Catelyn
She loved Edmure. With every bone in her body, and almost as fiercely as her own children, Catelyn Stark loved her little brother, but he certainly knew how to aggravate her to no end.
Perhaps it was her fault. He was barely more than a babe when their mother died in childbed. She and Lysa had practically raised him, and spoiled him certainly, as did their father. Edmure was the only one out of four sons to survive. To say he was special might have been an understatement.
So, Catelyn held her tongue when he complained. From Riverrun all the way to the Twins, she kept quiet about her brother's unending need to bemoan his current situation. Uncle Brynden didn't, but Edmure had long outgrown the fear that came from the imposing figure that was the Blackfish. He challenged him with his complaints, practically inviting their uncle to lash out at him. And Catelyn thought he may very well have risen up to it were it not for her daughter.
Myra, her first born, her only child brought back to her during this dreadful war, was doing her best to placate her uncle. Never mind that she found herself in the same predicament as him, shipped off to the Twins for an unwanted marriage – and never mind that she would likely be worse off – Myra was all too happy to listen to Edmure's complaints, offering both empathy and hope for his upcoming nuptials.
Catelyn supposed she should not have been surprised by this either.
Her daughter excelled at helping others, and was practically drawn to anyone suffering from even the slightest grievance. She had always been that way, from her very first breath, but while Robb had been the source of most of her care growing up, it seemed Edmure had taken on those duties now. Robb had grown over the time since Myra had left Winterfell. He no longer needed the help from his twin that he once did, and Catelyn suspected her daughter missed that, in her own way. If anything, Edmure was helping Myra as much as she was helping him.
But by the Mother, she wished he'd be quiet about it.
They were on the final approach to the Twins, marching alongside the river, both towering structures on either side visible. Edmure and Myra slowed their horses, walking them casually beside the caravan. Catelyn brought her mare up behind them.
"It's uglier than I imagined," Edmure commented.
"You've never been?" her daughter asked.
"If I have, I clearly drove the memory from my mind."
Catelyn rolled her eyes. Edmure had indeed been to the Twins once, but he was young and unlikely to remember anything. Even then, Lord Walder had offered a selection of daughters, ranging from ones nearly a decade older than him to promises of those who would undoubtedly be born in the future. Her father had denied every single one.
She had to wonder what he would think of them now.
"Lord Walder is your bannerman. Perhaps you should try being less hostile."
"I could be as kind as a septon, but it wouldn't matter. Walder Frey doesn't care about who he supposedly serves," Edmure countered. "He barely tolerated my father; he certainly won't stand for me."
"You're about to be his son by marriage."
"Then he'll care for me even less so."
She could see Myra shaking her head, and her shoulders bouncing lightly. She was laughing.
"Uncle Edmure, I think you're just determined to be as miserable as possible."
Catelyn smiled. "She certainly has you there."
Edmure glanced back at her, betrayed. "Be that as it may, the fact remains that Lord Walder will never accept me as his liege lord – he barely tolerates Robb as king – and marrying one of his daughters will further his excuse for his belligerence."
"Well, then perhaps you ought to start acting like his liege lord, instead of the angry little boy you are now," Catelyn suggested, earning another look.
"I don't believe it will be so terrible, Uncle," Myra said, sounding distant as they closed in on the westernmost tower. It loomed silently above them, but Catelyn felt as though a thousand eyes watched their approach. Her brother was, admittedly, right. It was an ugly place. "When we're done here, you need not see it again, or Lord Walder if you so choose. Riverrun is your home. It always will be."
Edmure looked to her daughter, who was far too distracted by the castle to notice, and she finally saw the look. It took the entire journey, but her brother was finally seeing that Myra was suffering the same as him. She had no home to return to. Winterfell was lost to them for the time being. Roose Bolton's bastard may have supposedly reclaimed it, but it was burned and filled with naught but ghosts. Not that it mattered. If Myra was to be wed to a Frey, this would be her home, or some hold nearby. This bleak structure he complained of was her future.
Catelyn watched her brother duck his head. Myra had said nothing unkind, yet shamed him nonetheless.
"You could come back to Riverrun with me," Edmure suggested after some time. "It's doubtful that whomever you marry will become Lord of the Crossing. Even if Lord Walder dies, then Stevron takes his place, and he's married."
"Was," her uncle, Brynden, clarified, riding up beside her. "He's dead, remember?"
"Right. Then it would be...Emmon?"
The Blackfish snorted. "And give Genna Lannister rule over the Crossing? Tywin would certainly enjoy that."
Catelyn cleared her throat. "Emmon is Walder's second son. Stevron has an heir. Ryman."
"That fat bastard? He'll be dead before the year is out."
Her eyes narrowed. "Then he has a son as well, Edwyn, who is also married."
Myra was blinking, glancing between the three of them with an utterly lost look on her face. The Frey family line was certainly a confusing thing to understand, and they had only mentioned the first two children from the first wife of Walder. He was currently on his eighth.
"The point is that Myra has no business remaining here," Edmure clarified. "Lord Frey should be satisfied enough with the marriage. You can return to Riverrun with me, if you'd like. I'm sure whomever you're married to will be more than happy to escape this place."
She watched a small smile creep across her daughter's face. "I would like that very much, Uncle."
"Thought you might," he replied, smiling back. "We can live in misery together."
Myra laughed, and Catelyn believed it was actually genuine.
Upon approaching the gates, both direwolves in their company began to growl, their hackles rising and their teeth bared. The sight unsettled several Frey soldiers, who stepped back from their posts while horses unused to their company began to panic, some unseating their riders.
Myra, whose horse could not have been bothered by the drama either way, dismounted and approached Lady, attempting to calm the creature while her brother did the same with Grey Wind.
It was a bad omen.
Black Walder walked over to them from the gatehouse, undeterred despite how their growls increased in his presence. "These are wild creatures, Your Grace. If they are so excitable now, perhaps we should have them locked away for the wedding. We wouldn't want any unnecessary injuries."
Her daughter glared at the man from her position beside Lady, her gloved hands running through the fur and quieting the beast.
"A caged wolf is a poor joke. We will do no such thing," Myra stated, ignoring her brother completely. "Go on, Lady, and take your brother with you."
The direwolf looked to her daughter, as if questioning her orders, and almost seemed to nod in reply. She nipped at her brother and Grey Wind complied, despite how much larger he was. He followed her, both trotting off into the distance and disappearing amongst the trees.
Myra stood, triumphant, and began to lead her horse away.
She'd do fine amongst the Freys, Catelyn decided.
What had been her paranoia outside was fact now as dozens of eyes watched them from every side of the room, children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the Lord of the Crossing, Walder Frey. The man in question stared at their small group from his seat, with his newest wife, Joyeuse Erenford, within reach. Every now and again, he would grab her, and she never failed to jump at the action.
They had eaten the bread and salt provided them, blanketing them in guest right, and Robb had spoken his apologies to all the young women who might have been his bride – as Edmure curiously examined each and every one, she noticed – yet Catelyn still felt very much ill at ease in the Twins. Perhaps it was the bad blood between them all now, or simply the dim lighting that lent itself to the foreboding nature of the place. She did not recall feeling much better about it the first time she entered at the beginning of this horrible war.
Walder Frey began to clap as the girls departed and Robb returned to her side.
"Well done, Your Grace. A fine apology."
Kind words that sounded like insults seemed to be a specialty of House Frey's.
"One part of the bargain is complete. Another will be done shortly enough," he continued, eying Edmure. Her brother cleared his throat. "That leaves one more loose end to be dealt with."
Beside Talisa, her daughter went still. Catelyn watched her eyes meet the Lord of the Crossing, but she went no further. If Walder Frey wanted her to do something, she would have him say it.
"The Lady Myra," he offered, extending a hand. Her daughter stepped forward several feet, putting herself in the center of the room. If she was afraid, she did not show it as she kept her head held high. "You are a pretty thing, aren't you? Talented too. Half this lot would die without a roof or a decent meal after a day, and that includes the men, but not you it seems."
Walder cast a disapproving eye over his descendants, most of whom ducked their heads in shame, as they were wont to. Catelyn had always wondered what it was about Walder that whipped them into submission. Perhaps in his younger days, he had been intimidating to his children, but he was a cranky and frail man now, and still they acted as if the king were yelling at them.
Myra looked about the room as well, and Catelyn wondered if she felt any sympathy for those around her.
"Many thanks, my lord, for your undoubtedly high praise."
There was something different about Myra, she suddenly realized. It wasn't that her daughter had avoided confrontation in the past, but her courtesies had certainly been a protection of sorts. They covered how nervous she may have been, and begged apology for any misstep she was about to make, but here, now, her kind words were a sharp thing, a sword instead of a shield. They were said out of necessity, and lacked the warmth of respect.
You don't forget what she's been through, Lady Stark.
Of all the voices to shame her in this moment, she had not expected the Kingslayer's.
Walder noticed her daughter's cool demeanor, and sat up a little more in his seat. "High praise. Clearly you don't know my sons. Tell me, do you know the first deal I struck with your brother?"
"I am aware of it, my lord," Myra replied.
"Tried to snag you then too," Walder admitted. "But your mother wouldn't have it, or your brother, or so I'm told. It was some excuse about Renly Baratheon, but I can see what it is now. Who'd want to hide a face like that in a place like this?
"S'pose it doesn't matter, though. I have you now, unless, of course, someone else has already had their way with you."
The air grew thick. Eyes from all corners began to dart about, looking from Walder to Myra to Robb and back again. Bodies shifted uncomfortably, hands went to scabbards. Catelyn's shot out and grabbed her son as he stepped forward. Her uncle took a step as well, but managed to stop himself. One wrong word and the room might have erupted into chaos.
But Lord Walder and Myra were unaffected, staring at one another as if they were alone.
Myra took another step forward, rising to the challenge. "On my honor, I am beholden to no man, Lord Walder, and have come to you in good faith to see this alliance through."
Over the years, Catelyn had heard so many comparisons between her daughter and her long-deceased aunt, Lyanna. It was hard for people not to, given their physical similarity, but in that moment, she was not Lyanna. She was Ned. Catelyn could hear his voice in her words, feel his presence in her bearing.
How proud he would have been of the woman she had become.
Walder nodded then. "Fair enough. I trust the Lady Myra Stark is a woman of her word, and as such, I'll extend you an offer, in good faith. There can't be many lookers in this lot, but take your time, dance with my sons and grandsons at the wedding feast, find whichever one is the most tolerable. We'll make arrangements after that."
Beside her, Edmure choked.
Eyes from all over their group shot in his direction, and kept him from saying something outrageously stupid.
"Now that this dreadful business is concluded, let us continue to far more pleasant things," Walder continued, standing. "The wine will flow, the music will play, and half of us won't remember the night come morning."
Catelyn had hoped they would have been given at least a night's rest before the wedding, given how long the journey was and how weary they all were, but some part of her could not deny Lord Walder's eagerness to get the ceremony over with. The last time he had allowed anything to chance, a king had slipped out of his grasp. Given Edmure's reluctance about the whole ordeal, she could see how he thought he might lose the Lord of Riverrun as well.
At least they'd been given time to prepare, rather than pushing them into the feast, muddy clothes and all.
It had been years since Catelyn had tended to Myra's hair. When her daughter was younger, she would have brushed those dark locks for hours if she could. They would sit in front of the hearth, and Myra would read pages from the latest book to grab her attention. She recalled those last passages vividly from their final time together. It had been of Aegon's conquest.
"I always dreamed of what your wedding would look like," Catelyn admitted as she ran the brush through Myra's hair.
She had once dreamed of a ceremony in a sept, large and beautiful and full of laughter, but as the years passed, and Winterfell became more of a home to her rather than the strange place she happened to live in, the dream changed. It was in the godswood, small and quiet, with freshly fallen snow blanketing the ground. Ned walked their daughter to the heart tree, solemn and proud, while Myra wore a gown she had sewn for her, with Sansa's help of course, covered in the cloak of their household.
Robb, Bran, and Rickon watched on, handsome and silent, and even Arya managed to not be her usual self that day. Sometimes her father was there, even Edmure and Brynden.
Sometimes she even pictured Jon Snow with the boys.
She had imagined the same for her other girls, of course, but Myra was her first, and despite what a parent tells themselves, they always held a special place in their hearts.
"I imagine it looked far different than this place," Myra replied quietly. She was folding her hands together over and over. Despite the strength she showed earlier, her daughter was afraid. Even when betrothed to Domeric Bolton, her wedding had always seemed so far away, and now her daughter was facing the prospect of being married within a fortnight, and she had yet to meet her intended.
Placing the brush down, Catelyn knelt by her daughter's side. She put her hand on her cheek, and Myra allowed herself to lean into the touch.
"I know I have been given a choice, but what if I do not find anyone?" Myra asked, looking very much like the little girl she once knew. "What if I have to choose between men I utterly despise?"
"You won't, my sweet girl, I promise you," Catelyn assured, holding her daughter's face between both hands. "You were brought into this world with a kindness I have never seen. The world has not taken that from you yet, and I do not believe it intends for you to live out your days in sadness. You will find happiness, Myra, and if you do not find it, then you will make it, and you will look back on this moment and wonder how you could have ever doubted that."
Myra tried to smile. "Thank you, Mother, but after everything...how can I possibly look at my life that way? Everything I do just leads to something worse."
"Because we have no choice, Myra. Where would any of us be without hope?"
She nodded, and grew quiet. And there mother and daughter sat for some time, solemn, but glad for the presence of the other.
Catelyn did not know what compelled her to speak the words. On any other occasion, she would have cursed herself, walked straight out of the room rather than allow her daughter to hear those syllables uttered by her, but here, at the end of her journey in the war, Catelyn wanted Myra to have just one thing, as terrible as it felt to her.
"He cared for you, Myra."
Her daughter blinked, confused. "What?"
Catelyn sighed, closing her eyes. Even now she could picture his face that night, how offended he was on Myra's behalf when she claimed her daughter would forget, the way he looked at her before he disappeared into the night.
The Kingslayer he may have been, but he was also a man, and easier to read than he believed.
"Jaime Lannister," she said, practically spitting the words. "He cared for you. I could see it."
She watched Myra's eyes widen, and her mouth open slowly. For a moment, she saw a spark appear in her daughter's irises, only for it to be smothered by a new sadness.
"Those words should make me feel better. Why don't they make me feel better, Mother? Why do they hurt?"
Catelyn took her daughter's hands in hers. "Because we are not allowed to follow our hearts. Perhaps one day we might.
"Perhaps one day this won't be necessary."
Robb
He had hoped the war would have put him past the anger that came with wounded pride, given how much more there was at risk, but with every jape and subtle nudge Lord Walder had given him, Robb felt a fury buried deep inside grow, until it simmered just under the surface. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself that it was nothing, that he was the offending party and all the words paled in comparison to the grievous insult he paid Walder Frey in breaking their deal, the fury would roar to life above it, barely held at the seams by the honor and respect instilled in him by his mother and father.
When Walder Frey had questioned his sister's virtue before his household and retinue, Robb had been ready to let that fury consume him, army or no army.
It had been a reference to the Kingslayer; it would take a fool to not realize it. Men talked, and he had heard their words amongst the ranks. His bannermen, to their credit, did not stand for the gossip, but there was only so much they could do. Idle men needed distraction, and his sister had proven a good one.
He had never told her, and, gods willing, she would never know.
But, perhaps, he had failed to give his sister enough credit. She had stood tall in the face of Walder's accusation, bearing it all with a grace he wished he could muster at that moment. Instead, he nearly acted a fool, and, like a boy, had to be held back by his mother.
They had gotten through in one piece, at least, and he cherished the hours before the ceremony that allowed him to cool.
The wedding itself had passed without incident, even more so because Edmure's bride turned out to be far more beautiful than any of the girls Walder presented earlier, delighting his uncle to no end.
Roslin Frey had looked back at him, undoubtedly under the direction of her father, and Robb had found himself struck. Not by her beauty or by regret, just simply by the possibility of it all.
At the beginning of the war, he would have thrown himself at that girl. Walder Frey could have brought her out in the middle of the campaign, and Roslin would have found herself a queen now. Winterfell would have still fallen, Jaime Lannister would have still disappeared into the night, but the Freys would have remained by their side to the end of the war.
Perhaps he would have gone home; perhaps Casterly Rock would have already fallen. It was hard to say.
"Should I be jealous?" Talisa asked beside him, a smile in her voice. "You've scarcely taken your eyes off them all evening."
Robb blinked, finding himself surrounded by food and merry, drunken men. He supposed he had been staring.
"Of course not," he replied, taking Talisa's hand into his own under the table. "It just makes me think."
"About?"
"Everything."
This was the sort of celebration they should have had, not a hidden ceremony in the trees with only the septon and the gods as witnesses. They should have danced and laughed the night away surrounded by family and friends, not snuck quietly through the camp in order to have a few moments to themselves before the truth came out.
Talisa claimed that she did not mind, and perhaps that was true, but that did not change how he felt. She deserved to be honored, welcomed joyfully into the family instead of just quietly accepted because they had no other choice.
"And what does everything tell you?"
Robb took a breath and looked at his wife – the mother of his child – and forced a smile. He shouldn't be glum, not at a wedding.
"That I love you," he said, squeezing her hand.
"Well, I should hope so," Talisa replied with a smirk. "I can't imagine going through so much trouble for someone you vaguely tolerate."
He chuckled, genuinely, and thought to say something until he watched Talisa's eyes light up as she suppressed a laugh.
"Your sister is positively overwhelmed."
Robb glanced to the floor where guests had already begun to dance. Upon hearing that Myra was to choose her husband, the eligible Frey men seemed to crawl out of the woodwork, swarming his poor sister. She'd barely gotten a few steps into a dance with one partner before another swooped in and took her away; she'd even danced with Jingle Bell, Walder's simple grandson, who was dressed plainly, with little bells tingling from his hat. He bounced from table to table, stealing plates of food and making the others laugh. Talisa had frowned at that, and Robb didn't bother trying to explain it.
He might have been concerned for his sister, but Myra appeared to be enjoying herself. She was flushed and had clearly been drinking too much – she'd downed her entire goblet when they first sat – but there was a wide smile on her face.
And she looked radiant too, dressed in a dark blue gown, her hair intricately braided along the sides and pinned at the back. One of the Frey girls had put a crown of red flowers on her head, the youngest he thought. They had all danced together in the beginning, and even the homely girls looked better with smiles on their faces, which he imagined did not happen often.
"She'll be fine," Robb replied, leaning back in his seat. "I don't believe she's had this much fun in ages."
"I don't believe she's had this much wine either."
"Aye."
They continued to watched the festivities, as Myra twirled about the room, laughter echoing in every corner, as Edmure whispered nonsense into his new wife's ear and grinned like a little boy, as his bannermen made fools of themselves with the serving girls, and Robb felt himself slowly relaxing from the day's events. Surely even the King in the North could allow himself a few moments of peace.
"Is Jaime Lannister alive?"
Of all the things he thought to hear from his wife that evening, that certainly was not one of them.
Robb sighed, squeezing her hand again. "Lord Bolton has made no mention of it. I instructed him to keep the man prisoner for now, but things happen."
"Perhaps you should tell her. She should know."
He turned to Talisa. "Whose side are you on?"
"Whichever side that keeps you Starks from being so glum all the time."
"That's the losing side."
"So I'm beginning to understand," his wife admitted, giving him a knowing smirk and a shove. "Now, go show me how you dance. I have it on good authority that you're absolutely dreadful."
Robb felt his eyebrows lift, and a smile grow on his face. "Is that what this is all about? Fine, let the King in the North embarrass himself in front of his men, if only for his queen's sake."
Talisa giggled as he stood and walked away. The music did not stop, men did not pause in their current efforts to give their king respect, and for once Robb felt normal again, an ignored facet in an overcrowded evening.
It felt nice.
Myra's latest partner wasn't a Frey at all. The Smalljon, Lord Umber's ironically named son, had taken the lead, and had for some time. As tall as his father, and far broader, he made for an intimidating sight. Every Frey who attempted to intervene was ignored, and quickly shoved out of the way if they didn't move fast enough, and none of them could do much more about it.
The Smalljon was more than a head taller than his sister, leaving her like a child in his arms, but they spun expertly around the space and made the height difference look like nothing.
"Might I have a dance with my sister?" Robb asked, interrupting their moment. Immediately, the Smalljon complied, bowing his head and handing off Myra. His father was clapping in the background, drunker than any of the men around. He was also shouting something none but he could understand.
Myra stumbled into his arms, red-faced and laughing. One hand grabbed at him while the other struggled to adjust her flowery headpiece.
"Careful now," he warned, holding tightly to his sister lest she fall from laughing too hard. "Last time you drank this much, you tried to kiss Jory."
His sister gasped, eyes comically wide. "Who told you?!"
"Jon."
"Who told him?!"
Robb shrugged. In truth, it had been Theon, but he could not bring himself to mention his name. Not yet. Not until his head was on a spike and the years had gnawed away at the anger and betrayal.
Maybe then.
They danced quietly around the space for a while as Myra calmed down and began to catch her breath. Robb watched the people around them, equally drunk and disheveled. Back at the tables, his mother was seated beside Roose Bolton, the Blackfish having disappeared somewhere. They appeared to be deep in conversation, and Robb had to wonder what about. Was it over the Kingslayer or something else? It certainly could not have been about the pie Lord Walder had served. Trivial things seemed like a waste of air to that man.
"I'm sorry, Robb," Myra blurted suddenly, her happiness having drifted off somewhere. He seemed to be good at taking that from her these days.
"For what?"
"I got him killed, didn't I?"
She was referring to Lord Karstark, it was obvious. And in a roundabout way, perhaps she had, but Robb couldn't put that on her. The man had been bent on vengeance, and even if Robb had succeeded in executing the Kingslayer, he had a feeling that would not be enough. Some men drove through the pain and anguish from the death of someone close, and some simply broke. Lord Karstark had been a broken man before the end. Perhaps he had always been searching for a violent death.
Robb took a breath, leaning close. "Don't speak of that, not here."
"But everyone knows, don't they? It's why they're all looking at me."
He almost laughed. After this night, his sister may never touch wine again.
"Everyone is looking at you because you're the prettiest thing they've seen in years," he reassured her, though saying the words only made him feel more defensive. Her hand may have been part of their deal, but she was still his sister, and he'd make sure all the Freys knew it. "Someone is going to get into a fight over you before the night is through."
Myra almost smiled.
"Is he still alive?" she asked after some time, her voice low and barely heard over the ruckus around them. "Did Lord Bolton...carry out your order?"
Did you execute the man I love?
He wasn't a fool; he hadn't needed their mother to tell him what Myra felt for the Kingslayer. It had been obvious from nearly the beginning, but he had neither wanted to breathe life into it by saying the words nor even acknowledge its existence. There were some things too difficult to comprehend, and then there was whatever his sister shared with Jaime Lannister.
It would have been easier to say yes. A small lie that would devastate his sister, but allow her to eventually move on from the man. Whenever she actually found out the truth, she would be angry, but perhaps she would see how foolish she had been, and understand what needed to be done.
But he could not do that to her, not here, not when she was about to sacrifice her happiness and freedom for him, to repair an act that had not been her doing. Perhaps that was what had made him angry at Edmure the most: he had been right about everything.
Mostly, Robb couldn't stand to see his sister cry again.
"No," he finally admitted. The way his sister relaxed and smiled at the thought made him hate the Kingslayer that much more. "He's a prisoner, for now. With both him and Casterly Rock in our possession, perhaps we can finally force Tywin Lannister to accept our terms."
"And then peace?" Myra whispered. "It sounds like a dream."
Perhaps it was. Even with Lord Tywin out of the way, they still had the Greyjoys to contend with, and Stannis Baratheon, whatever was left of his forces. Robb certainly couldn't allow what he had done to stand. But winter was coming as well, and the holds had to prepare. It would be a harsh season. Many would probably die. Come the spring, the entire countryside may never want to fight again.
But those weren't thoughts for a wedding either.
"I've seen our family face down more impossible odds," Robb said, smiling at his sister. "We'll get there, one way or the other."
"Your Grace!" came a shout from behind them.
Robb and Myra turned to the lord's table, where Walder Frey stood with his goblet in hand. Around them, men began to pound their tables.
"The wedding may be through," he continued. "But there is still a bedding to be had!"
Myra
The bedding ceremony had always been the thing that terrified her most about a wedding. What happened afterward between a man and his wife had seemed like nothing compared to being carried from a room while various men ripped your clothes off. She had been afraid of their hands, their smiles, their overenthusiastic nature; she had been afraid that she would know them, and that looking at them from that point on would never be the same.
She had thought to ask her father to forbid it for her wedding once, but the idea of bringing up the subject with him embarrassed her to no end, and she'd stumbled away from his solar beet red.
Of course, the men never seemed to mind the affair.
Edmure was practically skipping as he was escorted out of the room, the older Frey girls ripping bits of clothing off of him left and right. He'd be half naked before he even made it out of the Great Hall. But poor Roslin looked equally confused and petrified. Myra watched the men carry her out of the room and into the hallway outside, and wished that she'd taken a moment to speak with her; she wanted the girl to know that her husband was a good man, and that he would treat her well. A little bit could go such a long way when being forced into the unknown.
Swaying on her feet, Myra stumbled back to the table and took a seat. She'd probably retire soon after, when some final words were undoubtedly said, some thanks and praise for the war effort. Perhaps she could sleep the week away, and delay having to choose her future husband. To be honest, she couldn't remember half their faces, their names even less so. Her mother had spoken highly of Olyvar, Robb's former squire, but she hadn't seen him all evening. Given how outspoken he had been over leaving, Myra thought he would have been the first to welcome him to the Twins.
Leaning on her hand, she watched as Robb and Talisa spoke. Her brother had that goofy grin on his face again, the kind he would have been embarrassed about back home. Had she ever mentioned it, he would have denied it outright – with a hilariously deeper voice – and would have probably grabbed Jon or Theon for some sparring or whatever other manly things there were to do around Winterfell.
It was funny how one person could change everything.
Myra tried to ignore the pang of jealousy she felt toward them. It was beneath her to feel like that, especially toward her brother, but she couldn't lie to herself either. She wanted what he had.
He cared for you, Myra.
She could have lived knowing that her feelings toward Jaime were one-sided, that she was the foolish girl who had simply fallen for a man who had saved her life. But the possibility that he might actually feel something in return, that their journey and those words in the dead of night had meant something more, was almost unbearable. And after everything that had happened that day, it was that knowledge that had led her to drink the most.
That, and the thought that if she ever met him again, she would be introduced as Lady Myra Frey.
The idea revolted her, and it was then she realized that whomever she chose, it would not matter. She would never find happiness in her future marriage.
When the Rains of Castamere began to play above her, Myra found herself roused from her thoughts.
What an odd song to play, she thought, as the minstrels continued uninterrupted. Certainly, it was a song that was used at many events, even one as cheerful as a wedding, but given the circumstances, it seemed like poor humor to use a ballad about the Lannisters.
Then again, Walder Frey did seem like a man with that particular brand of humor.
She wondered if it was supposed to be a jab at her or Robb. Perhaps both.
Lord Walder held up his hand and the music stopped. He stood once more, goblet in hand, ready for the last toast of the evening. "Your Grace."
Talisa sat beside her again, leaving Robb to deal with the speech.
"How did you like the bedding ceremony?" Myra whispered to her good-sister as men shuffled back to their tables.
"You're all barbarians," Talisa replied, though her tone wasn't without mirth.
Myra smiled. "You're not wrong."
When the room quieted, Lord Walder continued.
"Your Grace, I feel I've been remiss in my duties. I've given you meat, and wine, and music, but I haven't shown you the hospitality you deserve. My king has married and I owe my new queen a wedding gift."
Myra had to cover her mouth to suppress a laugh. Whatever gift Walder Frey had, it couldn't have been much. It wasn't even that funny of an idea, really, but she'd had too much wine.
Talisa noticed and shook her head, though she was smiling too.
There was a loud smack to their left.
Glancing over, Myra saw her mother standing as Roose Bolton scrambled away from the table toward them.
What could he have possibly-
"Robb!" her mother screamed.
She heard the blade unsheathe behind her, but did not think to react. One moment, Talisa was looking at her curiously, and in the next, Lothar Frey was stabbing her in the stomach, again and again and again.
Myra heard her good-sister cry out in shock and pain, watched as her hand clawed at the wound as blood poured out of it and she stumbled out of the chair. She watched and she heard and she could not move.
Robb began to turn to them until a bolt caught him in the shoulder.
Then another.
And another.
Suddenly, the room was chaos.
"Robb!" Myra cried, finally finding her voice as she leapt from the chair and attempted to run to her brother's side, but an arm snaked its way around her waist and pulled her back. "Let me go! No!"
"My lady!" shouted a voice. The Smalljon was at her side, prying whomever held her off and sinking his fist into their face. He kicked over their table and shoved her to the ground, shielding her behind it.
There were already bolts in his side, but Lord Umber's son acted as though they were nothing more than flea bites. He grabbed the sword from the fallen man and attempted to fight back, but in an instant, they Freys had swarmed him. It took four men, but all their blades found their mark, and he dropped to his knees.
And then they took his head.
It wasn't clean and it wasn't quick, but the Freys did so nonetheless and held it up for everyone to see as the rest of the Smalljon's body fell to the ground.
A foreign sound escaped her throat.
She had just been dancing with him. She'd asked him to free her from her company of Freys and he'd willingly obliged. He told her that he was a horrible dancer and she hadn't believed a word of it.
They had danced and they had laughed and now he was dead at her feet.
Myra curled into the corner of the table and tried to cover her face, but her hands were red.
What is happening?
What is happening?
What is happening?
New hands grabbed her from her hiding place, and Myra screamed in protest, fighting and thrashing, but to no avail. Roose Bolton dragged her back to the wall, out of range of the archers, but in full view of the massacre.
Wendel Manderly was already dead, slumped in his seat with a bolt sticking out of the back of his head.
Dacey Mormont took a man down before an axe was driven into her stomach.
Cerwyns and Dustins, Brackens and Smallwoods, they all fell. Men loyal to her brother barely stood from their seats before bolts and swords cut into them. They screamed in pain and wailed as they died. There were no words in the chaos, only the sounds of animals at slaughter.
Where was her mother?
Where was Robb?
Gods above, where was her brother?
She could see Talisa, lying on the ground not even a foot from her chair. Bloodied and pale, her good-sister barely clung to life, hand still holding her wound.
Gods, the baby. They'd gone for the baby first.
Myra whimpered, attempting to free herself from Roose Bolton's grasp. Why hadn't they come for him? Why weren't they attacking him?
She felt his grasp tighten around her waist, while his other hand grasped her neck firmly, holding her in place.
"I wouldn't suggest that, my lady."
Even now, his tone was even. His people were dying, his king was wounded, and yet he spoke as if they'd just sat down to eat.
Her hand reached up to pull his arm from her, and beneath the sleeve of his shirt, she could feel the metal.
Chainmail.
Gods, no.
Gods, no, please.
"You," she whispered.
The room felt silent. The last struggles ended, and the final thumps of falling bodies could be heard. Lord Walder was standing, an amused smirk etched into his face.
"The King in the North arises."
Robb.
He crawled across the floor, despite the many bolts in his body, and took Talisa in his arms. Her brother held his wife one last time, desperately held the bloody mess that was her stomach.
She said nothing to him. She didn't smile or comfort him. She did not touch him.
She was gone.
Talisa was gone.
Myra sobbed, and Roose held her tighter.
Suddenly, there was movement from under a table. Her mother, a bolt in her shoulder as well, burst from her hiding place to the lord's table. Beneath the table, Lady Joyeuse was curled up, hiding from the chaos. Her mother dragged the girl out and held a knife to her throat.
"Lord Walder!" she shouted, gaining the attention of everyone.
All around, crossbows trained on her.
"Mother, no!" Myra cried, continuing to struggle uselessly.
Catelyn met her eyes, but it brought her no comfort. It only made her sob harder.
"Let it end!" her mother continued, looking back to Walder. "Let us walk out of here, and we will forget this! By the old gods and the new, I swear we will never return!"
"You swore to me already!" Lord Walder shouted back, standing from his chair, the offended party in a room full of dead men. "You stood here and swore that your son would marry my daughter!"
"Take me then! Take me and let my children go! They are all I have left, just let them go!"
"Two young highborns who could raise the North against me in exchange for their old and spent mother? What sort of fool do you take me for?"
"Then take me!" Myra shouted. She stopped struggling against Roose Bolton and looked Walder Frey in the eye. "Keep me as a hostage. My brother will never do anything so long as I am here, and I swear to you, I will marry whichever son you wish."
Walder Frey leaned forward, and smiled. "You've already made that vow, and you'll still honor it, whether you enjoy it or not."
Slowly, Robb stood from the ground. He turned about and looked at the room; he looked so tired, like he had when they were little, when he'd stayed up too late fighting with Jon with their wooden swords.
He looked to her, and she thought he tried to smile.
"'s alright."
Roose shoved her to the side. Myra grasped at the wall to keep herself upright, and then she watched as the traitor crossed the room and grabbed her twin.
"Jaime Lannister sends his regards."
And with that, he shoved a dagger into her brother's heart.
It wasn't a scream that tore its way through her throat. It was her soul and her heart and her love. It was everything good about her being ripped from her very being.
She stumbled forward across the room, running over bodies and grabbing her brother before he fell. Myra tried to keep him up. If he stayed standing, he would live. Roose Bolton could stab him a hundred times, but if he kept standing, he would live.
When he fell to his knees, she dropped too.
"Stay with me, Robb. Please, stay with me," she pleaded, holding her brother's head between her hands. His eyes barely focused on her. He couldn't even lift his arms. Was he breathing? "You're going to be alright. I can fix this, okay? I've done it before, I can do it again. Please. Please don't go."
For one moment, she thought his blue eyes could see her.
"Myra..."
She heard him sigh, and saw the light disappear from his eyes. His body slumped against hers.
"No, no, no, no, no, Robb. No. No." She tried to lift him back up, but her strength was failing her. Instead, she held him against her shoulder, and ran her hand through his curls. "Come back to me, Brother. Please, come back."
He couldn't die. Her twin couldn't die. Their lives were intertwined, hers and his. Where one went, the other followed. Where one fell, the other lifted up. Robb couldn't die because she wouldn't let him. He had to live because she was alive.
He couldn't die.
He couldn't.
Robb Stark had to live.
Please.
Please.
"Lord Walder, let her go," she heard her mother say. Was it her mother? It didn't sound like her mother. "You've had your vengeance. She is innocent. Please, just let her go. Myra, you need to leave."
She managed to turn, and looked to the form she thought was her mother. It didn't look like her mother. Her mother was strong and willful and calm, and the woman before her was old, so very, very old, beaten and broken.
How long had they been here?
"Myra, please, leave," she begged, her voice cracking. "You're all I have."
No, no she had Robb.
Robb would get up. He wouldn't leave them now.
Please get up.
Please wake up.
"And why should I let the girl leave?" Lord Walder asked.
Her mother stood up straighter, and pressed the dagger closer to Lady Joyeuse. "I will cut your wife's throat!"
"Do it then!" he challenged, sitting back down. "There's no shortage of girls to find 'round here."
Catelyn looked to her then as men began to close in, and she knew. They both knew.
"Mother?" she whimpered.
She shook her head. "Don't look, my sweet girl. Don't look."
Time slowed, and Myra felt herself turn from her mother, not of her own conviction, but like hands had grabbed her face and willed her away. She barely noticed as the Frey men stepped around her, weapons in hand. She stared at the ground and blinked and held her brother in her arms; she thought she felt Talisa's dead eyes on her
What happened?
I'm sorry.
What happened to us?
I'm sorry.
Behind her, she heard the sound of metal against flesh.
One body fell.
And then another.
Myra pulled her brother closer, saw his unfocused, lifeless eyes, and wailed. She held her head against his, and willed him back to life, just one more time.
You can't leave me, Robb.
You can't.
What am I to do without you?
It was silent for the briefest of moments, and then hands were all over her. They pulled her back as others pulled Robb away from her.
"NO! NO!" she shrieked, grasping for her brother. Her hand caught his cloak, but one of the men bashed her arm and tore it away. She felt her nails tear. "NO! NO! NO! ROBB!"
Myra whirled on whomever held her, clawing at their face with her bloodied hands. She scrambled away as they dropped her, hissing and cursing.
She crawled through the pool of her good-sister's blood just to touch her brother one last time, but the hands returned and pulled her back as she screamed.
They turned her to face the table, hands on both her arms and holding her head so she could not look away. She did not miss the blood to her left, or the red-haired body that laid in it.
"The King in the North is dead," Walder Frey said, lifting his cup in a mocking toast. "Long live the queen."
"Long live the queen!"