," he breathed, his insides hardening as he forced the harsh words out. "I never gave you any promises and I made sure that you would never have to deal with the prospect of an unwanted child. I'm sorry but you have the wrong man."

The truth was that Corlin wasn't a whole anything. He wasn't a whole man. He didn't wholly love his mother. He didn't wholly love his father. He didn't love his position or his looks or his wayward emotions. He hated how he didn't feel any true connection to anyone, man or woman.

So how could he give himself to one person like that? How could he subject them to being a part of the broken pieces of himself that he had been dragging around for so long? A man who neither valued their minds nor their bodies? He was cruel and a Frey pig but even he had limits.

"You're just like your father," Arrei whispered harshly and Corlin nearly stopped in his tracks, the words landing with the accuracy of a well-placed arrow.

All Freys men were pigs. He let out a harsh laugh, keeping his stride long and even. He was nothing different. If every single piece of food is spoiled, how long before the rest of the vegetables would go rancid. With a father like his own? He was already spoiled. What did it matter that Arrei thought he was like his vulture of a father?

"Corlin." Willa's hair was mushed from sleep, her eyes blurry as she cracked her door open to allow a sliver of her face to be seen. She always kept a chair propped against the door - usually. It was easy to figure out which days her father was occupied however.

"Hi." Corlin's lips felt brittle as they curved into a sham of a smile. He ducked his head, trying to hide it.

"Corlin." The door slid open a little more, his sister's hand reaching out to curl around his wrist and give a small tug. "What happened, brother?"

He slid into the room, tuckign that frail chair back into place before following her silently to her bed. She rubbed his back, pressing his hair out of his face. He wanted to laugh it off. Arrei wasn't the love of his life nor was she as pure as many would like to believe. People in the Twins weren't made of holy light and clear water. People of the Twins grew bent and gnarled from the bitter winds, sour from the salt of the water that crashed against their feet.

But Gods, did Corlin hate that man. He hated Walder more than he hated himself. Hated that he had to call him father. Hated that he had no way of getting away from the tomb that that horrid man had created for them. Hated that he loved him at one point. Hated that he had destroyed the heroic image that his young mind had painted.

But hate was such a thin line to draw.

Corlin knew that to hate someone, you needed to share something.

And the truth was that Corlin saw more of his father in him than not. His father's hands on all those women - on his own fucking children. It fucking revolted him. And yet here he was - unable to keep away from other people, addicted to touch and breathes and feel of another being. Gods, he fucking hated him. He fucking hated him.

"We could run away," he whispered into the darkest corner of Willa's room. He felt her shift, coming back to the waking world begrudgingly, her shoulder blades rolling against his. "We could grab a horse and some food-"

"And we could starve on the road and then get robbed - maybe beaten and raped - before we die in a ditch." Her yawn shook over his back. "We're gentle folk, Corlin. We don't know how to survive. Not on our own. Not in that way."

Right. What did he know? Not how to fight or wield a sword or arrow. Not how to hunt or trap or find clean water. He would get her killed. It would be suicide.

The lack of terror that he had at that revelation was terrifying.

But not his sister. She was better than him. He would do anything for her. He would be anyone for her.

"Right," he whispered, even though he knew she had fallen back asleep. "You're right, Willa."

He had never expected the Wolf King. He didn't expect his arrival or the almost elemental draw that he had to his sister. He should have. Willa was the head of the house, calm with a good head on her shoulders. Not too much of a handful and not too hard to look at. Objectively she was the best choice for a new king with a home that he needed to be put in order after years of neglect.

It made sense.

"He can't take you. Not my sister."

"You're the one who said he would." Corlin couldn't look down at the plain white gown. Odd how human's dressed their wives like canvas' meant to be painted upon. Like all that mattered was the blankness of the white, the maidenhood that lay beneath their thighs like a trophy that needed to be ripped out and examined.

His stomach rolled.

"Because you're a loudmouth," he hissed into her hair as he clutched her closer. "You just couldn't be a dull, little girl, could you? You had to be interesting."

"Don't be a bitter, old man."

Walda cleared her voice, and Corlin felt his arms tighten around her. Once she got married, he would never see her again. Once she crossed that bridge, he would be left alone in these vile halls.

"We could hide in the stables." Listen to me. Stop being level-headed and run away with me. "Just for a day or two until I can steal some food and money, and then we can leave. We can go to the Free Cities. You've always had a fondness for it."

"I have a fondness for the view." Corlin heard it in her voice - the soft steadiness. Gods, how he hated it. "We have nothing, Corlin. I have never traveled beyond these walls - have only heard the tales told by the soldiers that visit of Pentos and Norvos. Can you picture the utter desecration that would befall us if we were to travel past our father's money? We are babes, brother. There are lions out there, and we are deer to be eaten."

His lips curled bitterly, all of his fear and anxiety bubbling over. "Oh, Willa. Haven't you heard? All the lions have been hunted to extinction."

That night was a mistake. A mistake to let himself get so drunk that he passed out until well after dawn. A mistake to wake up in his own vomit.

He didn't see her leave. Didn't say goodbye to the only family he had ever had. The only person he had ever loved.

In a way, a deluded way, he had thought that she would still be there - shirking her new duties to give leniency to her brother's foolishness. It was that dream that had made the empty courtyard so much more painful. A scream ripped from him, tearing up his throat and into the dull morning light.

Maybe this was his punishment for his own incompetence. Going to the Boltons and then now, sitting here in the dark, dank recesses of the Dreadfort dungeon, listening to the men of his party were slowly chopped into smaller pieces. He had pissed himself the first night. Now he simply sat, taking the small amounts of food and water that they slipped into his cage greedily.

Hard shackles rubbed his wrists and ankles raw, flaying the skin open. And he thought that his sister shouldn't come here. If there were any Gods, then they wouldn't allow her to come to the cesspit of humanity.

Corlin stared out into the filthy hallways, watching the torchlight bounce off of puddles. He had counted two rats and a series of insects. His studies were never his strong suit, but times like these bend a person into something else. So he counted the tiles and the torches and the little splatters of blood in the cell across from him. He counted his hair and his eyelashes, and even his toes. Still ten on his toes. Only eight on his fingers now, though. He winced, wiggling the swollen mess of a stump on his left and right hand. Even though the Boltons had cauterized it, Corlin was beginning to think he had an infection and most certainly a fever.

The soft jangle of keys drew his attention, his eyes drifting up from his own maimed flesh to the easy stride of a guard as he passed.

No.

Corlin gulped, leaning a bit forward. Only the slightest pause, the slightest glimpse of keen eyes and slimly pointed ears. The leap of hope that lifted his heart was frighteningly optimistic.

"You got yourself into quite a mess," Dalits murmured, his eyes sliding swiftly from side to side to check the halls. His hand slipped to his waist, drawing out a ring of shiny silver keys. "Good thing one of us has a brain."


I stared at the grim stone walls of the Bolton's keep with mounting dread, my gloved hands tightening and releasing on each other. It had taken us a week longer than Robb had first told me, our trip lengthened by the need to refresh our soldiers with fresh ones from Winterfell. It wasn't lost to me how utterly devastating it must have been to have had to ride passed the home that Robb had been without for so many years.

"It's dreadful," I murmured to Robb, glancing to the side as his horse shifted. His curls tangled together in the harsh winds, the flatlands all around us giving very little in coverage.

All around the crouching gray walls of the Dreadfort, sturdy black wood in the shape of Xs sat here and there. My eyes ticked over them once more.

"The name is fitting then," Robb said dryly, glancing to the side as one of his soldiers rode forward. He took the sealed scroll and broke the wax, reading through it quickly. His face was unreadable as he handed it to me.

The handwriting was neat and curling. I read over it once and then again, holding my breath. "We'll meet tonight?"

He didn't say anything, his blue eyes distant and cold in the afternoon glare of the cold winter sun. He took in the walls of the Dreadfort with unabashed contempt, his jaw tight. Just a few yards away, Greywind paced, toeing the line between getting too close to the walls of the Bolton's keep and staying within our camp.

"Yes." His jaw worked, a muscle in his cheek ticking. He yanked on his reigned, wheeling his horse around. "But who signed it, little wife?"

I glanced back at the scroll, brushing over the body and jumping to the final swirl of words. I gulped down an uncertain breath. "But isn't he-"

Robb's eyes reflected the coldest sky, the darkness of a brewing storm. "Now, why would Roose's illegitimate son be making meetings with the King of the North?"


Please review!