A/N: Thanks for the all support you've given this story and myself, I appreciate it.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Eighteen

Colmar:

The Winterfell Sept was small and sparse, but Colmar Frey appreciated the solitude that it brought him. It had received visitors from the Manderly retinue, but besides them, few visited this holy place. Those of the north put their trust and faith in the godswood.

Even my kin shy away, The beliefs of the north seeping into their own lives. Colmar did not fault Walda for trying to adjust to her life in the north. He knew the Umbers would build no septs. Looking around, Colmar could not help but wonder what this room was before Lord Stark had turned it into a sept for his southern wife. He sat alone since Septon Chayle was in the library helping Sam Tarly.

He felt the eyes of the Seven on him. Carved masks that hung on the seven walls, looking out at their paltry dwelling, at their place of worship that seemed more suitable for storage. Which sept would I have gone to? He idly thought in the months since his father surprised him by pulling him from the Faith and putting another in his place. I go from the Faith to the wolves. Colmar's potential bride was a woman, who bore none of the traits of the Mother or the Maiden and seemed all the prouder for it.

I do not want Arya Stark, he confessed to the silence of the Seven. I want Jeyne Poole. The seeds had grown in his heart, in his time with her. She is kind and gentle, he thought, she'd be a good mother, an obedient wife. He looked over his shoulder, thinking he heard her, but there was no one. He had asked Jeyne to meet him because he needed to tell her. It's you I want.

Remembering his nephew dancing with Jeyne Poole during the feast. His large hands like paws, relentless in their holding, and trying to keep her close to him had been too much for Colmar Frey to bear. The thought angered him, he did not want to see his beautiful Jeyne be given to a man as mean as his nephew. Walder would crush her beneath his boot and laugh. Colmar did not wish to think ill of kin, but his nephew had never sat well with him.

Jeyne deserved better than a butcher for a betrothed. Colmar hoped, she'd see that he'd be a good, proper husband for her. He knew the verses of the Seven-Pointed Star, what was asked of husbands and fathers, what was expected of men, to emulate the Father. In his mind's eye, he was draping her in his Frey cloak. In my household, Jeyne, you would flourish.

I've already protected you, he remembered, I've defended your honor, your virtue. It had gotten him in trouble. Colmar would not forget the silent anger of Lord Domeric when he had come down to the sparing yard after his row with his nephew which had turned into a fight. I did not know he was there, but he did not give that excuse. Colmar gave none because he knew Lord Domeric would not care for them.

Walder had been speaking of Jeyne like she was a whore to be fondled, japing about putting a babe in her belly before they marched on the Wall. At how she'd want a man like Walder, and even if she doesn't, he had shrugged and then laughed, a woman is to obey not protest. Those words had sparked a fire in Colmar that had spiraled their sparring into a brawl . It was then I knew, he thought, that I could not allow Jeyne to marry Walder.

She may be the daughter of a steward, but she will be mine. He looked at the mask of the Father. He did not feel truly euphoric at this epiphany because something pricked at him, needling at him, the complicated betrothal between himself and Lady Arya Stark.

She does not want me. I do not want her. Colmar knew if he told his Lord father this then Walder Frey, Lord of the Twins would laugh, harshly, and derisively. Who cares what she wants, he'd scold him. I give you a daughter of a great house and you give me a steward's daughter? He'd be so irate, that his body would shake, the wet coughs would follow. The look in his eyes, mean and burning.

That stayed Colmar's excitement tempered his hope. They didn't see her worth, but Colmar did. If Jeyne was the daughter of a lord instead of a steward, he'd know, many would chase after her, she'd have a line of suitors.

I'll back out of the betrothal and pray, hoping they will not see it as a slight. He was not thinking of his father but the Starks. You'd rather marry our steward than our blood? The Lady Sansa Bolton in his mind's eye was wearing red, and frowning. Her face was pale, but angry. Her husband was no less intimidating, the flayed man on his tunic. His dark eyes, unreadable in the candlelight, but the way they lingered on Colmar, made him think that Lord Domeric was picturing a room deep in the bowels of the Dreadfort to put him in, for this slight to his wife's house.

No, Colmar shook his head, trying to turn those terrible thoughts into wisps that would slip from his mind, but some clung to his heart like cold fingers. They do not want me as a good brother, he tried to chase it away. Pushing in the memory of Lord Domeric's warnings to Colmar. His plain dislike for the arrangement and for his father's haggling after it had been announced and he was made the heir's squire. That helped to loosen the foothold that his fear had within him. But would Lord Domeric honor his earlier promise.

Serve me true, Colmar, he had said, and they'll be a place for you in my castle, on my lands.

Can I serve him true by denying this betrothal? He wondered, or was that promise because he was to be his good brother? He clasped his hands, resting them on his lap and prayed.

"Lord Colmar?" It was the sound of a voice as sweet as the Maiden's.

"Lady Jeyne," He stood at once from his seat, smiling when he faced her. Colmar had not been praying long when she found him. "Please, sit," He offered, gesturing to one of the three benches, all of which were empty. He watched her settle, unable to take his eyes off her. She was so pretty in her grey gown. Her hair was done in a long braid that seemed popular in the north. Her mouth was moving, but he had missed what she said, flustered. He felt his cheeks go warm. "What was that?" He was relieved that she did not look insulted at him being caught staring at her.

"I received your message," she told him, her brown eyes lingering on him for a long second before looking away.

He liked to think she was pleased at seeing him admiring her. "Yes, I did." He cleared his throat, taking the seat beside her, but making sure there was enough distance between them in case their private moment was intruded on. "Thank you for coming," he said, now that he was here, in this moment, to confess to her, how he felt, what he wanted, he found his courage had been drained from him. As if one of Lord Bolton's leeches had been placed on my heart, slurping it up.

"You picked the cloak," Jeyne said, shaking him from his thoughts, looking at his new cloak, a touch of amusement in her eyes only brightened her beauty.

"I did," He grabbed this distraction with both hands. He took part of the cloak in his hand and extended his arm so that she could see it, admire it, inspect it, distract them both for why he was really here with her.

Lady Sansa Bolton had given gifts to the household guards for both the Starks and the Boltons for all the work they've put in for the Harvest Feast. These men were responsible for overseeing all the other guests and retinues, all of the guards and servants from the other visiting houses. To make sure there were no violent quarrels or brawls now that Wintertown was filled. At keeping everything running smoothly and everyone feeling safe.

Colmar had chosen this cloak, thick and black, fur trimmed. It was warm and helped to combat the chill. None of the cloaks he had brought with him had been able to deter the autumn cold. With this cloak, he could walk the grounds of Winterfell without hearing his teeth chatter. However, others who already had good cloaks, could choose other gifts like boots, or even new daggers.

Despite all the burdens and responsibilities as the Lady of Winterfell, Lady Sansa Bolton made sure to give each gift to the guard personally with a smile. Summoning them, so she could bestow her thanks and their gift to them, individually. She knew their names and asked after their family. Stark or Bolton, each one looked at her afterwards in reverence. They'd march into the Seven Hells for Lady Bolton if she asked them to, and Colmar was no different. I'd be right beside them. Remembering that feeling all too well when she presented his cloak, courteous and charming. It was captivating. "What of you?" He heard that others of the castle were also to be given gifts for their hard work.

"No daggers for us, but blankets, or new shoes or cloaks and even new fabrics and furs."

"And what did you choose?"

"Fabric," she answered, "I'm going to make a new dress." Jeyne didn't meet his eyes and turned her face so he could not see her cheeks.

A wedding dress? Colmar nearly blurted out but stopped himself. Then an image of Jeyne flickered before his eyes in her new wedding dress, facing her husband to be, but it wasn't him. His heart sank and found his mouth moving and the words pouring out of him. "I want to marry you, Jeyne."

She nearly spun around her seat to face him. Her mouth partly open, eyes wide. "What?" Jeyne Poole then looked to make sure they were still alone, and when they were. She seemed to sag in relief, before she shook her head. "You cannot," Her eyes were no longer shining.

"No, no," Colmar stopped her, not wanting to hear her words. "I do not want to marry Arya Stark." He did not know where this newfound courage had sprung, but now that he had it, he continued to drink from its wells, spurring him forward. "I want you, I need you," He took her hands, feeling a boost to his confidence that she let him hold them. "Be my bride, Lady Jeyne, be the mother to our children," he saw it all play out in his mind. They'd have a son, they'd name after her father, and girls as pretty and gentle as their mother. He said this and more, wanting her to know, he had it all laid out, a life for both of them.

"Colmar," she hiccupped, her eyes were wet, and her mouth quivered. "Oh Colmar," she squeezed his hand, before slipping her fingers from his grip.

"You do not want me?"

"I do," she admitted, "but my family has long served the Starks," she sounded proud of her family's traditions. "And are you not promised to the daughter of my liege lord?" She let out a shaky breath. "So no matter how much I desire it. I cannot choose you over them." She rose from her feet, gave him a curtsey, even in distress she knew her decorum, then she slipped away, and he was certain she was crying.

Colmar didn't know how long he sat there when Captain Rylen appeared.

"Lord Domeric requests your presence," The Captain of the Bolton household guard, didn't enter the sept, standing just before its threshold, "He and the Lady Sansa are waiting for you in their solar." He left without another look.

He hastily got to his feet, knowing it was unwise to keep Lord Domeric or his Lady wife waiting. He couldn't help but wonder if Jeyne had told them what he had said to her. An icy finger touched his heart, chilling him at just the idea that was why he was being summoned. No, he decided he didn't think she would do that or enough time had passed. Still, when he left the sept, he prayed for a return of that courage that allowed him to speak openly to the Lady Jeyne. He'd be in desperate need of it for this.

They do not look angry.

That was Colmar's first thought, first hope. It alleviated some of the cold weight that he had felt fill his belly on the walk from the Sept to their solar. "My lord, my lady," he offered them a crisp bow. "I was told you asked to see me." When he raised his head, they were still both looking at him.

The Lady Sansa was sitting behind the desk. The seat her father would sit at if he was here, but he was not, so the duties of Winterfell fell on his daughter's shoulders. She looked unbothered in the seat, straight back, tall and poised. The desk was covered with pieces of parchment, but he was too far away to even guess what was written on them. Lord Domeric was sitting at a different seat, but he looked just as imposing. The Bolton flayed man stitched onto his dark tunic. Colmar did not let his eyes linger on it, switching back and forth between the two, unsure who to give his attention to.

It was the Lady Sansa who rescued him from his confusion. "I received a letter from the Twins," she held up a small piece of parchment that had been unfurled. Her blue eyes softened when she continued, "It appears your father is dead, Colmar," she held out the parchment for him to take in case he wished to read for himself.

Colmar blinked. What? He nearly asked, nearly gaped, he felt his legs shake, but it was from being so thoroughly surprised by this unexpected news not of sudden grief for a dead father. It didn't seem real, the edges of his vision blurred. This is when I wake up from the dream. But he didn't, he was still standing in their solar, struck silent. Father dead, he slowly went over to the desk, his legs felt heavy and his feet clumsy. Each step took a great amount of effort as if he'd forgotten how to move his legs.

Walder Frey had seen kings come and go, lords rise, and fall, rebellions and wars passed by him like the seasons, but he still remained. Undaunted, through it all, while presiding over a growing brood and expanding fortunes. He'd been an old man in Colmar's first memories of him, but he'd never thought him infirm. When he reached the desk, he raised his hand to reach the letter, not realizing his fingers were shaking until he saw them stretch for the parchment. He didn't meet the Lady Sansa's eyes when he took it. "Thank you," he mumbled, his eyes going right to the letter.

The handwriting he immediately recognized as Maester Brenett's. It was a short letter, merely stating that his father had passed in the night, but reading it there on the dried ink, finally crystalized what he had already been told.

Lord Walder Frey was dead.

A man who sneered at death for so long, refusing its pull, its push, and just like that, he went to bed one evening and never woke. His father was dead, but there was no empty feeling dwelling in his chest, nor any brush of grief. It was all muddled in his mind.

"Do the others know?" He asked, thinking of his sisters and nieces.

"Yes," The Lady Sansa even managed to sound contrite about his lord father's passing, "We informed them."

Colmar thought about kin not here and suspected the Twins could become a dangerous place. It was a loud, crowded place wrought with its own schemes. The Twins is its own little kingdom, and he believed he was better off away from it. Many in his family were not as fortunate as him. They lived in the castle only because of their father. Say what you will about Lord Walder Frey, but he stuck to our words, We stand together. Many would likely be tossed out of the castle under a new Lord of the Crossing. Not all in their family kept to their house words or liked their kin. Ser Stevron was away in the Westerlands. He did not doubt at least one or two would try to make a move to take the Twins for themselves in his absence. Desperation breeds desperation, and those afraid they'd be forced to leave, would try all the harder to stop that from happening.

My father's body will still be warm when the sides are drawn. Divided loyalties with his kin looking out for their own interests and not their families. Could this be it? He wondered, an auspice from the Father. That Colmar could use to find his way out, and secure his own future. My family will be in disarray, the more he thought it over, the more right it felt. Whoever secures the lordship will not care about him or his betrothal. He wasn't a son to them, he was nothing but a rival. They'd likely be relieved that he wouldn't have Stark backing, if he wanted the Twins despite being so far down the line of succession, it wasn't worth considering.

That this was going through his head upon hearing of his father's passing made him want to laugh at the absurdity of how he was feeling, thinking. Mayhaps, mourning changes a man, he thought, death shows him what's important and with father's death, all Colmar could think of was a future with Jeyne. The Twins were the past. She was his future. He'd fight for that.

"If you wish to retire to your chambers, you may," Lord Domeric said, "I'll excuse you from your duties for the day in light of this news."

They took his silence as grief. Colmar was tempted to take Lord Domeric up on his offer, give him time to think, to make sure that this was right. But do I have that luxury? He wondered how Walder would react, would he be more insistent to get the betrothal now that Lord Walder was dead? Would he think he'd get none better because there would be no one at the Twins, looking out for him. Colmar couldn't take the chance. He couldn't lose Jeyne.

"I wish to speak about another matter," he found it too difficult to meet the Lady Sansa's curious gaze, "I wish to discuss the terms of the potential betrothal between my family and yours." Not looking at either of them, he did not see the look the husband and wife exchanged at his remarks.

"And what terms would that be?" The Lady Sansa asked politely.

"I want to withdraw my name from them, and to propose a new betrothal," He answered, taking a breath, hoping what he was about to say would not sink his cause, nor insult his generous hosts.

"Would you accept the responsibility and all that it entails?"

"I would," Colmar steadied himself, making himself meet her gaze.

The Lady Sansa regarded him for a long, silent second.

He worried if she was about to dismiss him for giving offense, send him back to the Twins, or would she let her Lord Husband settle this matter, this possible insult. That last part made his stomach clench.

"What is the new betrothal you are seeking?" She asked coolly.

"I wish to marry the Lady Jeyne of House Poole."

Ysilla:

She had never seen her father so angry. Lord Yohn Royce was not one to lose his temper. Her father was calm and steady, believing nothing of worth could come from anger, but now, he was vexed. He was very vexed. And it made for a fearsome sight.

They had finally arrived at Redfort after being more than a fortnight late. The roads in the Vale were teeming with the mountain clans. The clansman had been given castle steel and horses, and this had emboldened them. They had been attacked several times since leaving the Runestone, with father rallying his knights and men-at-arms to send them back to their hills and caves each time.

Ysilla did not get to see very much of her father display this rare burst of anger because she had been predictably dismissed when they entered the castle. He immediately went to find Lord Redfort and the other Vale lords who had gathered while she was promptly sent to her guest chambers.

"Do you need anything, my lady?" Ser Mychel had been tasked with escorting her to where she and her family's retinue would be staying while at the Redfort.

Even in a rare burst of anger from her father, he still thought clearly enough to send her off with her future betrothed. "No, thank you," she answered, drawing comfort from being behind its sturdy walls. Not even the clans would try to besiege castles.

"We are fortunate for your family's timely arrival and aid," Ysilla Royce was not excited about a future with Mychel Redfort, but she knew what was expected of her.

"We're happy to give it," he replied, "We're just pleased that your messenger arrived."

Ysilla nodded. The old gods and the new saw to his safety, who then saw to ours. She'd make sure to light a candle in the castle's sept after seeing the unpacking of her family's baggage.

"Dom said as much in his letter, he warned us that the Clans had gotten stronger," Mychel said, before his mouth twisted, "but he was dismissed and derided for trying to warn us."

It took her a long second of searching her thoughts to recall who it was he was referring to-Domeric Bolton, Lord Redfort's former ward. "He wrote to you about the clans?"

Mychel gave a grim nod. "He fought against them at the Battle on the Green Fork," He explained, "And sent a raven to my father to tell him that the Lannisters had armed the mountain clans." His expression tightened, "An act of war if you ask me."

"The Lannisters?" Ysilla didn't understand. Why would the Lords of the Rock ally themselves with these hill clans? Thinking over this news, she nearly missed his next words.

"That's right, my lady," Mychel confirmed, but when he turned to her, he gave her a sharp smile that didn't reflect towards her, but what he said next, "The Seven saw to them though." Seeing her frown, he added, "That's right, you wouldn't know. King's Landing fell, my lady. The Lannisters were broken and now Renly Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne."

She had left Runestone with King Joffrey, Robert Baratheon's eldest son on the Iron Throne only to arrive at the Redfort, weeks later to hear that they had a new king, Renly Baratheon, Robert's youngest brother. Robar, not thinking on the new king, but of her brother. Has he written to the Runestone to tell us? Did he survive the battle? These new worries rose like weeds around her heart, pressing tightly.

"Here you are, my lady," Mychel stopped at the end of the corridor, turning away from her and to the servants and guards who were following them giving them orders to what chambers were to be used for her, her lord father, and the rest of her family's retinue.

"Thank you," she was still trying to make sense of the news that had tilted not only the Seven Kingdoms but her own bearings.

He respectfully lowered his head to her and left. The Redfort guards followed behind him.

Ysilla did not have the luxury to think on all these changes with her father busy with the other lords, the duties of their household fell on her. She had to oversee their baggage and their unpacking, while also making sure their servants and guards were tended to. After their ordeal on the road, she knew their nerves were just as frayed as hers, and their bones just as weary.

Fortunately, but not unsurprising for her, her household rallied with exceptional poise, and it did not take them long to have their rooms ready for her and her father. Pleased, with their efficiency, when the last of their baggage was stored, she sent her guards and servants to Redfort's hall having been told by a castle's servant that the cooks of the kitchens had been informed of their arrival and had prepared them food. Ysilla had elected to dine in her room, telling the servant as much, before excusing herself.

Her chambers were small, but she knew other great lords were staying in the Redfort, and the castle only had so many rooms to offer. She looked through the armoire to inspect the dresses that had been placed for her, trying to see which would best serve as a proper dress when her betrothal to Mychel Redfort was announced.

She pursued them idly, half hoping to be interrupted by the returning servant, but despite her disinterest in the match, she remembered what was expected of her. Ysilla's fingers stopped at a grey dress she'd rather liked, having finished it in hopes of wearing it for the Hand's Tournament, but she ended up not attending with her father and brothers.

It was grey wool with black trim. She had sewn opals into its bodice to resemble her family's proud runes. It was a beautiful dress, one she was proud of, but one she doubted would see much use. They're not the colors of my betrothed's house. She sighed, a tinge of disappointment twisting at her heart. She reluctantly slipped it back in its place, and continued her search, knowing she'd pack a dress or two with white trim or bordering at least.

I'll need to buy red dyes and fabrics; she'd need them to make new clothes and dresses.

It was a bold color, but one she never needed at Runestone. Ysilla made do with the colors of her house, bronze, black, as well as other respectable colors, whites, browns, and grays, with furs and wools.

In her mind's eye, she remembered one of her last dresses she had made before she bled for the first time. Ysilla had been especially proud of it. She had embroidered runic designs into the cloth, spending hours trying to get them just right. Her fingers ached for days after it was finished. Ysilla had wanted it to be perfect, the lines, the stitches. She was never prouder of any other dress nor would she forget her father's face when she came into the hall that night for supper, wearing her dress that had expertly matched the runes of her father's armor. His eyes had blinked in surprise before a white smile split his dark beard, standing up at once to get a better look at it. Chuckling, as she proudly displayed it for him.

It was not that Ysilla thought the runes would save her from harm or she expected to wear it into battle. She had no delusions of such nonsense, nor any desire to. She had done it to feel close to him, and her brothers. Ysilla envied the time he spent with them, but not with her. Father stayed with her brothers, trained with them, sparred and rode with them, hunted with them and had them with him in his solar to take meetings while Ysilla was given over to a septa to oversee what was expected of her.

Even when I sat with my family at supper, Ysilla was seated further away, her brothers all between her and father. Sometimes she didn't even get to speak to him. Father didn't come in to see her when she was with her septa. It didn't seem fair, which made her wonder was it because she'd leave someday? To accept another man's cloak, to enter another man's house, to give them sons, bearing his name, not hers. So I made that dress, wanting to show him she was just as much a Royce as him or her brothers. We remember, father.

"M'lady,"

Ysilla turned to the door, abandoning her dress search as hopeless. "Yes?"

"Supper, m'lady," Gretta had been with her father's household as long as Ysilla could remember. Her hair was all grey then too. Her eyes were dark and kind, wrinkles made her face look weathered. She shuffled into the room to present the food, "There's gossip in the hall, m'lady."

"Gossip?" Ysilla pursed her lips, not believing gossip a noble pursuit.

Gretta was placing the plate and cup on her table not seeing Ysilla's reaction. "Yes, m'lady," dipping her head when she finished. "The Redfort guards say that Lord Stark is here."

Ysilla, who was about to pick up her fork, nearly pushed it off the table, her hand jolting in surprise. "What?" Feeling foolish at not just her curiosity of wanting to know more, but of her gaffe with her utensil. She gripped it tightly, turning her attention to her plate, cutting up her thin pieces of chicken.

"They say he's been here nearly a moon's turn," Gretta answered, "Comes on behalf of King Stannis Baratheon."

"Thank you, Gretta," the chicken was a little dry but that was not Gretta's fault. "That'll be all," she had no further need for her here, "Please ensure there's a fire in my father's hearth and its attended to."

"Of course, m'lady," Gretta bowed, and left.

Are we to join with King Stannis? She thought about her brother in Renly's service, and her stomach turned. Is father joining with Stannis because Robar is dead? The chicken didn't taste any better after that terrible thought had sunk into her belly like a cold stone. The ale Gretta gave her was not much better, too bitter, but Ysilla was not sure even the sweetest summerwine could wash away the dark seeds rooting inside her.

"Ysilla?"

"Father?" She blinked in the darkness of her room, a slant of light cut through it like a sword. Ysilla looked forward to seeing her door open and someone standing in it. They cast a large shadow, the rush of light projecting their silhouette against her bed.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Yohn Royce went into her room, leaving her door open ajar, a sliver of light glowed through its opening. "I meant to see you sooner, but we have been busy."

She raised her head. "Father, what's happening?" His presence helped to push back the curtain of sleep that still clung to her weary mind. Ysilla had tried to stay up as late as she could, doing her prayers, and making sure everything in her father's chambers would be to his satisfaction. But as the hours passed, and the skies outside grew darker, she could not resist the lure of sleep, especially on such a soft bed with warm blankets after being on the road the past fortnight. "Robar-"

"He's alive," Father raised her hand, to stop her, "Andar wrote to us. His letter was waiting for us here for a few days." He tended to the dying embers of Ysilla's hearth, poking at them. The logs hissed and crackled before blooming a bright orange glow.

"Good," she sagged in relief, her brother's fate looming in her troubled sleep. She was not sure she could lose him, especially not so soon after Waymar's passing. "Is it true, father?" She asked him, "Is Lord Stark here?"

"He is."

"You're still in your traveling cloak," She saw that he hadn't changed out of the clothes he wore when they arrived, all those hours ago. Ysilla pushed back her blankets, her wool shift kept her warm despite the cool night air. "Did the servants not bring your trunk?" She had sworn she saw to it, and where to put it in his chambers. It was right by, her thought trailed off at her father's interruption.

Yohn Royce chuckled, "They did," he sat down on the edge of her bed, gesturing to her to return to it.

She did without protest. A question needled her, remembering Gretta's gossip, about Lord Stark and King Stannis, but her pride to be above such things, warred with her to try to stay quiet.

"Thank you for seeing to my things," he said with a small smile. "I can always rely on you to look after our family."

The proud look in his eyes and in his tone made her perk up. "Thank you, father."

"That is why I'm here at this late hour. I have news that I cannot keep till morning," he said, "Do you know why I brought you here, Ysilla?"

"Yes, father," She knew her duty, "A betrothal between me and Lord Redfort's youngest son." she had even found the dress she was to wear for when the betrothal was announced to the rest of the castle.

"I did consider a betrothal between you and Mychel Redfort," he admitted, "But I've received another offer. Lord Stark's presence has stirred the Vale in a way I have not seen since the Rebellion." He reached out for her hand, his larger hands engulfing her smaller ones.

"What's happening, father?" He had said but, when discussing the Redfort betrothal she did not understand. Am I not to be betrothed? Ysilla was not aware of any other suitors.

"I've come to an agreement, Ysilla, for what I believe is for the best for not just our family, but for you," he patted her softer hands with his gnarled ones. "I wanted to tell you tonight despite the late hour because it will be announced in the morning," He said, "You are to be betrothed to Lord Stark's son and heir, Robb Stark."

A/N: In ASOIAF, George Martin needed Walder Frey alive for reasons, but I do not, so bye, bye, Lord of the Crossing. It immediately helps Colmar to clear up the murky betrothal between himself and the Starks. Since he has no intentions to go back nor will his family care because they have their own issues to work out.

If you haven't figured it out by now, I am making some things/plots simpler and more straightforward. This is a hobby; I'm doing for fun which means it'll feel underwhelming/simpler than the great works that Martin has given us. I'm still trying my best, but my best just isn't that great compared to him and the many other writers on this site. So I hope you can understand.

In this AU, I'm writing with the idea that Ned being in the Vale to rally them is disrupting Lysa's peaceful intentions and galvanizing the Vale lords who want to fight. So, I don't think it's a stretch to say Lysa will not be able to just sit back in the Eyrie and hope her vassals stay put.

Also I should reiterate no shade is intended towards Arya. This is an unreliable narrator and we're getting Colmar's unfiltered thoughts. He was raised a certain way, and I try to respect that in how I write his character and we can see that in how he looks/wants in a wife. It's not a knock against him or Arya, but just me trying to stay true to the spirits of this world and characters to make them feel unique and sincere regardless of how I feel on the matter.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire