Roslin XVIII
Roslin sat quietly in front of the fire in her chambers, cradling Torrhen in her arms as a gaggle of young Frey girls burst into the room. Their laughter and chatter filled the space, momentarily lifting the heavy quiet that often lingered in the keep. These girls—sisters, nieces, great-nieces, and even great-great-nieces of House Frey—had descended on Riverrun for Alyx's wedding, and their youthful energy was contagious, even for Roslin.
Perra, a sweet girl of only five, and the granddaughter of Roslin's nephew Ryman, was the first to speak up. Her big brown eyes gleamed with excitement as she peered up at the baby in Roslin's arms. "He's so cute," she cooed, her curly brown hair bouncing around her pinched little face as she leaned closer.
"He looks like Lord Stark," declared White Walda, the daughter of Rhaegar Frey, one of Roslin's father's many grandsons. Walda was nearing ten, with long, flowing white-blonde hair that had earned her the affectionate nickname. Her sharp eyes studied Torrhen with all the seriousness of a child determined to sound wise beyond her years.
Zia Frey, another of Walder Frey's many great-granddaughters, tilted her head and grinned. "No, he looks like Ro," she said, her voice soft but confident. Zia was nearly fifteen, with sweet features that masked the fact that she was likely next in line for a "suitable" match. Roslin knew this wedding would be one of many opportunities for her father to start bargaining over the futures of his granddaughters.
Roslin watched the girls with a quiet smile as they debated, their youthful voices rising and falling as they compared Torrhen's features to various family members. She couldn't help but marvel at how easily they filled the room with light and life. It was a stark contrast to the looming weight of the Frey legacy, always lingering in the background, always calculating.
"He has his father's eyes," Roslin said softly, stroking Torrhen's auburn hair. The girls fell quiet for a moment, all looking at her as if waiting for her to declare whose likeness Torrhen bore most. She met their expectant faces and smiled gently. "But he'll be his own man one day. A Stark and a Frey, and maybe something more than either."
The girls nodded solemnly, as if they understood the importance of her words, before launching back into their excited chatter about the upcoming wedding, the gowns, the feast, and the potential suitors that might attend. Roslin listened, her heart warmed by their innocence, but she couldn't shake the feeling that her son, so small and fragile in her arms now, would one day carry the weight of legacies far heavier than these girls could ever imagine.
As the conversation flowed around her, Zia's bright voice cut through the noise. "I hope when I marry one day, they'll love me as much as Robb loves you," she said, her tone wistful yet hopeful.
Perra chimed in enthusiastically, "Yes, you're like a princess with her prince!" Her words brought a smile to Roslin's face, a fleeting moment of joy that felt almost surreal amidst the realities of their world.
Just then, Torrhen stirred in her arms, his tiny fingers curling around her thumb. The girls gasped, their focus shifting back to the baby. "He's awake!" Perra squealed, bouncing on her toes with excitement.
Roslin smiled, bringing Torrhen closer to the girls. "Do you want to hold him?" she asked, her heart warm at the thought of sharing her joy with them.
Walda's eyes widened. "Can I?" she asked, her seriousness forgotten in the face of the baby's innocence.
"Of course," Roslin replied, carefully passing Torrhen into Walda's waiting arms. The older girl cradled him carefully, her expression a mixture of awe and pride as she gazed down at the infant.
"He's so small!" Walda exclaimed, her voice barely above a whisper. "He feels so fragile."
"Like a little bird," Zia added, her eyes wide with wonder. "You have to be careful with him."
As they took turns holding Torrhen, their laughter and chatter resumed, filling the room with light. Roslin watched them, her heart swelling with a mix of joy and concern. The innocence of childhood felt so fleeting, so precious.
The conversation shifted to the upcoming wedding, with the girls excitedly discussing their own dreams of gowns and dancing. "I want a dress with lots of ribbons!" Perra declared, her eyes sparkling. "And maybe some flowers in my hair!"
"I want to dance with a Lord!" Zia giggled, her imagination taking flight. "But which one? Lord Butterwell? Lord Piper?"
Roslin chuckled, joining in their laughter, but as the conversation wore on, she couldn't shake the feeling that their lighthearted dreams would soon face the complexities of reality.
"Alyx is going to be such a beautiful bride," Ryella said softly, her voice barely rising above the crackle of the fire. Ryella had always been one of the quieter girls, shy and delicate in her manner. Roslin marveled at how much she had grown. When Roslin had last seen her, Ryella had been little more than a babe, trailing after the older girls with wide eyes. Now, she had blossomed into a proper young lady.
Marissa, a spirited niece of thirteen, nodded eagerly in agreement. "And Lord Tully loves her," she added, her voice full of conviction. "He's waited so long to marry her. It's like a real love story, isn't it?"
Roslin smiled at their excitement, warmth spreading through her as she listened to the girls gush about her neice Alyx's upcoming wedding.
"Lord Tully will be waiting longer still if you aren't all ready," a voice interrupted from the doorway.
Roslin turned, her breath catching for a moment as she struggled to place the face before her. For an instant, she didn't recognise the girl standing there. But then, the pieces clicked into place, and a wave of recognition washed over her.
It was Alyx.
The transformation was striking. The anxious but playful girl Roslin had once known now stood before her as a woman—a bride-to-be, poised and elegant in a way that took Roslin by surprise. Her dark brown hair was swept up into a loose braid that fell over one shoulder, and her blue eyes gleamed with a mischievous sparkle that hadn't dimmed with time. Alyx looked radiant, as though the joy of her impending marriage to Lord Tully had infused her with a glow from within.
The room fell silent, the girls' excited chatter replaced by wide-eyed admiration as they took in Alyx's appearance. Even Perra, who had been chattering non-stop about gowns and flowers, fell quiet, her eyes round as she stared at the bride-to-be.
"Alyx!" Roslin exclaimed, a smile breaking across her face as she rose from her seat. She crossed the room, careful not to jostle Torrhen, and wrapped her niece in a warm embrace. "I almost didn't recognise you!"
Alyx laughed, a soft, melodious sound that filled the room with its warmth. "I could say the same about you, Roslin," she teased, pulling back to study her niece's face. "Motherhood suits you."
Roslin blushed slightly, glancing down at Torrhen, who had settled peacefully in her arms once more. "And being a bride suits you," she replied, her smile softening. "You look... stunning."
"Not quite a bride yet," Alyx said with a playful wink. "But soon enough."
The girls, who had been watching in awe, began to murmur amongst themselves, clearly enchanted by Alyx's presence. Even Zia, who was usually so confident, looked a little starstruck.
"You're going to be the most beautiful bride ever," Ryella said, her quiet voice filled with admiration.
Alyx turned to the younger girls, her smile warm and genuine. "Thank you, Ryella. I hope I'll live up to your expectations."
"And Lord Tully must be so excited to marry you!" Marissa chimed in, unable to contain her enthusiasm. "He's waited so long—he must love you so much!"
Alyx's expression softened, and for a moment, Roslin saw something deeper flicker in her sister's eyes—a hint of the love and sacrifice that lay behind the wedding. "He's only waited 9 months," Alyx said chuckling. "He's a good man, and I'm lucky to have him."
Roslin watched her sister closely, sensing the gravity beneath Alyx's words. She knew there had been complications with the marriage arrangements—delays, political maneuverings, and the weight of their family's alliances pressing down on Alyx's shoulders. But despite it all, here she was, standing tall and radiant, ready to walk into her future with a grace Roslin admired.
"But," Alyx continued, her playful tone returning as she looked around at the gathered girls, "we won't make him wait any longer than he has to, will we?"
The girls giggled and shook their heads, their excitement bubbling over once more.
"Then off you go," Alyx said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "There's still much to do before the wedding, and you lot are part of it!"
With that, the girls hurried out of the room, their laughter echoing down the hall as they disappeared. Roslin chuckled softly, watching them go. She turned back to her niece, her expression softening. "You really do look happy, Alyx," she said, her voice quiet but full of affection.
Alyx's smile faltered just for a moment, but then she nodded. "I am," she said, though her voice carried a weight that didn't quite match her words. "I'll be happy, Roslin. I'll make it work."
Roslin knew the complexities of love in their world—how marriage was often more about duty than choice, more about securing alliances than following one's heart. But as she looked at Alyx, she hoped that, in time, she would find the happiness she deserved, the kind of love that ran deeper than politics and promises.
"I know you will," Roslin said softly, squeezing her hand. There was a deep affection in her eyes, a bond that had always been unspoken between them. "You've always had a way of making the best of things, no matter what."
Alyx's smile returned, a glimmer of warmth chasing away the hint of uncertainty that had momentarily clouded her expression. "And you, Roslin," she said, her voice softening as she looked at her niece with fondness. "You've found love too. That much is clear."
Roslin glanced down at Torrhen, cradled in her arms, his tiny hand clutching at her dress. Her heart swelled as she thought of Robb—of the way he loved her, of the life they had built together despite the odds. "Yes," she whispered, her voice filled with quiet joy. "I have."
But then, curiosity stirred within her. It had been so long since she'd been home, and the world of the Freys, with its endless plots and alliances, had continued without her. "But tell me," Roslin said, looking back at Alyx, "what have I missed? What's been happening at home since I left?"
Alyx sighed, as if unsure where to begin. "Well, where to start," she said with a hint of humour. "Your marriage to Robb has only made Grandfather more determined to secure good matches for the rest of us. It's like a fever—he's more relentless than ever."
Roslin raised an eyebrow, half expecting this. Walder Frey had always been eager to secure his family's future through advantageous marriages. "Who's been matched then?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Amy," Alyx began, "has been betrothed to Lancel Lannister. She left for Lannisport just before we came here. Grandfather sees it as a great victory—binding our house to the Lannisters."
Roslin's lips tightened at the mention of the Lannisters, knowing the political weight that came with such a union. "Lancel Lannister," she murmured. "That's... unexpected."
Alyx nodded in agreement, her smile a little thin. "He's not exactly what we'd imagined for Amy, but it's a powerful match. And then there's Little Bee—Bee has been betrothed to Lord Smallwood's son. It's not quite as grand as the Lannister match, but it will strengthen our alliances with the local lords."
Roslin smiled faintly. Little Bee, one of their younger cousins, had always been a sweet, quiet girl. The thought of her marrying into House Smallwood seemed fitting, though it tugged at Roslin's heart to think of another member of their family being tied into political knots.
"And of course, you know about Tyta?" Alyx said, her tone shifting, her eyes glancing at Roslin with something like hesitation.
Roslin blinked in surprise. "No," she replied, a frown creasing her brow. "What about her?"
Alyx hesitated for a moment longer, as if weighing how to deliver the news. "Lady Stark has arranged for Tyta to marry Lord Bolton," she said at last, her voice quiet. "They're due to be wed in a few weeks."
Roslin's heart skipped a beat, her mind reeling at the revelation. "Bolton?" she repeated, her voice edged with disbelief. "Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort?"
Alyx nodded, her face reflecting the unease Roslin felt. "Yes, Roose Bolton," she confirmed. "I thought they would have told you by now. The arrangement was made not long after they took Winterfell back from the Greyjoys."
Roslin's blood ran cold. The thought of sweet, gentle Tyta being sent to the Dreadfort, bound to a man like Bolton, filled Roslin with a sense of dread.
"I... I didn't know," Roslin whispered, her mind racing. "Poor Tyta. Why would they...?"
Alyx's expression softened with sympathy. "It's politics, Roslin," she said quietly. "Grandfather thought it would secure our family's ties to the North, especially with your marriage to Robb. And Lady Stark—well, she has her reasons."
Roslin felt a pang of guilt, realising that her marriage to Robb may have played a part in this arrangement. It wasn't uncommon for alliances to be forged through such unions, but Tyta was so young, so unprepared for the harshness of the world Lord Bolton ruled.
"I wish I could help her," Roslin murmured, her heart heavy with worry. "She's too kind for a place like the Dreadfort."
Alyx placed a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder. "I know. But Tyta is stronger than she looks. She'll need that strength, but I believe she'll find a way through."
Roslin nodded, though her chest tightened with concern. The world they lived in was unforgiving, especially for women, whose futures were often decided by the ambitions of men. She could only hope that Tyta, despite the daunting marriage ahead, would find her own path.
Alyx's voice broke the heavy silence. "Don't worry, Roslin. Tyta will have to make the best of it, just as we all do."
Roslin sighed, her fingers tracing the soft fabric of Torrhen's blanket. "I know. But I can't help feeling it's unfair. She deserves better."
Alyx offered a sad smile. "We all do. But this is the world we live in." Then, with a lighter tone, she added, "Besides, let's not let all this talk of arrangements and politics darken the mood. There's still a wedding to enjoy, and I need you by my side."
Roslin managed a small smile, appreciating Alyx's attempt to lift her spirits. "Yes," she said softly. "We still have a wedding."
And though the worries of their world remained ever-present, for a moment, Roslin allowed herself to imagine that the future could still hold hope, even amidst the tangled webs of duty and sacrifice.
The Sept of Riverrun had been transformed into a vision of delicate beauty. Blue roses, vivid and striking, cascaded from every arch and pillar, their soft fragrance filling the air. Bundles of white baby's breath nestled in every corner, creating a dreamlike effect that softened the grandeur of the space. The flowers wove together like a tapestry of life, breathing color and warmth into the ancient stone walls. Sunlight streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, casting a rainbow of light across the floor, where the lords and ladies of the Riverlands gathered in anticipation.
Roslin stood at the threshold of the sept, her heart fluttering in her chest, both from the beauty of the scene and the weight of the occasion. She gripped Robb's arm tightly for balance, her fingers curling around the soft fabric of his sleeve. His steady presence beside her was a comfort, his strength a quiet reassurance. She needed it now more than ever. In her other arm, she cradled Torrhen, his tiny body pressed against her, wrapped in soft linens. The weight of him was a sweet reminder of the life she and Robb had built together, but also an added responsibility on a day already thick with emotion.
Robb turned his head slightly, catching her eye with a warm, reassuring smile. "You're doing fine," he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper, meant only for her. His hand rested gently over hers, giving it a subtle squeeze.
Roslin returned the smile, though her heart still raced. She wasn't nervous for herself—this was Alyx's day, after all—but something about the spectacle, the grandeur, made her feel unsteady. Perhaps it was the weight of memories stirred by the familiar surroundings, or the soft, unspoken tension that always seemed to hang in the air when her family gathered. There were so many eyes, so many expectations.
Her gaze swept over the crowd in the sept—the faces of Freys, Tullys, and their many allies all turned toward the altar where Alyx would soon stand. The great families of the Riverlands were here, their banners hanging proudly, their presence a reminder of the delicate balance of power that shaped their world.
The blue roses caught her attention once more, their vibrant color standing out against the muted stone. Alyx's favorite. Her niece had always loved them, and it seemed fitting that they adorned every corner of the sept on this day. For a moment, Roslin thought back to her own wedding—how different it had been. There had been no roses, no joyous celebration, only a hurried ceremony overshadowed by war. And yet, in that haste, she had found love—unexpected and true.
Torrhen stirred in her arms, drawing her out of her thoughts. She adjusted him gently, pressing a soft kiss to his auburn curls. He blinked up at her with his wide, curious eyes, and Roslin felt her heart swell with affection. The weight of him in her arms was grounding, reminding her of what mattered most.
As the soft hum of conversation filled the air, Roslin glanced at the altar, where the septon was already preparing for the ceremony. Any moment now, Alyx would appear, and the ceremony would begin. Roslin imagined her niece, radiant and full of joy, walking down the aisle to her future.
But as the time ticked on, Roslin couldn't help but feel the weight of the many futures that were being written today. Not just Alyx's, but her own, Torrhen's, and even her family's. There was something fragile about this moment, something that felt like a turning point. The alliances, the marriages—they were more than just unions of hearts; they were unions of power, of legacies. And those legacies rested, in part, on her son's small shoulders.
She tightened her hold on Robb's arm, the steady beat of his heart beneath her touch offering comfort. For now, they had each other, and they had this—this life they had built, this family. And for today, that was enough.
As the doors at the far end of the sept creaked open, signaling Alyx's arrival, the gathered crowd hushed, their whispers falling away like leaves in the wind. Roslin's breath caught, and she leaned slightly against Robb, her heart full as she watched her sister take her first steps toward the future.
Robb's arm tightened protectively around her, his presence grounding her in the sea of emotions that swirled within the sacred space. Together, they stood—husband and wife, mother and father—watching as love, duty, and legacy entwined once more before them.
Alyx glided down the aisle like a vision out of a fairy tale, her gown shimmering in the soft candlelight. The dress was a masterpiece—an elegant, flowing white creation adorned with intricate gold trim that gleamed with every step she took. The veil cascading from her head trailed behind her for several yards, a river of delicate lace that rippled as she moved, adding to the regal air she carried. In that moment, Alyx looked more like a queen than the future wife of a lord—though the Lord of Riverrun was no ordinary man. It was clear to everyone that their father, Walder Frey, had spared no expense for this wedding, determined to make it as grand as any noble celebration.
Roslin stood near the front, watching her niece with a soft smile. Alyx was radiant—her cheeks flushed with joy, her eyes shining with anticipation. The whole scene was breathtaking, and Roslin felt a small flutter of emotion in her chest. This was the wedding they had all dreamed of, the kind of grand, magnificent affair that many young girls fantasized about. For a fleeting moment, Roslin thought of her own wedding, so different from this. Hers had been hastily arranged, a rushed ceremony in her mother's old dress, with only a few family members in attendance. No elaborate decorations, no flowing veils, just vows spoken quickly in a bare sept.
But as she thought of that day, she didn't feel a pang of jealousy, only a quiet contentment. Her wedding had been exactly what she needed. She hadn't married Robb for love but now it's all she knew - Robb's love, and no amount of flowers or grandeur could have made that moment more meaningful. Roslin glanced at Robb, standing tall beside her with Torrhen nestled in her arms, and her heart swelled. Her life was far from perfect, but it was hers. It was full of love, family, and quiet joys that no ceremony could ever surpass.
As Alyx made her way down the aisle, she was escorted by Alyx's father, Symond Frey, Roslin's much older half-brother. Symond, a man over thirty years Roslin's senior, had always struck an imposing figure in their childhood. His slight frame and sharp features were a mirror image of their father, more so than any of her other brothers, and he carried the same air of authority, though without the cold ruthlessness that had made Walder Frey infamous. There was something softer in Symond, something protective. Roslin had always sensed his fierce devotion to Alyx, a bond stronger than most Frey's shared with their children.
Symond's steps were slow and measured as he guided Alyx down the aisle, his hand resting lightly on her arm. His face was set in a rare expression of emotion, the weight of the moment clearly affecting him. His normally sharp eyes were softened, almost misty, as if the act of giving Alyx away to another man stirred feelings he wasn't entirely prepared for. He had always been her protector, her guardian in many ways, and now he was leading her toward a new life, a life that would no longer need his shield.
Roslin couldn't help but smile as she watched them. Symond had always been proud, stoic even, but today, he was undeniably moved. He glanced at Alyx from time to time as they walked, as if he wanted to memorize this moment—the last time she would walk beside him as a Frey.
Alyx, for her part, walked with grace and poise, though her eyes were bright with emotion. She held her head high, her veil trailing behind her like a banner of victory, and yet there was a softness to her steps, a vulnerability that only her family could see. Roslin knew that behind the veil and the beauty, Alyx was likely feeling the weight of her new future, the unknowns of marriage, and the inevitable changes that came with it. But there was no doubt that she was ready—more than ready—for this moment.
As Alyx and Symond reached the altar, Roslin caught her niece's eye for a brief second, and they shared a look that needed no words. It was a look of understanding, of shared history, of love. They had both walked paths that led them to new lives, different from what they had known, but each had found her way, each had found her own happiness.
Roslin's gaze shifted to Lord Edmure Tully, who stood waiting at the altar. His face was full of quiet admiration as he watched Alyx approach, his love for her clear in the soft smile that played on his lips. He had waited for her, patiently, for so long, and now, at last, she was his.
As the septon began the ceremony, Roslin leaned into Robb's side, feeling the warmth of his presence and the gentle weight of Torrhen in her arms. The future stretched out before them all, uncertain but full of possibility. Alyx was stepping into a new chapter, one filled with hope and promise, and Roslin couldn't have been happier for her.
The feast that followed the ceremony was a grand affair, one that could easily rival the splendor of the royal wedding. The Great Hall of Riverrun had been transformed into a lively celebration, adorned with banners of the Frey and Tully houses, and illuminated by the warm glow of countless candles. Tables groaned under the weight of lavish dishes—roasted meats, sweet fruits, and delicate pastries—all served on silver platters, while goblets overflowed with rich red wine. The music of fiddles, lutes, and drums filled the air, setting a merry rhythm that seemed to breathe life into the room itself.
The Frey girls, all dressed in their finest gowns, had taken to the dance floor with gleeful abandon. Their laughter and excitement were infectious, and they wasted no time in gathering as many lords and lordlings as they could to join them in the lively reels. The girls tugged at sleeves and whispered teasing encouragements, their eyes sparkling with mischief as they coaxed even the most reluctant of young men onto the dance floor. Soon, the hall was a swirl of colour and movement, with lords' sons spinning in clumsy circles beside the more practiced dancers.
At the center of it all were Alyx and Edmure, the newlywed couple who had barely sat down since the feast began. They danced to song after song, moving with a natural ease that spoke of their growing affection for one another. Alyx, radiant in her wedding gown, was a picture of joy. Her laughter filled the hall, bright and carefree, as Edmure spun her around the floor, sometimes making exaggerated movements that had her giggling uncontrollably.
Roslin, seated with Robb at the high table, watched her niece with a warm smile. Alyx's happiness was contagious, and it was clear to anyone watching that she had found something true in Edmure. They whispered to each other as they danced, sharing private jokes, and every now and then, Alyx would throw her head back in laughter at some silly remark Edmure had made.
Edmure, for his part, seemed utterly enchanted by his bride. He never left her side, his attention entirely on her, as if the entire hall and all its guests had disappeared, and they were the only two people in the world. His smile was constant, a reflection of his deep affection for her. Roslin could see the admiration in his eyes every time he looked at Alyx, a man who had waited so long for this moment and now reveled in every second of it.
The music changed, shifting from a lively tune to a slower, more intimate melody. The crowd thinned slightly as some of the more boisterous dancers took a break, but Alyx and Edmure remained, swaying gently together in the center of the hall. They moved in perfect harmony, their heads close as they spoke in soft whispers, sharing a world of their own amidst the revelry.
Roslin leaned into Robb's shoulder, feeling the steady warmth of his presence, the weight of Torrhen secure in her arms. In moments like this, surrounded by love and family, she allowed herself to imagine that this was how her life would be from now on—peaceful, whole, untouched by the darkness that had once threatened to consume it. Maybe her past mistakes would be forgiven. Perhaps Tywin Lannister and Queen Cersei would let the memory of Joffrey's death fade, leaving her to live out her days in quiet contentment, far from their reach.
But as the thought passed through her mind, she felt a familiar tightness in her chest. Maybe she was being naive, foolish to hope for such things. The world wasn't so kind, and those who held power were rarely forgiving. Still, in the warmth of this moment, with her family close and the hall alive with laughter and joy, it was easy to let herself believe in that possibility, even if just for a little while.
The music picked up again, bright and lively, drawing more people to the dance floor. Roslin smiled as she watched the Frey girls twirling in their colourful gowns, their laughter ringing through the hall. The festive energy was infectious, and for a moment, she allowed herself to be swept up in it.
Suddenly, Perra came bounding over to their table, her curly brown hair bouncing with every step. Without a hint of anxiety or hesitation, she leaned over the table, her bright eyes fixed on Robb. "Robb!" she called out, her small hands gripping the edge of the table as she peered up at him with hopeful excitement. "Will you dance with me? Father says he's tired."
Roslin's eyes flicked to where Petyr Frey, Perra's father, sat at one of the nearby tables. His face was flushed, sweat dripping down his brow, clearly worn out from the festivities. He waved weakly in their direction, a sheepish grin on his face as he dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.
Robb let out a hearty laugh, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "Of course, my sweet Perra," he said, pushing back his chair as he rose to his feet. "It would be my pleasure."
Perra's face lit up with delight, and she clapped her hands before extending one toward Robb. He took it with a mock-serious bow, and Roslin couldn't help but smile at the sight. Robb had a way of making people feel special, especially children, and Perra looked as if her wildest dream had just come true.
As Robb led Perra to the dance floor, Roslin watched them fondly. Perra giggled as Robb lifted her with ease, twirling her around to the lively beat. The other Frey girls quickly gathered around them, some joining in the dance, others watching with wide-eyed admiration. It was a moment of pure innocence, untainted by the weight of the world outside these walls, and Roslin was grateful for it.
Roslin was so caught up in watching Robb and Perra dance, her heart lightened by the innocent joy on their faces, that she didn't notice when her father, Lord Walder Frey, quietly sat down beside her. His presence was sudden, breaking through the warmth of the moment like a cold breeze.
"Are you not dancing?" he asked, his voice gruff but edged with a curious tone. "You always loved to dance."
Roslin turned to him, her expression tightening, her guard rising instinctively. "Is that so, Father?" she replied, her voice clipped. "How would you know?"
Walder didn't seem phased by her sharp tone, only glanced down at Torrhen, who slept peacefully in her arms. "He's so bonny, your boy," he said, his gnarled fingers reaching out to gently play with Torrhen's tiny hand. For a moment, Roslin was struck by the contrast between her father's frail, weathered hands and her son's soft, untouched skin. It was a fleeting tenderness from a man she had long known to be harsh and calculating.
"You've done well with him," Walder continued, his sharp eyes flicking over to where Robb still danced with Perra. "And with him," he added, gesturing vaguely in Robb's direction. "I knew he'd like you, of course, but... he's besotted with you, isn't he?" A thin smile curled on his lips, something between amusement and grudging admiration. "I underestimated you, daughter."
Roslin stiffened at his words, her mind racing. Walder Frey was not a man known for offering compliments freely, and certainly not without reason. His approval, when it came, was rarely without some hidden agenda. She had grown up knowing that affection and praise from her father often came with strings attached, a lesson learned from years spent watching him manipulate his children and grandchildren like pieces on a board.
"I've not done anything with him." Roslin said quietly, her voice steady as she held her father's gaze. "He simply love me, and I him."
Walder's lips twisted into a cynical smirk. "Love?" he scoffed, shaking his head as if the very word was foreign to him. "Love doesn't win wars, girl. But I suppose it doesn't hurt if it comes along with power and a good alliance." He glanced back at Robb again, watching him with an appraising eye. "You've secured yourself well, Roslin. Robb Stark's a fine man—noble, strong, and he's made you Lady of Winterfell, no less. It's more than I ever expected."
Roslin felt a flicker of anger rise in her chest. Her marriage, her love for Robb, was more than a transaction. But she knew better than to argue with her father, a man whose entire life had been built on bargaining, deals, and alliances. To him, everything was an exchange of value—love included.
"I'm not the child you once knew," Roslin said softly but firmly, her voice laced with a quiet strength. "I have my own life now, my own family. And I don't need to prove anything to you."
Walder's eyes narrowed, his smile fading. For a brief moment, there was something unreadable in his gaze—perhaps a flicker of recognition that his daughter had grown beyond his control, beyond his reach. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his usual calculating demeanor.
"Maybe not," he muttered, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "But don't forget where you came from. You're still a Frey, and one day, this boy"—he tapped Torrhen's hand again—"will carry both the Stark and Frey names. Legacies are long, Roslin. Don't be too quick to think you've escaped yours."
Roslin looked down at her sleeping son, feeling the weight of her father's words, but she refused to let them settle in her heart. Torrhen would carry both names, yes—but she would make sure that the Stark name, with all its honour, love, and strength, defined his future. Not the cold, grasping legacy of House Frey.
"I know where I come from, Father," Roslin said, her voice calm but firm. "And I know where I'm going. My son's future will be brighter than what you've planned."
Walder grunted, clearly unmoved by Roslin's quiet defiance. "We'll see," he muttered, rising slowly from his seat, his old joints creaking with the effort. As he stood, he gave her one last look, a sharp, calculating gaze that carried the weight of decades of manipulation and control.
"You've surprised me, Roslin," he said, his tone grudgingly respectful, though it held an edge. "Don't disappoint me now. All of you girls—you think you know what's best for yourselves. But only I know what's best for you." His voice grew colder, more commanding, as he continued. "Take Alyx, for example. She was so reluctant to marry Lord Tully, begging me for weeks to call off the betrothal. She cried, pleaded—said she didn't want it."
Roslin's heart tightened, remembering Alyx's reluctance. Alyx had been inconsolable when the prospect of marriage was suggested. But none of that had mattered to their father.
"And now look at her," Walder went on, a proud, almost triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Lady of the Riverlands. Lady Tully." He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a rasping whisper, as if imparting some great truth. "I put her there. It was me who saw what she couldn't see, who made sure she had a future worth something. Just like I've done for all of you."
Roslin met his gaze, her expression unyielding despite the pressure of his words. She had always known her father took pride in controlling the fates of his daughters and granddaughters, molding their lives to suit his ambitions, regardless of their desires. To him, they were pieces to be moved on a grand chessboard, securing power and alliances. He would never understand that there was more to life—more to marriage, more to family—than simply power and position.
"And what about Alyx?" Roslin asked quietly, her voice steady but firm, holding back the surge of frustration she felt. "Does she thank you for that? Is she happy, Father?"
Walder scoffed, waving her question away as though it were nothing more than an inconvenience. "She looks happy enough to me," he muttered, his tone dismissive. "And even if she isn't, she'll learn to be content with the power and influence I've given her." He glanced at Roslin, his eyes sharp, full of the cold practicality she had known all her life.
"It's not about love or happiness, girl," he continued, his voice hardening. "It's about survival. It's about making sure our name means something—that we don't get cast aside like so many others. You may not think it, but I would do anything for this family. Anything. And I'll crush anyone who gets in my way." His voice dropped, laden with a grim satisfaction. "Look at Hoster Tully—"
Roslin's heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, her pulse quickening. "What?" she said sharply, interrupting him. "What did you just say?"
Walder paused, his eyes narrowing at her sudden reaction. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, as if he had just said too much but didn't mind. There was a flicker of cruel amusement in his gaze, the sort of look that Roslin had seen countless times, though rarely directed at her. He was testing her, pushing her.
"I said, look at Hoster Tully," he repeated, his voice slower now, more deliberate. "The old fool was set in his ways, thought he could ignore me. Thought he could keep us out. But I'm not the kind of man you ignore, Roslin. I don't take well to being brushed aside."
Roslin's hands tightened around Torrhen, her knuckles white. "What did you do?" she whispered, barely able to get the words out.
Walder's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with something dark and unsettling. "I did what needed to be done. Hoster Tully didn't want his precious Riverlands tied to House Frey, didn't think we were good enough. So I reminded him who holds the power now. And look where his line is—the last Tully, his son, marrying my granddaughter. Everything he fought to keep from me, I took."
Roslin's blood ran cold. She had always known her father was ruthless, but the way he spoke now, with such casual cruelty, sent a shiver down her spine. The Tullys had been honourable people, good people, and if her father had a hand in Hoster Tully's decline...
"What did you do to him?" she demanded, her voice rising despite the weight of fear settling in her chest.
Walder shrugged, his smirk fading into something more dangerous. "Does it matter? The point is, I did what I had to. It's how I've kept this family strong, how I've ensured our survival. You may not like my methods, Roslin, but don't forget—you benefit from them."
Roslin's heart pounded in her chest, the weight of her father's words crashing down on her. Hoster Tully had been ill for years, but was it truly natural, or had her father had a hand in it, ensuring the Tullys bent to his will? She didn't know for certain, but the thought of it twisted her insides with a sickening dread.
He grunted once more, but this time the sound lacked its usual force. Without another word, he turned to leave, his steps slow and heavy. "You may not like it, girl," he muttered over his shoulder, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. "But don't forget—it's my blood that runs in your veins."
Roslin sat still, watching her father shuffle toward the exit, his once-overbearing presence somehow diminished in that moment. But before he reached the door, he stopped, turning back to glance at her one last time. His expression softened, if only slightly, as his gaze settled on her and Torrhen cradled in her arms.
"In this light," he said, his voice unexpectedly tender, "when you're holding him like that... you look like your mother."
For a fleeting second, there was something almost human in his face—an echo of a past Roslin had never truly known. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. He turned and continued out of the hall, leaving Roslin to sit with the weight of his words. She had never known her mother well, but in that brief moment, she wondered what memories had stirred in her father, and whether they held any real warmth or were simply fragments of a life long buried under his cold ambition.
Roslin glanced down at Torrhen, brushing a soft kiss to his head, and whispered, "I hope I'm more like her than him."