It'd been a trap – and a well-laid one at that, he'd grant them. Rather underhanded for a Stark, he muses. But then there's no honor to be had in war. No right or wrong side. Just winners and losers. And this war is one that Jaime Lannister cannot afford to lose. Though the battle is looking grim.
He'd been out raiding with a small party of only four hundred soldiers when the force of five thousand Stark and Tully bannermen descended. At present, Jaime is knee-deep in bodies of the men he's slain. There's none on this battlefield that can match his prowess and though these men are doubtlessly brave and fighting for a nobler cause than he, they are all nonetheless dead the moment they engage him.
He pulls his sword out of his latest victim and a trail of bile and innards follow the steel's departure. Killing is the sweetest thing there is. The Hound's oft-repeated words echo in his mind and Jaime grins, spits blood and sweat in the face of a Stark soldier and then removes the obviously green boy of his head. Poor dog, he's obviously never been buried cock-deep inside a woman like Cersei. If he were being honest, Jaime would have to admit that though his twin sister can be considered many things, sweet will never be one of them.
Lannisters will not win this battle, he realizes. So he thinks quickly, catches sight of Robb Stark fighting gallantly in the foray, and begins humming The Rains of Castamere, footwork in perfect sync with the melody as he cuts his way toward the young lord. He's nearly within spitting distance when the boy's guards react, moving against him as a unit. Three fall with difficulty, another parries to his side and Jaime follows, moving slower than he'd like, his own wounds weighing him down. And so he does not know Dacey Mormont approaches from behind until the hilt of her sword delivers him into oblivion.
Jaime's thrown face-first into the dirt, but ignores the pain, forces himself into a sitting position, cocksure grin firmly in place even as he faces his enemies.
"By the time they knew what was happening it had already happened," Robb states as he comes to stand next to his mother, who glares at Jaime with utter disdain.
There's a quip on the edge of his tongue, until Jaime notices a young girl flanking the boy's other side, her fingers curled deep in direwolf fur and dressed rather tellingly in Stark colors.
Jaime throws his head back and laughs. "So there's your price for crossing the Trident. Well-played, boy. And you, my lady," his eyes catch the girl's and Jaime smirks at the recognition and fear buried in their depths. "Congratulations. I regret I was unable to attend the joyous union. It would seem my invitation was lost on the wind."
He banters back and forth with the elder Lady Stark, rather enjoys goading her, especially after that business with Tyrion. But every so often, his eyes flick over to the girl, and is pleased that her attention is riveted on him. Good, Jaime thinks, let her remember. It may make her useful to me in the end.
"Send his head to his father," shouts the Greyjoy ward. "He cut down ten of our men. You saw him."
"He's more use to us alive than dead," comes the Stark lord's response, but Jaime reads the conflict in his eyes.
More useful, mayhaps. But also more dangerous, boy.
Lady Catelyn orders him bound and imprisoned and Jaime offers to end this war here and now with single combat. Robb Stark refuses, as he knew he would. The boy would have to be a complete idiot to fight the Kingslayer and hope to win. As he's dragged away, Jaime tosses a wink at the newest Lady Stark. She averts her gaze, jaw tight, fingers keeping a firm hold on the snarling direwolf at her side.
He laughs and wonders how long she'll hold out until she comes to him, how long she'll wrestle with herself before giving into the inevitable. A fortnight? Mayhaps a month? She would come though, of that much Jaime was certain. And when she did… well…
A wolf cannot contain a lion. Not forever.
The men around him are cheering, but Robb can't stomach the sound of it. He doesn't begrudge them their victory celebration, knows it's either bawdy songs and exaggerations of battle valor or survivor's guilt and weeping for those forever lost. Fathers. Sons. Richard Karstark is now left with but one heir and the House Hornwood without any. All three dead so that he may live. And thousands more for the sake of his father and sisters.
Robb realizes with a start that his hands are trembling and he quickly excuses himself. He is Lord of Winterfell, commander of the Northern army. He cannot let his men sense his weakness, must never seem to be anything less than perfectly in control. It was his father's burden once, but now it is his, and he will bear it well. As well as any boy of five-and-ten could ever hope. What other choice does he have?
He enters his tent and immediately disrobes, removing the bloodstained cloak and the shirt beneath, and then stops, sensing movement behind him. Grey Wind is out hunting and none other would dare enter his tent without summons. Robb's hand moves to the pommel of his sword and his blade kisses the open air, swinging to a stop in front of the tent flap right before it opens and Arwyn walks in.
Her eyes are wide and focused on the naked metal inches from her face. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not think you'd be back this early."
Robb sheaths the weapon, embarrassed at having drawn it on his own lady wife, and quickly steps back to let her in. "I grew tired of the revelry."
"So soon?"
He opens his mouth, ready to offer the same prepared explanation he'll give to any man who inquires as to his early withdrawal come morning, when he thinks over her first words. "Wait, if you thought I'd still be celebrating, then what are you doing here?"
Even in the dimly lit tent, her flush is easily spotted. And though she appears tense, Arwyn moves further into the room, closer to the bed, and discards her cloak. Beneath it is but a thin shift and, despite his best efforts to the contrary, Robb grows uncomfortable in his breeches. "I thought to be waiting for you, upon your return, my lord."
His throat feels thick and tight at the suggestion in her voice and so he forces out but one word. "Why?"
She appears uncertain by his questioning, but draws confidence around her like armor, standing up tall, though it cannot hide the nerves that edge her eyes. "I've heard that men often enjoy the comfort of a woman after a battle."
Robb thinks back to their first (and last) coupling and his stomach turns sour. "Is that something you heard from Walder Frey?"
"No, that's something I learned from the bards." Her tone is light, almost teasing like, but it does not soothe him and Arwyn quickly adopts his discomfort. "It's been over a week since our wedding, my lord, and you've not sought out my bed since. Was I not… pleasing to you?"
Robb grinds his teeth and thinks of what to say. He could offer her assurances, perhaps chide her for thinking so carnally during a time of war, or even beg off with exhaustion, but none of those would garner him an answer to the question that has haunted him these past several nights.
"Do you offer yourself to me because it's what you want? Or because it's what your father's commanded?"
Arwyn startles at his candor, is speechless for a moment, before fumbling a response. "My father? He has nothing to do with - "
"Arwyn, we will share many things together in our lifetime. Let's not have lies be one of them. Please."
He is practically begging, pleading for truth. She holds strong for a moment and then sinks onto the bed, shoulders hunched and head downcast. "It is as you say. In part."
Robb's stomach drops at the acknowledgment. He sees her distress and knows not what course of action to take. Would a touch from him offer comfort? Or only serve as an unhappy reminder? He hovers by the bed, wholly unsure and feeling awkward as ever. "In part?"
Her eyes dart up, flick over his naked torso, and then land on his face, incredulous. "Do I want you?" she scoffs. "There's not a girl in Westeros who wouldn't want you."
There is no flattery to her remark, simply fact. And though he knows he shouldn't, Robb feels a prickle of satisfaction at her words, and a swell of courage. He joins her on the bed, sits closer than he should, takes her hand in his and squeezes it reassuringly. "Then forget your father. You're a Frey no longer and he cannot harm you now. He's leagues away."
"But his sons are not," she whispers. "My half-brothers, many of them fight here at your side, and they could -"
"I told you, when I make a vow, I mean to keep it. They raise a hand against you, they die." It is not some flowery prose or a lover's promise and he does not intend it as such. Robb Stark is too much like his father in that manner. He cannot (will not) spin lies to win favor. Arwyn does not have his heart (not now, though gods be good, one day, he hopes). But she has his sword. And mayhaps to her, it is the more valuable of the two.
Her eyes search his own, as if weighing his words. Or his worth. Her hand releases his and her fingers rise to ghost over the angular planes of his face. "Such a man should not exist outside of the songs," she murmurs, not so much to him as to herself. "What chance do you have against monsters like my father?"
"I have whatever chance you give me, my lady."
Her smile is honest, but hard as steel. "You launched a war to save your family. I would do no less for mine." Robb thinks of her five siblings – the only Freys she bears love for. Wendel fosters at Seagard, under the protection of the Mallisters. Colmar is safe in the arms of the Seven, soon to be a sworn Brother of a septry. Elmar will marry Arya and rides North for Winterfell with their brother Waltyr. It is only Shirei who was left behind at Lord Walder's insistence, alone in a den of weasels.
"But we are family now, as well," she continues, surprising him. "So I will tell you what I know, little though there is, if you but promise me that you'll not act until my sister is safe."
The fear in her eyes is palpable and Arwyn worries her bottom lip so viciously between her teeth that he fears it will soon split open and bleed. Robb takes her face in his hands, kisses her chastely to ease the tension wracking her body. He relates to her fear, can taste it for his own, and thinks of Arya and Sansa and how he'd give near anything to have them returned to him. "Aye, my lady. What was it Walder told you?
"My lord, Walder Frey would never deign to tell a woman anything unless it was directly related to how he wants her fucked. Or, in my case, how often."
Robb removes his hands from Arwyn's face and his fingernails dig dark crescent shapes into his palms. "And how often is that?"
"I believe his exact words were, 'you'll let him fuck you 'til your cunt is raw and bleeds again if that's what it takes – and you won't stop until you carry his wolf in your belly.'"
Robb jerks up and away from the bed, his breathing heavy and face mottled with rage. That any man (let alone a father) would dare speak to a woman in such a manner was obscene. That Walder Frey had the temerity to threaten the Lady of Winterfell was unpardonable. Robb struggles to rein in his fury, wants to send riders for the Crossing to fetch Lord Frey so that he might learn the double meaning of House Stark's words.
Winter will come for you, Walder.
But he knows he cannot. Not yet. So Robb turns to Arwyn, hauls her up beside him, arms locked in his vice-like grip. "I won't lie to you. I could lose this war and the fate of my lady wife would be… uncertain, at best. But you must know, you must believe that I would never -"
He does not finish the words, does not know how to do so without sounding unconscionably vulgar. But Robb can imagine the fate Lord Walder had made her ready to endure. A husband who would drive into her without compassion, spare no second thought for her cries of pain, or the blood trickling down her legs that such rough invasion would undoubtedly bring. His stomach churns and Robb is not sure if he wants to retch or kill someone. Perhaps both.
"Foolish boy," Arwyn says, though her voice is soft and kind as she pries his hands off her arms, bringing them to rest on her belly. "The pain was merely an unfortunate corollary to be endured. But your heir was his goal."
Her eyes are olive maelstroms that bore into his own, demanding him to understand what is left unsaid. Robb's body goes frigid as he does. If Arwyn were to become heavy with child, he'd send her North. Both for her protection and that of their child. If he were to meet his end on the battlefield, Arwyn would be given control of Winterfell and the North until his son came of age.
And, through her, Walder Frey would reign.
"Gods be good," he breathes, falling back on the bed, stunned. "Do his oaths mean so little to him?"
Arwyn joins him, weary but resolute. "You forget, my lord. The Freys married into the Lannisters first. And father has always favored lions over wolves."
Robb wonders what Lord Walder's plans entail. Holding sway over his wife (and unborn son) should Robb fall in battle? Parleying with the Starks only to turn cloaks when a Lannister alliance proves more useful? Either way, there is only one thing to be done about it. But the knowledge tastes like ash in his mouth.
The smile Arwyn gives him is tinged with bitter understanding, as is the kiss she presses against his cheek. "I fear I've troubled you enough this night, dear husband."
She stands, donning her cloak and waving him off when he offers to escort her to her nearby tent. She is almost to the exit when Robb speaks out at last, unwilling to let her leave without voicing his concern. "I do not wish to be a slayer of your kin, my lady. I do not want to lay that burden upon you. Or have it reside between us."
"My lord, Walder Frey has brought me only pain in this life. There is nothing his ghost could do to me that the man hasn't already. Except, mayhaps, grant me peace."
Arwyn leaves him alone then. Robb wonders exactly what his lady wife has been made to suffer at the hands of his good-father. And if a quick death is more than the man deserves.
A/N: Lots of questions posed in this chapter – the answers will be coming to light soon enough. Next up: Eddard Stark's death sends Robb into grief and Sansa into a moment of madness (yep, we're finally heading to King's Landing!).
A special thank you to all of you lovely readers kind enough to leave reviews. They bolster my writing inspiration and mean so very much to me!
