A/N: Just wanted to start with a heartfelt thank you to all those who left reviews. You amazing readers are what prompted me to get this up so quickly!

Just a heads up, the later part of this chapter includes some sexual material that just might border on mature. Nothing graphic, but if such a thing makes you squeamish, feel free to PM me and I'll send you the edited version.


The wedding is held with none of the pageantry one might expect from the marriage of a highlord. Even in a pathetically neglected godswood, Robb is confident, resplendent actually, auburn hair ablaze in the dying light, and Theon muses that he appears more king than lord. Bloody idiot, he thinks, choosing to rut into that one the rest of his life when he could have had the other.

The woman Robb weds isn't completely unfortunate looking, Theon admits, just rather common in comparison to her beautiful sister. His eyes ghost over to Roslin and his lips twist in a grin. Perhaps he should be grateful that Robb's left the pretty one fair game – he could use a distraction and wonders if noble cunt would clench tighter than a whore's.

The septon Lord Frey insisted upon draws the ceremony to a close and Theon rolls his eyes as Arwyn and Robb exchange vows of respect and faithfulness. There's a seriousness to the Young Wolf's features that Theon well recognizes. Robb Stark has made a promise and he'll give his life in the keeping of it.

'Winter is coming', my ass. They should change their words to 'even our shit is made of honor'.

Theon feels equal parts admiration and pity for his friend. Honor will not win the war for him. But that's a truth that will come hard in the learning for a Stark.

His eyes latch onto Walder Frey and narrow. There's a hungry look to that decrepit weasel, one Theon knows has nothing to do with lust. His hands itch to find purchase on the pommel of his sword, but he knows the action would be beyond foolish. What is dead may never die, and Walder Frey looks half-dead as it is.

Cheers erupt around him and Theon is pulled from the thought as Robb claims a kiss from Arwyn and their fates are sealed. For better or (more likely) worse, Robb has tied himself to the Freys. As the party makes their way back to the castle, Theon claps his hand on Robb's shoulder in a show of support. He does not offer congratulations or good wishes for a loving and happy marriage, like those who flow around them are gushing.

Love's got nothing to do with this. Robb only took her to wife so he might win the war, he thinks. Let the bastards dress it up as pretty as they please, spew their empty words. I won't lie to him.


As tradition dictates, Robb has taken the Lady Frey to dance as Lord Walder escorts his newly wedded daughter about the floor. Theon remains slouched in his seat, guzzling down strongwine, but he is not sulking. Roslin may have rebuffed him to hide within the gaggle of her lordling brothers, but he is most assuredly not sulking. Greyjoys do not sulk anymore than they sow.

His gaze sweeps the great hall (he scoffs at the term, for it is but a fraction of the size of Winterfell's) and notices Lady Catelyn courteously dismissing yet another request to dance. He doesn't much blame her, not in this den of weasels. Robb would be like to have to pull his sword and defend her virtue if she let any of the lechers too close. The thought pulls his attention back to the dance floor, futilely scanning for any possible chance of a good fuck. His eyes catch on Arwyn and narrow at the steely look on her face that borders on dread. Even from a distance, Theon can tell Lord Walder's grip on her is too tight, will leave bruises come morning.

The room is small enough that he is by her side in but six steps. Father and daughter pause at his interruption and Theon sweeps her across the dance floor with a stiff nod and no explanation. Her father out of sight, Arwyn relaxes perceptibly.

"Stranger take him."

Theon smirks at the soft murmur he was clearly not meant to hear. "What's that?"

"Nothing, my lord," she answers, quickly covering. "Insignificant words of a woman who's had too much wine."

"Quite a feat since you haven't touched your goblet all night."

The grin she flashes him is positively impish. "You were seated not far, my lord. I absorbed it by proxy."

Theon sniggers at that, surprised by her boldness and not bothering to deny he's imbibed enough for the both of them. "What was the old craven squawking about?" he presses, not willing to be distracted so easily.

The mirth vanishes instantly, replaced by practiced indifference, but her steps in the dance falter, betraying her emotions. "Merely reminding me of my duties."

Theon can't tell if she lies or speaks the truth; perhaps in this instance they are the same. It matters little. He thinks of the finger-shaped bruises she will bear in the morning and the insult they offer to Robb. They may not share the same blood, but there are other ties binding him to the Starks that are arguably as strong.

"Next time," Theon begins, his tone offhand, but his eyes hard as iron, "instead of letting him berate you like some low-born cunt, you should remind him that you're Lady of Winterfell now. Better than some shit-faced Frey. And if he's stupid enough to forget it, you've got twenty thousand soldiers who'd be happy to teach him his place."

Arwyn's eyes go wide and Theon muses it's a rather comical expression. He contemplates for a moment that he may have gone too far, offended her sensibilities, but then decides he doesn't much care.

Before she can muster a response, cries of "Bed Them!" ring out and the men surround them, clawing at her gown, ripping it with an almost vicious fervor Theon has never witnessed in any of the weddings at Winterfell. Arwyn jerks against their forceful pawing, trying to escape, and failing quite miserably. Theon is disgusted to note that many of the groping hands (lingering too long by even his standards) belong to her half-brothers. Even Roose Bolton (whom always puts Theon on edge, though he cannot discern as to why) is tame by comparison.

Arwyn's eyes are a swirling tempest of rage and terror and lock onto his own with a silent plea. With an exasperated grumble, Theon trudges over to her, shoving her vile relations out of his way, and throws her over his shoulder, easily skating around the men and striding towards the exit.

He catches sight of Robb, buried in a mob of his own, though his (rather unsuccessful) deflections quite clearly stem from embarrassment, not fear. Theon smirks and leaves his friend to the mercy of rat-faced women.

He's halfway to the bedding chamber when Arwyn finally collects herself. "Thank you, Theon."

Her voice wobbles, borders on being overly tender, makes his actions sound chivalrous. And that just won't do. He lays one hand on her ass and gives it a firm squeeze, eliciting a startled shriek from his captive.

"Bastard."

"Cunt."

But neither insult is truly caustic and Theon briefly considers that perhaps Robb is not quite so stupid as he thought.


When Robb is at last shoved in the bedding chamber, he is in naught but his smallclothes. Blue eyes meet green and he is grateful that they appear as nervous as his own. He is also grateful for Grey Wind, who patrols the halls, warding off those who would wait by the door with bawdy japes. An audience would no doubt make this more awkward for the both of them.

His gaze flicks to the bed and back to his fidgeting bride. Robb can still taste the strongwine on his tongue, but his mouth feels rather like cotton and he does his best to swallow the sensation, tries to come up with something to say. But Arwyn beats him to it.

"Have you ever done this before?" she asks, hands clenching the fabric of her torn shift.

"Been married?" he jests, trying to ease the tension.

His wife looks to be smothering a grin. "Lain with a woman."

"No," Robb answers. Theon had offered many a time to pay for his first whore. The temptation had been great, yet Robb's mind would always turn to his lady mother and the wounded look her eyes carried whenever they beheld Jon Snow. But now he almost wishes he had acquiesced to his friend's pressuring. At least then he'd have somewhere to start. "Have you?"

"Lain with a woman? Many times, my lord. But never quite in this manner."

Laughter fills the room, soothing their nerves and reminding Robb why he'd chosen Arwyn over her sister. He feels a swell of daring and moves closer, toying with the laces of her shift. "I could be wrong, but I do think you're overdressed, my lady."

"I think we both are."

Their lips meet for what would be their third time. It starts off hesitant, almost self-conscious, but then Robb's fumbling with her laces brushes his hand against her breast and she gasps into his mouth. He presses the advantage, nips at her bottom lip and then dances over it with his tongue. Arwyn arches into him, her lower belly brushing against his bulge, eliciting a hiss.

She jerks back, lips red and full, eyes like molten wildfire, chest rising and falling rapidly, completely distracting him with its movement. Her pink tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and then in one swift movement, she removes her shift and kicks out of her smallclothes. Robb quickly follows suit and then they are tumbling back on the bed, limbs tangled up in each other, her hands buried in his auburn hair, his sweeping down her breasts and stomach, over hips, buttocks, and thighs and then back again. His movements are erratic, lacking in finesse, but any inhibitions he held have long since fled.

Her tongue fairly tangos with his own and there is such an unfamiliar but delicious wickedness to it that Robb bucks his hips into hers on instinct. Arwyn quivers beneath him and he sends up a silent prayer to the Old Gods that it is from anticipation and not fear.

They break apart, drawing haggard breaths, but Robb does not relent, lips jumping first to her neck and then leaving a scorching trail down her chest and to the subtle curve of her waist. Arwyn moans beneath him, hands tangled in his hair so tightly that pleasure mixes with pain and he isn't quite sure why that feels so very good.

The sensation gives him pause and he seizes the moment to study the girl he's claimed for his own. Breasts that have only just begun to bud, generous hips that curve naturally in his hands, and a recently healed scar that lines the underside of her ribcage. Robb traces the puckered line, brow furrowed.

"How did you get this?"

"What?" Arwyn rasps, struggling to emerge from her daze and into sharp focus.

"The scar," he reiterates, "who gave it to you?"

His voice carries a soft, but dangerous lilt and he waits with little patience as Arwyn untangles her fingers from his hair, allowing her hands to fall awkwardly to the side. She shrugs, feigning insouciance, but Robb is not so easily deceived.

"I'll have that name, my lady."

She flushes under his demanding gaze, appears quite abashed, but does not look away. "It's but a trivial thing, my lord, not worthy of mention."

"I made you a promise," Robb states, as if the matter is already decided. And, in his mind, it is so. He swore to protect her beneath the eyes of the Old Gods; it would be a slight on his honor and that of the Stark name to fail in even the smallest of measurements.

"And your word remains unsullied as I received this mark many moons ago," is her soft, but unyielding response. "Don't worry. The man who gifted me this did not leave without his own."

Robb leans back, regards her with carefully hooded eyes. "Did he…"

He trails off, unsure how best to phrase the question. But apparently those two words botched it up enough, for Arwyn wriggles out from under him, her eyes narrowing and jaw clenched tight. "I'm still a maiden, if that's what concerns you, my lord," she snaps.

It isn't that at all, Robb thinks, inwardly bemoaning how things have taken an unexpected and most unwelcome turn. He'd only wanted her confidence and to serve justice to the one who'd brought her pain. But he sees now that she will deny him both and wishes he'd had the sense to bring it up after instead of ruining the moment. Arwyn is turned away from him now, shielding her face with her dark hair. She doesn't trust me, he realizes. But mayhaps she will one day.

"We don't have to- we could just… go to sleep. If you'd prefer-"

"No," she rushes out, far too quickly, and Robb wonders at the reason. "No, my lord," Arwyn continues, gathering herself. "We should finish what we started. It is our duty and… it felt… or I thought it was rather… pleasant," she finishes, mild surprise lacing her revelation.

"It's supposed to feel pleasant," Robb murmurs when she leans forward to initiate another kiss. He gives into the embrace, though it is far more labored than what came before. The fervor has abandoned them and though the touches they share are nice, he finds himself questioning the placement of his hands, the positions of their bodies, desperately trying to recall Theon's crude recounting of his exploits with the northern whores for guidance.

In the end, Robb feels shamed that when he comes inside her, he is unable to bring her with him. Arwyn offers him a smile and an assurance that she enjoyed it every bit as much as he did. In that moment, he is not sure if he loves or hates her for the lie.

Sleep escapes him for some time. Arwyn has donned her shift once more and keeps her back facing him. Her breaths come evenly leaving Robb alone with his thoughts. The blood of her maidenhead is still drying on the sheets when he recalls her earlier words - duty, she called it. A truth to be sure, but Robb is certain now that there was something more…

A rock settles in the pit of his stomach as he thinks back on their coupling – the determined set to her face, the whimpering sounds she assured him were from her pleasure (stupid fool, he savagely berates himself), and the fleeting look of relief once the deed was over and her blood slicked the pale white sheets.

Hatred and guilt battle the rising sense of nausea and Robb is suddenly very sure that they were not alone in their marriage bed tonight. Walder Frey had been a silent companion all the while and it was not duty or desire that swayed Arwyn to welcoming Robb into her bed – it was fear.

So Robb does not sleep tonight. He simply lies abed, with face grim and eyes unblinking, wondering if it is possible to rape a woman who cries out yes instead of no.

From the surrounding halls, Grey Wind bays out into the dark of night, a mournful wail that echoes his master's trepidation.


A/N: Thanks again for reading! Looking forward to your thoughts!