Late May, 300 AC
The moon was the tiniest sliver of a waning crescent as Arya slipped out of the towerhouse. White Willow lay before her, silent in the darkness, all the smallfolk abed. The soft sounds of night surrounded her; the whisper of leaves in the breeze, the croaking of frogs, the burble of the bog waters. Nymeria's paws made no noise, no more than Arya's bare feet.
"And where are you going, princess?"
Arya winced. She might have been able to creep past Patrek Mallister, but Dacey Mormont was the eldest of five sisters, keen-eyed and sharp of hearing. She loomed over Arya, six feet of lanky warrior with a morningstar slung across her back, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
In answer, Arya held out her hand.
Dacey frowned as she plucked the bag from Arya's fingers. It was a small drawstring bag made of delicate silk, one of Sansa's treasures. Jeyne had kept it safe ever since the hollow hill, until Arya thought to ask for it. Gently Dacey tipped the bag into her cupped palm, a dozen precious seeds spilling out, small and white as pearls.
"What are these?"
"Weirwood seeds. Sansa was planting them." Arya scuffed the dirt with her toe. "I thought, I should plant one here. Maybe it would help Robb."
Dacey stared at the seeds. Nearly two moons since the Red Wedding, and still Robb lay confined to his sickbed. Jeyne Westerling was nothing if not meticulous. Each day she probed at his open wound, widening it ever so slowly, working her way toward the arrowhead. Her progress was so slow it made Arya want to scream. This morning, Robb had noticed her frustration as he lay there, hands fisted in the sheets while Grey Wind licked his fingers. Their supply of milk of the poppy had run out weeks ago.
"Look on the bright side, little sister," Robb panted through gritted teeth as Jeyne cleansed her bloody probe in wine. "I think we can safely say your betrothal to Elmar Frey is no longer a concern."
Arya was so surprised she giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth too late. Sansa wouldn't spend all her time brooding in hidden corners or sitting with her dying brother, let alone giggling at him. She would be acting like a great lady, taking care of her goodsister and supervising the camp. Jeyne Westerling barely slept nor ate, with all the time she spent tending Robb. She might not be pack, but Arya couldn't doubt her devotion. Sometimes Arya got her to share a meal, but Sansa would be better at it.
At Jeyne's direction Gendry had forged the peculiar tongs with which she hoped to remove the bodkin point. She had tried to grasp it using small tongs, but they could not grip the blood-slick steel. Anguy had shown her the different types of arrow heads; how bodkins were hollow in the middle, where the fletcher would place the wooden shaft in a slim socket. The shy healer queen had designed the tongs accordingly. They were small and hollow, the width of an arrow, with a long screw that ran through the middle of the tongs.
Gendry had banned Arya from watching him work. Mikken could make anything, no matter how many Stark children haunted his forge, but Gendry was only an apprentice boy, and nervous to boot. It didn't help that Patrek Mallister and the northern lordlings were constantly interrupting to ask after his progress. Lord Beric would have known better, Arya was certain, but he and Thoros had remained at the Twins to harry the Freys. Thankfully placing Nymeria to guard the forge quickly put an end to the interruptions. After three weeks of attempts, Gendry finally had a set of tongs which pleased both him and the little queen.
"Jeyne's removing the bodkin tomorrow," Arya pleaded. "I have to plant a seed tonight."
Dacey frowned as she poured the seeds back into the bag, her brow furrowed. Finally, she nodded.
"Come, little princess. I know just the spot."
The cottages of White Willow had once centered around an old tree that gave the village its name. Then, close on two hundred years ago, came the Dance of the Dragons. Some stupid Targaryen prince had burned half the villages of the Riverlands from the back of Vhagar, last of the Conqueror's dragons, and White Willow had been one of them.
The ashes of the old white willow had long since crumbled and blown away, leaving only a scorched flat stump. Dacey's morningstar made quick work of the remaining wood. When she was done Arya knelt, scooping away the ashes to make a hollow for the seed. Then she scrabbled at the bog soil around her, piling small handfuls over the ashes.
"Please help Robb, you old gods," she asked as she placed the seed in the loose earth.
"Help our king," Dacey echoed as she knelt, closing her eyes and bowing her head. "Help those taken captive to remain brave and strong."
That's not enough , Arya suddenly remembered. She nicked her thumb with her dagger, squeezing droplets of blood onto the spot where the seed lay. When it stopped dripping she sucked her thumb clean, rubbing it against her breeches to dry the wound.
At last Dacey rose from her knees. They walked in silence back to the towerhouse, up to the room Arya shared with Jeyne Poole and Meri. The older girls were already asleep, well used to Arya's wanderings. They hugged each other close as sisters, Jeyne's lips bumping up against Meri's forehead.
Arya undressed herself with a sigh, shoving her muddy clothes in a pile in the corner. Jeyne had left water in the basin that served to rinse her grimy hands, and there was a clean shift lying on a chair waiting for her. When she was ready for bed Arya clambered in beside Jeyne Poole, wishing she was Sansa. Her head barely touched the pillow when sleep took her.
Bright sunlight was streaming through the small window when Arya awoke, the bloody taste of Nymeria's breakfast of rabbit upon her tongue. The she-wolf had left the bones and fur on top of the weirwood seed. Good girl, Arya thought, picking at the scab on her thumb.
A tray of food awaited her on the dressing table. She pulled herself to her feet with a groan, missing the warmth of the blankets as she padded over to inspect the cold food. There was cattail bread with butter and honey, hardboiled eggs, greasy sausages, and a mug of mead. Arya gulped her food, barely remembering to dunk her thumb in the last smear of honey. Jeyne Westerling said honey prevented a wound from festering, and Arya vaguely remembered the maester telling her the same thing at Riverrun.
Jeyne. She had planned to work on Robb as soon as the light was strong enough. Arya bolted from the room, forgetting she was clad in only a shift. When she reached the door of Robb's chambers she found Ser Patrek Mallister standing guard, dark circles under his eyes.
"Is he—" she couldn't say it. Patrek Mallister gave way, letting her open the door.
Robb lay on his bed, asleep, a clean bandage covering the ruin of his cheek. The bloody tongs lay on the bedside table beside the tiny bodkin that had nearly killed him. For a moment Arya thought Grey Wind was curled between Robb and the wall, until she realized it was Jeyne, a blanket haphazardly dragged over her sleeping form. The dark circles under her eyes didn't look so bad when she slept, but she still look exhausted, worn down like a woman thrice her age.
Grey Wind lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, his golden eyes watchful. Good wolf. Arya stroked his ears, the fur soft beneath her fingers. The direwolf whined, leaning into her hand. His boy had a good mate, a clever mate. She'd taken out the man-claw that was hurting him so. She's not so bad, Arya admitted begrudgingly, but she's not pack. The direwolf growled low. Before she knew what was happening he nipped her finger, drawing blood. Arya hissed in pain.
Pack, the direwolf insisted, glaring. Arya nodded, sucking her thumb.
Over the next week Robb seemed to grow stronger every day. His fever was a thing of the past, his appetite so large Dacey teased her king that he might one day rival the Greatjon. He could sit up properly now, his arms regaining their strength as he practiced picking up objects of increasing weight. Arya faithfully fed a dead rabbit to the weirwood each morning, and within days a tiny white shoot poked out of the soil.
Robb was taking his first faltering steps across his chamber, one arm slung about Jeyne's shoulders, when they heard the clamor of riders below.
The Greatjon was still out hunting Bolton, not expected to return for days. Needle was in Arya's hand quick as thought; Grey Wind and Nymeria rose to their feet, growls rumbling in their throats. Jeyne Poole turned pale and ran to shut and bar the door, her arms trembling under the weight of the heavy wood.
A cool autumn breeze ruffled Robb's hair as Jeyne helped him to the open window. Patrek Mallister stood guard at Robb's door his men-at-arms; it was Dacey Mormont who held the towerhouse with Bear Island men.
"Your Grace!" The she-bear had lungs of steel, her words rising clearly above the tumult. "Your lord uncle begs admittance!"
"Which one?" Arya shouted down. None of their uncles could be here, the Blackfish was at Riverrun and Benjen Stark was at the Wall. Unless...
"Lord Tully!" Dacey called back.
"Then let them in!"
Robb's voice was deep and kingly, yet his smile was as boyish as Arya remembered. She helped Jeyne Poole unbar the door as Jeyne Westerling helped her husband to the largest chair in the room, setting his crown upon his brow. Grey Wind and Nymeria slunk to either side of him, sitting on their haunches, their noses twitching.
Through the open door Arya spied Patrek Mallister, tears dripping down his long nose as he embraced his liege lord. Uncle Edmure's hair was longer, his face drawn, but it was her mother's brother who stood there, surrounded by men who shared his pallor and his sporadic coughs. The freed lordlings still wore their wedding garb, though it was torn and stained. Arya spied the dancing maiden of the Pipers, the green dragon and white tower of the Vances of Atranta, the green willow of the Rygers, and twined red and white serpents that she did not know.
She did know the man standing behind them.
"You!" Arya snarled, yanking Needle from its sheath, but Grey Wind was faster than she was. With a great bound Grey Wind knocked Ser Perwyn Frey flat on his back, jaws slavering above his throat- and covered the knight's face in kisses.
"Princess Arya, sheathe your blade." Robb's voice was as stern as father's; Arya obeyed almost by instinct. "Grey Wind, to me."
On the floor Ser Perwyn coughed, trying to wipe the slobber from his face with his sleeve. A girl stepped from behind Edmure to help Perwyn to his feet; Roslin, his sister and Edmure's wife. Arya frowned, looking closer. Roslin's gown was a rusty Tully red; Ser Perwyn's tunic bore a ragged patch where a sigil had been torn away. A few men in the back of the press shared his look, and his lack of sigil.
"Well met, nephew," Edmure said, falling to one knee. The rest of the men followed suit, Roslin curtsying deeply.
"You may rise, uncle. And you, gentle lady, and you, my brave lords."
The lordlings staggered to their feet. Imprisonment had treated them harshly. A few were shivering despite the warm fire in the hearth; some were sweating, others swaying. A few stared at the bandage on Robb's cheek before dropping their eyes.
"The gods have blessed us indeed," Robb said. "I am afraid that our gracious host, Ser Hoster Grey, is out hunting. Princess Arya's maid shall see to it that you are fed and provided hot baths. I must needs speak privily with my uncle and our friends of Frey." He glanced sharply at Ser Perwyn as Jeyne Poole stepped forward, her posture as perfect as Sansa's.
"If you will follow me, my lords," she said graciously. No one but Arya would notice the hand trembling with nerves. After a moment of confusion the lordlings followed her down the passageway. When they were gone, Ser Patrek closed the door behind them.
"Your Grace," Ser Perwyn said, crumpling to his knees before Robb's chair. The four Frey men behind him followed suit, their heads bent with shame.
"Explain." Robb's eyes were cold and implacable as winter.
"I did not know, I swear it by the old gods and the new. Benfrey asked me to visit the bastard feast, and when I was half drunk he locked me in a room before the slaughter began. No one thought to release me until late the next day."
Ser Perwyn wept openly as he talked of the carnage. The northmen at the bastard feast had been caught unawares, slaughtered to the last man, their bodies plundered by Frey men-at-arms. Even so, one of them had managed to slay Benfrey, hence Perwyn being forgotten.
"The western keep was even worse," Perwyn said dully. "I didn't know what had befallen Lady Catelyn until I saw her lying there. Lord Walder's corpse laid upon a bier, dressed in his finest with a collar to hide the ruin of his throat, and they just left her in a pile with the rest like so much trash."
"And then they threw her naked in the river," Robb growled. Ser Perwyn looked up, startled.
"No, your grace. That was the tale Ryman put about. I waited until all were sleeping, then crept into the hall and carried her away."
"I caught him in the hall on my way for a piss," said the oldest Frey, his voice as dour as his face.
"Walton didn't know anything until the fighting started," Perwyn explained.
"The gods damn the man who breaks guest right," Walton said bluntly. "I am a plain soldier, but some orders go too far. My sons and I—" he gestured to the two men beside him "—claimed we were going to the eastern keep, then stood aside. We could not kill our kin, but we killed no northmen nor rivermen, and may the Father strike me down if I lie. By the time we returned to the western keep Black Walder and Lame Lothar's men were too busy slaughtering each other to notice us."
"What of my mother?" Robb did not twitch a hair; he might as well have been asking about the weather.
"Walton found a Stark cloak, and we wrapped her in it before laying her at the roots of the heart tree in our godswood. When we came back with shovels to bury her..." Perwyn swallowed. "She was gone, and the weirwood was weeping."
Arya's face felt wet. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes.
"She was a great lady," Perwyn said, smiling sadly. "When you were gone from the hall Lord Walder taunted her, saying his sons would catch hers in moments. Lady Catelyn told him they would be too busy to chase you and slit his throat. By the time the fighting ended..."
"Tytos fell and cracked his head when Lady Catelyn shoved him to get to you, Your Grace. Patrek Mallister slew Rhaegar and Raymund, and Smalljon Umber slew Raymund's son Robert as well as my half brother Whalen. Dacey Mormont slew Martyn and Ronel Rivers and wounded Ser Hosteen, but it was Lame Lothar who finished him off, aye, and slew Merrett into the bargain. Black Walder slew Edwyn, Aenys slew Jared, and no one is sure who killed Petyr Pimple. All told, we buried five trueborn sons, two bastard sons, and six grandsons."
Silence fell for a moment. Arya could hear the direwolves' soft panting and the rattling breath of one of the kneeling Freys. Jeyne Westerling rested a hand on the back of Robb's chair, the other covering her mouth in horror. Robb reached up to clasp her hand, his eyes still fixed on Ser Perwyn.
"Lady Catelyn was more successful than she could have dreamed. Ser Ryman was never meant to inherit, and he's drunk more often than not. Lame Lothar schemes and Black Walder plots, and their men-at-arms go in fear of falling down the stairs or vanishing after a dalliance with the wrong serving girl."
Arya stared as Perwyn continued his tale. Walton Frey was second in line to inherit the Twins after Black Walder, his sons Sweet Steffon and Bryan third and fourth. Yet they feared Lame Lothar so much that they'd planned to make their escape and become hedge knights, until Perwyn had proposed an alternative.
The Frey men-at-arms were not all loyal to Black Walder or Lame Lothar. No one told them what to do until the last moment, and many had been aghast at the violation of guest right. They dared not disobey orders directly, but they had hacked and slashed at tables and chairs, missing the northmen and rivermen they were meant to slay.
Edmure had been imprisoned in the bridal suite with Roslin. No one found it odd that her brother Perwyn might visit her, nor suspected his true intentions. Access to the riverlords in the dungeons proved more difficult, but neither Black Walder nor Lame Lothar thought Walton capable of betrayal. While Arya thought that Walton Frey seemed a tad simple, he didn't seem stupid. She supposed if she had that many quarreling brothers and nephews and cousins, she might keep her head down too. When people underestimated you, you could get away with more.
Walton Frey had gotten away with a lot. He and his men-at-arms had openly marched Ser Marq Piper, Ronald Vance, Trystan Ryger, and Robert Paege out of the dungeons in the middle of the night, claiming they'd been summoned by the new Lord Ryman on a drunken whimsy. While they retreated to the stables, Ser Perwyn and his men had fetched Edmure, Roslin, and an absurd number of adjacent Freys.
Roslin refused to abandon her half-sister Alyx, who served as her lady in waiting. Apparently fourteen year old Arwyn and six year old Shirei, Lord Walder's youngest daughters, could not be left behind either, though Arya didn't really understand why. Both girls had been dosed with dreamwine and carried away in their sleep, to prevent argument. Alyx's older brother Alesander had openly protested the Red Wedding and been locked in his room for it, as had Ryger Rivers. Since they would be immediately suspected of aiding the escape, Perwyn had brought them too, lest they be killed. Finally they'd made off with Rhaegar Frey's two young sons, who both stood to inherit before Lame Lothar, as well as their sister for good measure.
"Their mother died not a month before the Red Wedding, poor things, and Rhaegar was a terrible father," Sweet Steffon explained. "If Your Grace permits, we would put them on a ship and send them to their Beesbury kin in the Reach. Lord Beesbury is their grandfather; their mother Jeyne was his youngest child. She spoke often of taking them there, but Rhaegar would not permit it."
"Even if Your Grace says yes, we will still have more Freys than the Twins does," Edmure japed half-heartedly, one arm wrapped around his trembling wife.
"We are not Freys," Perwyn snapped. Robb tilted his head, the very picture of dignified confusion.
"A father may disown a son who shames him. Just so may a son disown the father. Lord Walder's actions are an abomination before the old gods and the new. Never again shall we wear the towers of House Frey, nor claim the name of the man who sired us."
Robb raised an eyebrow.
"All of you? Even the children?"
Sweet Steffon and Ryger Rivers both began to speak, looked at each other, then fell silent.
"We hope that some will be permitted to take the name of their mother's kin, as they were too young and innocent to share in our shame," Sweet Steffon explained. "As for those of us who are older..."
Robb rose from his chair slowly, his legs straining from the effort. The Frey men looked up at him, their eyes filled with fear.
"House Truefaith, I name you," her brother declared. "Each man who is of age may swear his sword to me, if he so chooses, or depart unmolested once I quit this place to march north. Those who swear fealty to me shall serve honorably as household knights, with the chance for lands in the North." He paused.
"What of my squire? Where is Olyvar? Is he safe?"
"Safe and angry, from what I heard," Perwyn answered with a weak smile. "Somehow he got wind of the Red Wedding and tried to escape to warn you. Black Walder caught him, and he was escorted under guard to our uncle's keep at Rosby. The castellan will still have him locked in his chambers, I don't doubt."
Robb sighed. "A pity. I have missed having him by my side. I had hoped that when we attacked Moat Cailin—"
"Moat Cailin has fallen, Your Grace," Bryan interrupted, wincing as his father cuffed him upside the head.
"Don't interrupt the king, boy," Walton growled.
"Is this true?"
Edmure nodded, as did the Freys.
"The raven came a day or so before we escaped; one of Lame Lothar's men let the news slip. Crannogmen, Mormonts, Glovers, and Manderlys fell upon the moat from three sides. The ironmen were already weak from sickness and from the crannogmen's sneak attacks, and the assault took them by surprise."
"There was also news from King's Landing," Roslin said softly, her eyes darting to Edmure. He sighed, brushing a kiss to her forehead.
"In time, sweetling."
Suddenly Sweet Steffon shivered violently. Sweat beaded his brow as he shook, a hand pressed to his mouth. Jeyne Westerling thrust a chamber pot under him just in time as he retched.
"How long has he been like this?" The queen asked, her voice tinged with dread. Robb glanced at her, concerned.
"The riverlords took ill in the dungeons, but most have improved," Edmure said, suppressing a cough. "Our flight wearied us, that is all."
"Has anyone else been shaking? Coughing? Have any suffered fevers or struggled to control their bowels?"
Edmure was shaking his head when Bryan spoke up again.
"Cousin Jonos can't ride for two hours without fouling himself. And White Walda has been burning hotter than the hearth, and all dizzy when she dismounts."
"What is it?" Robb asked, alarm rising in his voice. Jeyne knelt, pressing the back of her hand to Sweet Steffon's brow.
"Winter fever," she breathed.
I actually briefly researched planting on top of old tree stumps (generally not recommended, apparently), plus the change to soil pH caused by ashes, plus the acidity of bog soil. Then I hit my limit and went fuck it, symbolism wins. Weirwoods are magical, they do what they want so long as the soil isn't incredibly rocky (the Eyrie) or dry (Dorne).
Robb's wound and Jeyne's medical techniques are based on the real life injury of King Henry V of England when he was a teenager.
Keeping track of all the Freys and who killed who was a goddamn nightmare. Choosing the faithful Freys was also a difficulty, as some of them have VERY thin character bios. Walton I chose because iron loyalty and following orders doesn't mean having zero honor. Plus, self interest, he's first to inherit after Black Walder and he knows he's not gonna live that long, not with Lame Lothar around. Perwyn and Alesander were faithful in canon. Ryger Rivers told off Lord Walder for being rude to Cat in Game of Thrones.
The implication that every Frey man-at-arms was totally hunky dory with the Red Wedding, an unprecedented violation of social norms, has never struck me as plausible. Feudal culture was strict, yes, but peasants rebelled all the time! Religion was a huge deal! I don't know if this issue will come up in the unpublished books, but it bothers me, so it's addressed here.
