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Robb Stark had been invited to the Twins.
Through the mediation of Roose Bolton, Walder Frey extended an offer of reconciliation.
But it came with terms.
Walder would forgive Robb's broken oath—but a new marriage alliance must replace the old one.
The groom would not be Robb.
It would be Edmure Tully, the new Lord of Riverrun and Robb's uncle.
The bride: Roslin Frey.
The reasoning was simple.
If Walder could not have a queen in Winterfell, he would settle for a daughter seated at Riverrun.
That restored his pride.
And if the Lord of Riverrun became his son-in-law, House Frey's influence in the Riverlands would become untouchable.
Robb, as oathbreaker and beneficiary of the reconciliation, could not refuse to attend.
He must apologize publicly.
Catelyn Stark insisted on bread and salt—invoking the guest right.
She had little else to rely upon.
Ancient customs.
Sacred hospitality.
But Walder Frey had spent a lifetime being mocked as "Late Lord Frey."
Honor was never his shield.
Reputation was never his treasure.
What was one more broken tradition to a man already scorned?
Would the nobles despise him for violating the guest right?
They already did.
He was the toll-keeper of the Twins.
A punchline.
As for Edmure's consent—
Did it matter?
He must agree.
For the Riverlands.
For his title.
Though a poor battlefield commander, Edmure understood politics far better than Robb.
He protested loudly at first.
Resisted.
Then negotiated for every concession he could extract.
Only after securing sufficient advantage did he agree—wearing the mask of a man nobly sacrificing himself.
…
To ensure Robb's safety, Bolton arrived with five hundred cavalry and three thousand infantry.
Most were from the Dreadfort.
Others were Karstark men—lords still uncertain where their loyalty lay after Robb executed Rickard Karstark.
Even now, Robb did not fully grasp the danger Roose Bolton represented.
Stark honor had extinguished his last chance at survival.
…
High above the Twins, Jimmy hovered astride Horus.
Below, nearly fifteen thousand Northern soldiers encamped outside the castle.
By nightfall, several hundred entered the Twins.
Most remained in the south tower.
Robb, Catelyn, his lords—and Roose Bolton with a modest escort—crossed to the north tower for the feast.
Under the cover of darkness, Jimmy slipped onto the roof of the great hall.
He stretched quietly, claws extending.
A small hole was carved into the wood.
He peered down.
Horus perched nearby, scanning the perimeter.
…
Inside—
"…The fault is mine, not yours," Robb was saying.
"Any man fortunate enough to wed one of your daughters would count himself blessed. I meant no insult. I simply gave my heart elsewhere…"
His tone was humble.
His apology was sincere.
He did not see the curl of amusement at Walder Frey's lips.
When a man intends to kill you, apologies are worthless.
A blade across the throat is more decisive than words.
Walder clapped twice, interrupting Robb.
He demanded to see the woman who had "stolen" the Frey girl's crown.
Talisa Maegyr stepped forward after a brief glance at Robb.
Walder's response was crude.
Vulgar.
He implied Robb had not broken faith for love—
But for her body.
The hall filled with uneasy laughter.
The air tightened.
And above them, Jimmy watched.
Robb's face went pale with fury.
He stepped forward—ready to answer insult with steel But Catelyn seized his arm.
Hard.
He forced himself to breathe.
On the road to the Twins, she had warned him: You have already erred twice, You cannot afford a third.
The first mistake was sending Theon to negotiate with Balon, The result: Winterfell burned.
The second is marrying Talisa.
The result: their path home became a noose.
If he lost control here, the Northern army would have no retreat at all, Whatever humiliation came he must endure it.
…
The wedding of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey concluded under watchful Northern eyes.
The feast began.
It went on.
And on.
Above, Jimmy nearly dozed off on the rafters.
Below, everything appeared peaceful.
Roslin fed Edmure morsels of food. They sat near Walder Frey, who looked almost jovial.
Then—
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Walder rapped his knuckles against the table.
The sound cut through the laughter.
It woke Jimmy fully.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Walder called, voice thick with forced merriment, "though Edmure has wrapped my daughter in his cloak before the Seven, one ritual remains unfinished."
He grinned.
"The bedding ceremony."
A roar answered him.
"Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!"
Horn cups struck tables in rhythm.
Edmure was dragged away by laughing girls, hands roaming freely over him.
Roslin was lifted into the air.
She screamed.
Not playfully.
Not shyly.
Her eyes were wide with terror.
Tears streamed down her face.
The Northerners mistook it for bridal nerves.
It was not.
Catelyn watched the girl's fear and murmured softly to Roose Bolton, who had drifted close.
"Poor child."
Roose replied coolly, "All brides endure it. I'm certain you did so gracefully."
He studied the hall, faintly uneasy at Walder's theatrics.
Catelyn answered absently, "Ned forbade such sport. He said breaking a man's jaw on his wedding night would be improper."
Roose paused.
Then relaxed.
So she did not know what was customary.
He had worried needlessly.
He slipped away.
…
Robb and Talisa shared a quiet, intimate moment at their table.
The hall seemed flushed with warmth.
Wine.
Laughter.
Music.
Then—
A guard walked calmly to the doors.
And shut them.
The musicians changed their tune.
The first notes floated softly.
Low.
Measured.
Recognizable.
Catelyn froze.
She knew the melody instantly.
The Rains of Castamere.
A song celebrating Tywin Lannister's annihilation of House Reyne.
A song of rebellion crushed.
Of mercy denied.
It did not belong here.
Not at a wedding feast.
Catelyn felt the blood drain from her face.
Ice spread through her veins.
This was no mistake.
This was no insult.
This was a signal.
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