49 A New Era and A Wedding

299 AC, King's Landing…

Four weeks had passed since the tense parley between the Starks and Lannisters outside Harrenhal. In the span of just a moon's time, the tides of war had shifted dramatically across the realm.

The Riverlander army, under the command of Lord Edmure Tully, had marched boldly into the Crownlands, intercepting the forces of House Tyrell on their way to reinforce the Lannisters besieged in King's Landing. The clash between these two formidable armies had been fierce and bloody, with neither side willing to yield ground easily. But in the end, it was the Riverlanders that prevailed, effectively halting the advance of the Reach and preventing them from coming to the aid of their beleaguered allies in the capital on time.

Meanwhile, in the waters surrounding King's Landing, the Battle of Blackwater had erupted in a cataclysmic display of violence and chaos. King Stannis Baratheon, determined to claim the Iron Throne as his birthright, had launched a daring assault on the city, his fleet of ships bearing down upon the capital with unwavering resolve.

But the defenders of King's Landing, led by the cunning Tyrion Lannister, had prepared a cunning defense, one that would go down in history as one of the most audacious gambits ever devised. As Stannis's fleet approached, they were met with a deadly barrage of wildfire, a volatile substance that ignited the waters of the Blackwater Bay in a blazing inferno.

Despite the overwhelming odds stacked against them, Stannis's forces pressed forward, their determination unyielding in the face of certain death. Led by their fearless king and bolstered by the dark magic of the sorceress Melisandre, they fought with a ferocity born of desperation, their swords clashing against the iron walls of their enemies with unmatched fervor.

In the end, it was said that not even the flames of wildfire could quench the fiery spirit of Stannis's army. With a resounding battle cry that echoed across the bay, they stormed the shores of King's Landing, their banners held high as they charged headlong into the heart of the enemy's defenses.

The battle that followed was brutal and savage, with neither side willing to give an inch in their quest for victory. But in the end, it was Stannis Baratheon who emerged triumphant, siege towers and ladders were pushed forward, despite the mounting casualties, as Stannis's soldiers fought tooth and nail to breach the city's formidable defenses.

Wave after wave of brave warriors scaled the towering walls, their bodies shielded by the sturdy shields of their comrades as they ascended the makeshift ladders. The air rang with the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded, but still, they pressed on, driven by the unyielding resolve to claim victory at any cost.

Finally, after hours of bloody combat, the walls were breached, and Stannis's forces poured into the city like a flood of steel and fury. Despite his orders to spare the innocent smallfolk, some fanatics among his ranks, driven by zealotry and fervor, took it upon themselves to burn several houses with people trapped inside as an offering to their God.

When news of these atrocities reached Stannis's ears, his wrath was swift and merciless. After everything calmed down, each perpetrator was hunted down and hanged without mercy, their corpses cast into the sea as a grim reminder of the consequences of straying from the path of righteousness.

As Stannis's forces breached the gates of King's Landing, the siege of the Red Keep began in earnest. The defenders, knowing that their cause was lost, could only put up a token resistance before the overwhelming might of Stannis's army.

The keep, once thought impregnable, fell within a day as the gates swung open and the Gold Cloaks, along with some Red Cloaks, emerged with their hands raised in surrender. Stannis's men stormed the keep, their swords and spears at the ready as they rounded up everyone from courtiers to servants.

In the Throne Room, the heart of power in King's Landing, the false king, Joffrey Waters, was captured alive, his face contorted with rage and fear as he screamed for the death of the invading army. His cries fell on deaf ears as Stannis's men bound him tightly and dragged him away to face justice for his crimes.

Amidst the chaos and bloodshed, not everyone was captured alive. In her private chambers, Queen Cersei Lannister was found lifeless, her body sprawled on the floor alongside her handmaidens. The cause of her death remained a mystery, but whispers among the soldiers spoke of poison or perhaps her own hand, unable to face the shame of defeat.

As Stannis surveyed the conquered keep, his victory tinged with sorrow and regret, he knew that the hard work was far from over. The fate of King's Landing now lay in his hands, and the weight of responsibility bore down upon him like a crown of thorns.

…

299 AC, Twins…

The journey homeward for the Northern army had been fraught with rain, the skies continuously weeping as if mourning the bloodshed of the recent conflicts. As they neared the familiar sight of the Twins, the rain poured down in a relentless torrent, drenching everything in its path.

Rody rode alongside Crag, the towering figure of the royal guard, their cloaks sodden and clinging to their frames. Each hoofbeat of their horses echoed in the downpour as they approached the towering gates of the castle.

As the gates slowly creaked open, Rody squinted through the rain to see four figures emerging from the depths of the castle. They bore the unmistakable features of House Frey, their faces drawn and weary from the perpetual rain. Ryman Frey, the apparent leader of the group, stepped forward with a determined stride, his children following closely behind, their expressions mirroring their father's solemn demeanor.

The king, flanked by his heir, stepped forward to meet them, his face stoic despite the relentless downpour. Rody remained a silent observer just behind him, his gaze shifting between the Freys and the imposing silhouette of the Twins looming in the background.

Ryman Frey's voice cut through the sound of the rain, his words tinged with authority as he greeted the king and his heir. Rody listened intently as Ryman introduced himself and his children, the weight of his newfound responsibilities evident in his voice. With the recent passing of Ser Stevron Frey in the Westerlands, Ryman had inherited the mantle of heir to the Twins, thrusting him into a position of power and influence within his house.

Rody observed with a keen eye as Ryman Frey launched into a boastful tirade about the upcoming wedding preparations at the Twins. The Frey lord seemed oblivious to the somber mood that settled over the Northern forces at the mention of the impending union. Frowned faces replaced the stoic expressions of the Stark men, their brows furrowing with concern and disapproval.

King Eddard Stark's face remained impassive, but Rody could sense the tension radiating from him, especially as he exchanged a meaningful glance with his heir, Robb Stark. Robb's usually composed visage betrayed a hint of frustration, his jaw clenching ever so slightly at the news.

Among the other lords present, Rody noted the grim expressions of Lord Umber, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in a scowl, and Lord Karstark, whose stern features betrayed his disapproval of the situation. Lord Glover, typically reserved, appeared visibly perturbed, his usually calm demeanor giving way to a subtle edge of agitation.

It was clear from the looks exchanged between the Stark family and their bannermen that the news of the impending wedding was not received favorably. Despite the king's intentions to delay the union as much as possible, it seemed that events were unfolding beyond their control.

As Ser Ryman Frey's directives were issued, a tense atmosphere settled over the Northern forces. The rain continued its relentless assault, adding to the sense of discomfort and unease that permeated the air. Despite their misgivings, the Northern nobles begrudgingly complied, dismounting from their weary steeds and organizing themselves to set up camp outside the castle walls at the behest of their king.

Rody observed the scene with a furrowed brow, his gaze sweeping over the sodden ground as his fellow knights and lords began to pitch tents and arrange supplies. The Northern army, accustomed to harsh conditions and adversity, moved with a practiced efficiency, though the frustration at being treated as unwelcome guests was evident in their grumbling voices and weary expressions.

As the prominent nobles followed Ser Ryman Frey inside the castle, Rody's keen eyes caught glimpses of the bustling activity within the walls. Servants scurried to and fro, attending to their duties with practiced precision, while guards clad in the colors of House Frey maintained a vigilant watch over the proceedings.

Inside the castle, the atmosphere was markedly different from the sodden, windswept landscape outside. The air was warmer, infused with the scent of hearth fires and the faint aroma of spiced wine. 

As the retinue of servants guided the Northern nobles through the labyrinthine corridors of the Twins, Rody couldn't help but overhear the murmurs of discontent that rippled through their ranks. Lord Karstark, his usually stern expression etched with a deeper frown, muttered darkly to Lord Umber about the perceived slight of being greeted by a mere heir rather than the lord of the castle himself.

"Should've known better than to expect proper courtesy from these Freys," Lord Karstark grumbled, his voice low and gruff. "Sending out some green boy to greet a king. Disrespectful, that's what it is."

Lord Umber, his massive frame bristling with irritation, nodded in agreement. "Aye, disrespectful and cowardly. Should've had the decency to come out himself and show some respect to our king."

Rody observed the exchange with a mixture of resignation and understanding. The Freys had always been viewed with a certain degree of skepticism by the Northern houses, their reputation for opportunism and self-interest preceding them wherever they went. Yet, despite their misgivings, the Northern nobles knew better than to openly challenge their hosts, especially within the confines of the Twins.

As the Northern entourage settled into their assigned quarters within the Twins, Rody took his leave, excusing himself with the intention of changing into dry clothes to rid himself of the damp chill that clung to his skin. The corridors of the castle were dimly lit, the flickering torches casting dancing shadows on the stone walls, adding to the sense of unease that permeated the air.

Making his way through the winding passageways, Rody's senses were assaulted by the mingling scents of musty stone and burning torches. The sound of his own footsteps echoed hollowly against the walls, a solitary rhythm in the vast expanse of the castle.

As he rounded a corner, Rody's path intersected with Robb Stark and Jon Snow, who stood just outside the king's quarters engaged in a hushed conversation. Their voices carried faintly to Rody's ears as he approached, their words tinged with a sense of apprehension that mirrored the tension that hung heavy in the air.

"...if you do not want to, father would not force you to do so," Jon was saying, his tone earnest as he attempted to assuage Robb's concerns.

Robb's response was firm, tinged with a sense of resignation that belied the weight of his duty. "Even though I do not wish to marry with some Frey, I gave my word, and it would be unbecoming of me to do otherwise."

Rody paused, his footsteps faltering as he absorbed the weight of Robb's words. It was clear that the impending marriage weighed heavily on the young Stark's mind, a duty borne of duty rather than desire. With a silent nod of understanding, Rody continued on his way, leaving the two young men to their private conversation amidst the echoing halls of the Twins.

Rody made his way to the quarters shown to him by some servant, eager to shed his damp clothing and don fresh attire. Entering the modest chamber assigned to him, he quickly stripped off his sodden garments, relishing the warmth that enveloped him as he slipped into dry clothing.

Once he was dressed, Rody ventured back out into the dimly lit corridors of the Twins, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floors. As he made his way toward the king's quarters, he encountered Lord Hornwood, who was walking briskly down the hallway, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Lord Hornwood," Rody greeted with a nod of respect, falling into step beside the nobleman.

"Rody," Lord Hornwood replied, his voice gruff with exhaustion. "Quite the storm we're weathering, both inside and out."

Rody offered a sympathetic smile, knowing all too well the strain that the recent events had placed on the Northern forces. "Indeed, my lord. It seems the rain has no intention of letting up."

Lord Hornwood grunted in agreement, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. "Aye, and neither does the tension within these walls."

As they continued down the corridor, Rody couldn't help but broach the subject that weighed heavily on everyone's minds. "Do you know which of the Freys will be the bride for House Stark?"

Lord Hornwood shook his head, a troubled expression crossing his weathered features. "Not yet. It seems even the Freys are keeping that information close to their chests. Makes one wonder what other surprises they have in store for us."

As they walked, Rody couldn't help but feel the weight of Lord Hornwood's discontent hanging in the air like a thick fog. The usually jovial lord seemed burdened by the impending marriage, his shoulders slumped and his brow furrowed with worry.

Rody attempted to break the tension with a lighthearted remark. "Well, let's hope the Freys surprise us with a bride who's at least the fairest in the land. After all, we Northerners deserve a bit of beauty to brighten these dreary days."

Lord Hornwood managed a strained chuckle, but there was no mistaking the bitterness in his tone. "Aye, that would be a sight to see. But truth be told, I can't help but wonder if it might have been better to break our promise and make our way back to the North. This marriage feels like a betrayal of our principles, a surrender to the politics of the South."

Rody nodded in understanding, though he shared the lord's sentiments more than he cared to admit. "I understand your frustration, my lord. It's not easy to stomach, but we made a vow, and breaking it would only invite further conflict."

Lord Hornwood sighed heavily, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the corridor ahead. "Perhaps you're right, Rody. But that doesn't make it any easier to swallow. Sometimes, I wonder if the price of peace is too high a cost to pay."

As Rody and Lord Hornwood continued on their way, the path ahead was dimly lit by flickering torchlight, casting eerie shadows that danced across the stone walls of the castle. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, the only noise breaking the silence that hung heavy in the air. 

Suddenly, they were met by a group of Frey men, their faces obscured by the shadows as they stepped forward to deliver Lord Frey's invitation. Their voices were low and reverberated off the stone walls, adding to the haunting atmosphere of the castle. 

With quick steps, Rody and Lord Hornwood followed the Freys through the labyrinthine corridors of the Twins, the flickering torchlight casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to reach out to them from every corner. As they approached the Great Hall, the sound of muffled voices and clinking silverware grew louder, signaling the presence of the other guests gathered within.

Entering the Great Hall, Rody's senses were assaulted by a cacophony of sights and sounds. The room was ablaze with light, the glow of a hundred candles casting a warm, golden hue over the assembled guests. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, mingling with the aroma of burning hearthfires.

The room was alive with activity, the sound of laughter and conversation filling the air as guests mingled and moved about. Servants bustled about, carrying trays laden with food and drink, weaving their way through the throng of people with practiced ease.

Rody's eyes swept over the assembled guests, taking in the sight of Northern nobles clad in furs and wool. Among them were the Freys, their presence a stark reminder of the uneasy alliance that had been forged between the two sides.

However, it was the figure seated at the head of the room that caught Rody's attention the most. There, at the center of it all, sat Lord Walder Frey, his ancient form hunched over the table, his gnarled hands clutching a goblet of wine with a tight grip. Despite his advanced age, Lord Walder's eyes burned with a keen intelligence, darting from one guest to another as he observed the proceedings with a shrewd gaze.

Beside Lord Walder sat the king and his heir, their presence commanding respect and attention even in the midst of the bustling feast. King Eddard Stark sat tall and regal, his gray eyes betraying none of the thoughts swirling beneath the surface as he engaged in polite conversation with his host. Beside him, his eldest son and heir, Robb Stark, mirrored his father's composed demeanor, though Rody could detect a hint of tension in the set of his jaw, a silent reminder of the weighty responsibilities that rested upon his shoulders.

As Rody settled between Lord Karstark and Lord Umber, he engaged them in conversation, eager to hear their plans upon returning home after the recent conflict.

"Good men," Rody began, "what plans do you have once we return to our homes in the North?"

Lord Umber let out a gruff grunt, his brow furrowing with concern. "Rest, you say? Hah! There'll be no rest for me," he grumbled. "I've heard troubling reports from home. Seems there's been a surge in wildling activity near my lands of late. Can't have them pillaging and raiding unchecked."

Lord Karstark nodded grimly in agreement. "Aye, the situation at the Wall grows ever more dire," he added, his tone heavy with frustration. "The Night's Watch struggles to maintain order, and with dwindling resources, it's a wonder they've held on this long."

Lord Umber scoffed. "Aye, even the Old Bear himself couldn't do much with what little they've got," he grumbled. "Seems the realm has turned a blind eye to threats beyond the Wall."

As the conversation unfolded, Galbart Glover from across the table chimed in, his voice carrying over the bustling hall.

"Aye, that's the truth of it," one of the clansmen, probably a Wull, interjected, his tone brimming with newfound confidence. "With no more coin flowing to the South, we'll have plenty to spend on our own people."

Another clansman chief nodded fervently in agreement, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "No more lining the pockets of those lords and ladies down in the South," he declared. "We'll keep our wealth where it belongs – in the North, for our own kin."

Rody couldn't help but admire the fierce pride in their voices as they spoke of their homeland. Despite their rough exterior, the mountain clansmen were fiercely loyal to the North and its people, determined to safeguard their way of life against any threat.

Lord Karstark offered a nod of approval, acknowledging the wisdom in their words. "Aye, it's high time we focused on strengthening our own lands and people," he agreed, his gaze sweeping across the gathering of Northern nobles.

Lord Umber grunted his approval, his expression mirroring the sentiments of his fellow lords. "Enough bleeding our coffers dry for the South," he rumbled. 

As the conversation continued, Rody couldn't help but feel a swell of pride in his heart. Despite the trials and tribulations they faced, there was a steely resolve among the Northern lords and clansmen to protect their homeland and ensure its prosperity for generations to come.

The murmurs of conversation in the Great Hall were abruptly silenced as Lord Frey rose to his feet, his voice cutting through the air like a sharp blade. All eyes turned toward the head table, where the ancient lord stood with a tankard of wine clutched tightly in his gnarled hand.

"Welcome, welcome, one and all, to my humble abode," Lord Frey boomed, his voice carrying effortlessly across the crowded hall. "Today is a joyous occasion, a day of celebration and merriment, for tonight, House Stark and House Frey shall be joined in marriage."

At his proclamation, the Freys in the hall erupted into cheers and applause, their voices ringing out with enthusiasm and excitement. But amidst the jubilant cries, a low rumble of discontent could be heard from the Northern contingent.

Rody glanced around the hall, noting the grim expressions that now adorned the faces of his fellow Northerners. Some muttered under their breath, their words laced with skepticism and distrust. Others exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes reflecting a mixture of frustration and resignation.

"It's not right, this," one of the Northern lords grumbled, his voice barely audible to the nearest ones. "No Godswood, no proper ceremony. Just a quick union to appease the old man."

"Aye, and in this gods-forsaken castle," another added, his tone dripping with disdain. "I'll wager there's not a single green leaf or living tree within these walls."

Rody felt a pang of sympathy for his fellow Northerners, knowing that their customs and traditions were being overlooked in favor of expediency and convenience. 

Lord Frey's proclamation echoed through the hall, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a knife. His words, though seemingly jovial, carried a weight that sent a ripple of unease through the Northern contingent.

Rody watched as Lord Frey's gaze swept across the room, his eyes alighting on the unmarried lads among the Northern nobles. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes as he spoke, his voice laced with a hint of slyness.

"I see many uncomfortable faces among you, young lads," Lord Frey declared, his tone deceptively genial. "But fear not, for I am a generous host. If any of you wish to take a bride tonight, I am more than willing to part with the lasses of my house. Bring forth your hands, and let us seal these unions in the joyous bonds of marriage."

The offer hung in the air, a palpable tension settling over the hall as the Northern nobles exchanged uncertain glances. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others remained stoically silent, their expressions guarded.

Rody felt a surge of indignation rise within him at Lord Frey's audacity. The idea of bargaining away his people's dignity and honor for the sake of convenience was an affront to everything he believed in.

King Eddard's voice cut through the murmurs of the hall, commanding attention as he rose to his feet, his presence towering over the gathered assembly. His tone was firm, brooking no argument as he addressed the crowd.

"Today is a day reserved for the union of House Stark and House Frey," Eddard declared, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "It would be a shame to dilute the significance of this occasion by entertaining the offers of other houses. Let us focus our attention on the alliance that is to be forged here tonight."

His words rang out with a solemn finality, quelling any murmurs of dissent that had begun to stir among the Northern nobles. Rody observed the reaction of the crowd, noting the begrudging acceptance that settled over them as they reluctantly acquiesced to the king's decree.

Eddard's intervention had effectively defused the tension that threatened to overshadow the festivities, redirecting the focus back to the impending union between House Stark and House Frey. Though some lingering unease remained, it was overshadowed by a sense of deference to the king's authority.

As the murmurs died down and order was restored to the hall, Rody couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards his liege lord. Eddard's swift and decisive action had averted a potentially disastrous situation, sparing them all from the machinations of Lord Frey's ambitious schemes.

Lord Frey's gaze shifted sideways, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features at the king's intervention. Nevertheless, he ultimately acquiesced to Eddard's words, albeit with a begrudging nod of acceptance. The tension in the hall seemed to ebb away, replaced by an uneasy calm as the specter of confrontation faded into the background.

But before the uneasy peace could fully settle, the booming voice of Lord Umber shattered the silence, rising above the murmurs of the gathered assembly. With a thunderous presence, he surged to his feet, his words reverberating throughout the hall like a clap of thunder.

"When will we see our future queen?" he bellowed, his voice carrying the weight of the Northern fury that simmered beneath the surface. His question hung in the air, punctuated by the restless murmurs that rippled through the crowd.

Rody watched from his place at the table, his gaze shifting between Lord Umber and the tense faces of the assembled nobles. The question lingered in the air, a stark reminder of the unresolved tensions that simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment.

Lord Frey's response was measured, his tone laced with a hint of amusement as he addressed Lord Umber's question. "Ah, it seems I've overlooked that detail," he admitted with a wry smile, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "After all, I did promise my future goodson the opportunity to choose amongst the fairest maidens of our house. Why deny him that choice now?"

With a casual gesture, Lord Frey motioned for one of his kin, Black Walder, to carry out his bidding. "Black Walder," he called out, his voice echoing across the hall, "round up the girls and bring them here. Let our esteemed guest have his pick."

The announcement sent a ripple of murmurs through the crowd, mingling with the faint sound of shuffling feet and clinking tankards. Rody watched from his seat, the tension in the air palpable as the Northern nobles exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions betraying a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The prospect of such a display of Lord Frey's hospitality left many uncertain of what to expect, and Rody could sense the unease that hung over the hall like a heavy fog.

As Black Walder disappeared to carry out his lord's command, the anticipation in the hall grew, each passing moment fraught with a sense of anticipation and uncertainty.

As Black Walder returned with the maidens in tow, the atmosphere in the Great Hall grew charged with anticipation. Rody watched with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as Lord Frey rose to his feet, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests with a self-satisfied smirk.

The first to be introduced was Shirei Frey, the youngest daughter of Lord Frey. She stepped forward with a bold stride, her features bearing a striking resemblance to her father. Her mouth seemed disproportionately large, dominating her face and drawing attention away from her other features. Despite her youth, there was a boldness in her demeanor that hinted at a confidence beyond her years.

Following closely behind was Arywn Frey, Shirei's sister from the same mother. Like her sibling, Arywn possessed the same oversized mouth, her expression mirroring Shirei's boldness. Despite their shared features, there was a subtle difference in Arywn's demeanor, a hint of mischief in her eyes that set her apart from her sister.

Merianne Frey was the next to be presented, a younger maiden with a face dotted with pimples. Her youth was evident in her uncertain gaze, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she stood before the assembled guests. Despite her blemished complexion, there was a certain innocence in her demeanor that softened the harshness of her appearance.

Then, Tyta Frey was introduced, a woman nearing her thirties yet still rumored to be a maiden. She bore the signs of age upon her face, lines etched around her eyes and mouth that spoke of a life lived. Despite her advanced years, there was a dignity in her bearing, a quiet strength that belied her age.

As the procession of maidens continued, the Great Hall buzzed with whispered conversations and speculative glances. Roslin Frey, with her delicate features and demure demeanor, was followed by Perra Frey, whose sharp wit and mischievous smile drew more than a few admiring glances from the gathered guests. Walda Frey, with her rosy cheeks and hearty laugh, elicited a warm response from some of the Northern lords, who saw in her the promise of a strong and hearty alliance.

As the introductions came to an end, all eyes turned to the crown prince, awaiting his decision. Robb Stark, his expression grave and thoughtful, exchanged a few quiet words with each maiden before finally settling on Roslin Frey. The announcement was met with a ripple of murmurs throughout the hall, as the assembled guests exchanged speculative glances and whispered comments.

However, before the decision could be finalized, Black Walder stepped forward with a suggestion that sent shockwaves through the room. His words, spoken with a tone of confidence and authority, cut through the murmurs like a knife, drawing the attention of all present.

"Marrying the Rosby stock would not be advantageous to House Stark," Black Walder declared, his voice carrying across the hushed hall. "They are not known for their robustness. Instead, I propose that my nieces, Perra or Walda, would make better matches."

The audacity of Black Walder's suggestion sparked outrage among some of the Frey kin, with Perwyn and Benfrey rising to their feet in protest. Their voices rang out in the hall, their words sharp and biting as they condemned Black Walder's interference.

Lord Frey, his patience wearing thin, brought his cane down sharply on the ground, the loud thud echoing through the hall. His voice, commanding and authoritative, silenced the protests in an instant.

"Enough!" he bellowed, his eyes flashing with fury. "The decision has been made. The boy has chosen his bride, and that is final."

Despite the tension in the air, the matter was settled, and the hall fell into a tense silence as the implications of the crown prince's decision began to sink in. With murmurs of discontent still lingering in the air, the Great Hall slowly began to empty as the guests dispersed, leaving behind a palpable sense of unease and uncertainty.

As the maidens departed the Great Hall, Rody couldn't help but notice the exchange of glances among the Northern nobles. Their expressions, though carefully schooled into neutrality, betrayed a hint of apprehension and discontent. It was clear to Rody that many of them harbored reservations about the prospects of House Stark in this generation, especially considering the tumultuous alliances forged within the walls of the Twins.

With the departure of the maidens, the feast continued unabated, the sound of laughter and conversation filling the air once more. Servants moved swiftly among the tables, replenishing tankards and platters with generous servings of food and drink. Rody, seated between Lord Karstark and Lord Umber, found himself caught up in the lively atmosphere of the hall, his spirits buoyed by the festivities unfolding around him.

As the hours passed, Rody indulged himself in the abundance of food and drink laid out before him, his appetite whetted by the anticipation of the upcoming wedding. He savored each mouthful, relishing the rich flavors and hearty fare that adorned the table. The aroma of roasted meats and savory pies mingled with the heady scent of spiced wine, enveloping him in a sensory symphony that seemed to heighten the joyous atmosphere of the occasion.

After a while, Lord Karstark excused himself from the table with a slight grimace, muttering something about needing to relieve himself. With a nod of understanding, Rody watched as the lord made his way through the crowded hall, disappearing into the throng of revelers.

An hour passed, and Lord Karstark had yet to return. Rody couldn't help but chuckle to himself, imagining the lord's long-awaited relief. He turned to Lord Umber, who sat beside him, and raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Perhaps the river's overflowed with his piss by now," Rody quipped, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

Lord Umber's booming laughter echoed through the hall, drawing the attention of nearby revelers. He clapped a hand on Rody's shoulder, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Aye, mayhaps he's created a new waterfall for us all to marvel at!"

Just then, Lord Karstark returned to the table, his expression slightly sheepish as he took his seat once more. Rody couldn't resist teasing him about his prolonged absence.

"Did you meet any friends on your journey, my lord?" he jested, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Lord Karstark chuckled wryly, shaking his head. "Aye, a few unexpected companions along the way," he replied cryptically.

Lord Frey's voice boomed over the din of the feast, cutting through the merriment like a blade through silk. His command echoed through the hall, silencing the chatter and drawing the attention of all present.

"It's time we made our way to the Sept for the proper wedding!" he declared, his words carrying the weight of authority.

The Northern nobles exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions reflecting a mixture of resignation and disdain. Some grumbled under their breath, their voices barely audible above the clamor of the crowd. They had hoped that House Stark would uphold the tradition of wedding before a heart tree, but it seemed that this generation was also destined to break with tradition.

Rody watched as King Eddard rose from his seat, his expression stoic and unreadable. Despite the murmurs of discontent that rippled through the Northern contingent, the king remained steadfast, his resolve unwavering.

With a nod of determination, King Eddard gestured for his entourage to follow him, his family falling into step behind him. Rody fell into line with the other Northern nobles, their footsteps echoing in unison as they made their way out of the Great Hall.

The sept loomed before them, its grandeur and opulence standing in stark contrast to the modesty preached by the Northern gods. As Rody stepped inside, he couldn't help but feel a sense of awe wash over him at the sight that greeted him.

The walls of the sept were adorned with intricate tapestries and ornate carvings, depicting scenes of religious significance and historical importance. Richly colored banners hung from the rafters, their vibrant hues casting a warm glow over the assembled crowd. Stained glass windows adorned with images of the Seven bathed the interior in a kaleidoscope of colors, each pane catching the flickering light of the torches and casting it in dazzling patterns across the stone floor.

Despite the solemnity of the occasion, there was an air of festivity in the air, a palpable sense of excitement mingling with the reverence of the gathered nobles. The pews were filled to capacity with lords and ladies from both North and House Frey, their richly embroidered garments shimmering in the soft candlelight. The sound of hushed whispers and muted laughter echoed off the vaulted ceiling, lending an air of camaraderie to the proceedings.

Rody glanced around the sept, taking in the sight of his fellow Northern nobles. Many wore expressions of unease, their faces reflecting the same apprehension that he felt in his own heart. Despite their discomfort, they remained steadfast in their loyalty to their king, their resolve unwavering in the face of uncertainty.

As the ceremony began, Rody found himself swept up in the solemnity of the occasion, his eyes drawn to the figure of King Eddard Stark as he stood at the front of the sept, his expression grave yet resolute. 

As the crown prince exchanged his cloak with his new bride, Roslin Frey, Rody couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the young couple. Despite the forced nature of their union, they bore themselves with a dignity and grace that spoke volumes of their noble upbringing. The exchange of vows before the septon was a solemn affair, the words spoken with a solemnity that belied the uncertainty that lingered in the air.

Despite the somber mood that hung over the sept, Rody noticed a small smile grace the king's face for a fleeting moment. It was a rare sight, a glimmer of warmth amidst the sea of apprehension that permeated the room. Rody wondered what thoughts were passing through the king's mind in that moment, what hopes and fears he held for his son and the future of House Stark.

As the formalities drew to a close, the bride and groom led the assembled crowd back to the Great Hall for another feast. The atmosphere was markedly different from the earlier celebration, the tension that had simmered beneath the surface now giving way to a sense of weary resignation. 

As they entered the Great Hall, the sounds of revelry greeted them, the hall alive with the sounds of laughter and music. Long tables groaned under the weight of a lavish feast, the scent of roast meat and spiced wine filling the air. Servants bustled about, refilling tankards and platters with practiced efficiency, their movements a blur of motion against the backdrop of flickering torchlight.

Rody found himself seated among his fellow Northern nobles, the familiar faces of Lord Glover and Lord Umber flanking him on either side. Despite the gravity of the situation, there was a sense of a shared bond forged in the crucible of battle and hardship.

As the feast wore on, Rody found himself drawn into conversation with his companions, their words a welcome distraction from the weight of the day's events. They spoke of battles won and lost, of alliances forged and broken, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm as old as time itself.

Rody observed a group of Freys, including Black Walder, making their way over to where the Northern lords were seated. Rody couldn't help but throw them a wary glance as they approached.

The Freys seemed determined to mingle with the Northern lords, their smiles strained as they attempted to engage in small talk. Lord Umber and Lord Glover exchanged brief nods of acknowledgment, though their expressions remained guarded. Rody could sense the underlying distrust that lingered in the air, a silent reminder of the centuries-old indifference and animosity between their two sides.

Despite the Freys' attempts to make conversation, the Northern lords kept their responses short and cold, their words tinged with an unmistakable edge. Lord Umber's booming laughter rang hollow, while Lord Glover's stoic demeanor betrayed nothing of his true thoughts.

Black Walder, ever the instigator, seemed undeterred by the chilly reception. He leaned in close to Lord Umber, his voice low and conspiratorial as he attempted to engage the grizzled lord in conversation. Lord Umber's response was curt, his gaze steely as he offered only monosyllabic replies.

Across the table, Lord Glover found himself similarly besieged by the Freys' attempts at conversation. Despite their best efforts to charm him with flattery and wit, he remained unmoved, his responses clipped and devoid of warmth.

As the awkward exchange dragged on, Rody couldn't help but feel a sense of unease settle over the table.

Black Walder's eyes caught Rody's sight as a frown marred his weasel face. He turned his head to him and cast a hateful glare, "What is this peasant dog doing in my house's hall?"

As Black Walder's hateful words cut through the air, a heavy silence descended upon the table, suffocating the room in its intensity. The Northern lords and their heirs turned their eyes towards Black Walder, their expressions ranging from steely resolve to thinly veiled disdain.

Lord Umber, his massive frame quivering with suppressed fury, grumbled lowly in response to Black Walder's insult. His voice carried the weight of centuries of Northern pride, each word dripping with a palpable sense of indignation.

"This young man here," Lord Umber growled, his voice resonating with an oppressed fury that seemed to shake the very foundation of the hall, "is worth a thousand Frey. Even I heard how you lot tried to desecrate our fallen men in Lannisport. If not for him, our brethren would not know rest on the other side."

The intensity of Lord Umber's words hung in the air like a thunderclap, reverberating off the walls of the hall with an almost tangible force. His eyes blazed with righteous anger, a fiery testament to the unyielding spirit of the North.

Around the table, the other Northern lords and their heirs nodded in solemn agreement, their jaws clenched tight with determination. The insult to one of their own had struck a chord deep within their souls, igniting a fierce sense of loyalty to their fallen comrades and their homeland.

Black Walder's expression wavered for a moment, his gaze flickering with uncertainty in the face of Lord Umber's towering rage. It was clear that he had underestimated the depth of Northern resolve, and now, faced with the full force of their righteous fury, he found himself momentarily at a loss for words.

In that charged moment, the air crackled with tension, the unspoken threat of violence hanging heavy between the two factions. And as the silence stretched on, it became clear that the fragile peace of the feast teetered on the edge of collapse, poised to erupt into chaos at the slightest provocation.

As the tension in the hall reached its peak, Lord Frey's sharp eyes scanned the table, his expression darkening with each passing moment. He must have sensed the disturbance, for his features contorted into a mask of barely concealed fury. The insult hurled against his family's honor had not gone unnoticed, and now, faced with the threat of open defiance, Lord Frey's patience wore thin.

With a thunderous voice that reverberated throughout the hall, Lord Frey bellowed for the guards to remove the upstart young man who dared to besmirch his family's name with what he did in Lannisport. His command echoed off the walls, drowning out the murmurs of the assembled guests and casting a pall of apprehension over the room.

The guards, ever obedient to their lord's will, sprang into action, their movements swift and purposeful as they converged on the table. Their heavy footsteps echoed across the polished floors, their faces set in grim determination as they closed in on their target.

Rody's heart pounded in his chest as he awaited the king's command, his eyes darting anxiously between the furious Lord Frey and the stern figure of his liege lord. The tension in the hall was palpable, each breath heavy with anticipation as the assembled guests held their collective breath, waiting for the king to intervene.

Eddard Stark's brow furrowed in consternation as he surveyed the unfolding scene, his gaze shifting from Lord Frey's enraged visage to Rody's anxious countenance. Despite the gravity of the situation, the king remained composed, his features a mask of calm authority as he considered his next course of action.

Rody's eyes flickered with relief as the king finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife through butter. The weight of the king's words lifted from Rody's shoulders like a heavy burden, his chest swelling with gratitude as he listened to the king absolve him of any blame in the matter.

The Northern lords, who had braced themselves for a confrontation, visibly relaxed at the king's words, their expressions softening with relief as they realized that a potential conflict had been averted. Lord Umber and Glover, who had been preparing themselves for a fight, exchanged a glance of mutual understanding, their tense postures relaxing as they settled back into their seats.

With the king's decree ringing in their ears, the tension in the hall began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of cautious calm. Lord Frey, though still simmering with barely suppressed anger, begrudgingly accepted the king's judgment, his features softening slightly as he begrudgingly nodded his assent.

However, the king's words that came out of his mouth made Rody wake up from his delightful state, "Ser Rody, go out to have some fresh air and bring your commander, Jon Snow, with you while coming back. I wouldn't want him to miss his brother's wedding feast."

Rody nodded his head and rose to his feet quickly. He saw Black Walder looking at him with a smirk on his face but he ignored and made his way out of the tense atmosphere of the Great Hall, he felt a sense of relief wash over him like a cool breeze on a hot summer's day. The weight of the confrontation with the Freys still lingered in the air, but the open space of the yard offered a reprieve from the stifling tension inside.

The sound of his footsteps echoed against the stone walls as he walked, the rhythmic cadence providing a soothing backdrop to his thoughts. His mind buzzed with the events that had just transpired.

Outside, the crisp night air enveloped him, the cool breeze ruffling his hair as he gazed up at the starry sky above. The twinkling stars seemed to offer a sense of solace, their distant light a reminder of the vastness of the world beyond the confines of the castle walls.

As he walked, Rody found himself reflecting on the king's decision to send him in search of Jon. It was clear that Eddard Stark wanted to extend an olive branch to the Freys, to smooth over the tensions that had flared during the feast. 

Lost in thought, Rody wandered through the darkened courtyard, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The events of the evening replayed in his mind like a scene from a play, each moment etched into his memory with vivid clarity.

As he contemplated the implications of the king's orders, Rody couldn't shake the feeling that the night was far from over, and that the tensions between House Stark and House Frey were far from resolved. But for now, he would focus on the task at hand: finding Jon and ensuring that he didn't miss his brother's wedding.

As Rody stepped out of the imposing structure of the Twins, the cool night air enveloped him once more, a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere inside the castle. The rain had ceased, leaving behind a damp earthy scent that hung in the air.

With a determined stride, Rody made his way across the sprawling grounds of the western castle, his boots sinking slightly into the soft mud with each step. The torches that lined the pathways cast flickering shadows across the cobblestones, creating an eerie ambiance that seemed to echo the tension lingering in the air.

Rody's keen eyes scanned the area, searching for any sign of his brother amidst the maze of tents and makeshift shelters that dotted the camp. The sounds of laughter and conversation drifted through the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of metal as soldiers went about their nightly routines.

He passed rows of tents belonging to various Northern houses, their banners flapping gently in the breeze. The dim light of the torches illuminated the sigils emblazoned on the fabric, casting dancing shadows across the ground.

Despite his efforts, Rody saw no sign of Jon among the familiar surroundings of the camp. He paused for a moment, considering his next move. Perhaps Jon had sought refuge elsewhere, or was simply taking a moment to himself amidst the chaos of the wedding festivities.

With a resigned sigh, Rody decided to try his luck at the tent belonging to the Greycloaks. If anyone knew of Jon's whereabouts, it would be among his fellow guardsmen.

As he approached the section of the camp where the Greycloak tents were clustered, Rody felt a sense of familiarity wash over him. As he drew closer, he could hear the murmur of voices coming from within, the low rumble of conversation punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

As Rody pushed aside the flap of the tent, he was greeted by a warm glow emanating from the lanterns that hung overhead, casting a soft and inviting light over the interior. The air was filled with the rich scent of roasted meat and ale, mingling with the laughter and chatter of the men gathered within.

The jovial atmosphere of the tent enveloped Rody as he stepped inside, his eyes immediately drawn to the sight of white and black furballs curled up beside a dark-haired man seated at the center of the room. A small smile tugged at Rody's lips as he recognized the familiar figure of Jon amidst the bustling activity.

"Jon," Rody exclaimed, relief flooding through him at finally finding him amidst the chaos of the camp. "I've been searching all over for you."

Jon turned around at the sound of the voice, a warm smile spreading across his face as he caught sight of Rody standing in the doorway. "What do you need, Rody?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of curiosity.

Rody stepped further into the tent, the warmth of the lanterns washing over him as he moved closer to Jon's side. "Your father called for you to the feast in the castle," he replied, his gaze flickering briefly to the furballs nestled beside Jon before returning to his face.

Jon gave a wry smile at Rody's words, "Robb wanted to spare these two some fresh air," he pointed to the two furballs. "Come, join us. We were just sharing stories of our adventures on the road."

"Well, I would be remiss if I do not grab the chance to get away from those weasels," Rody said, settling himself down beside Jon amidst the sea of familiar faces. The air was thick with the scent of ale and roasted meat, and the sound of laughter filled the space around them, weaving a comforting tapestry of sound that enveloped them in its warmth.

As they exchanged small talk, Rody noticed the absence of Hunter. "Where is Hunter?" he asked, scanning the faces of those seated around him in search of their missing companion.

One of the men, seated nearby, spoke up in response to Rody's question. "I saw him walking near the river," he replied, his tone laced with a hint of concern. "He looked...aghast, though I do not know why."

As Jon spoke, his words carried a note of reassurance amidst the concern that lingered in the air. "We can talk with Hunter come the morning," he suggested, his voice calm and measured. "For now, we must return to the feast, lest I miss the bedding and have my head chopped by Robb."

Rody nodded in understanding, his thoughts still consumed by worry for their missing companion. The mention of the impending festivities brought a flicker of amusement to his eyes, despite the gravity of the situation. "Aye, we can't have the crown prince's temper flaring over a missed bedding," he remarked wryly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

With a sense of reluctance, Rody watched as Jon turned his attention to his faithful companions, Ghost and Grey Wind, who had remained steadfastly by his side. "Stay here," he instructed them, his voice firm but tinged with a note of concern. "I fear that one of you might snap a Frey's head in half if you come with me."

The wolves regarded him with intelligent eyes, their forms illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns, before settling down obediently amidst the warmth of the tent. Jon gave them one final glance, before turning to follow Rody back into the festivities of the castle.

As they made their way through the camp, the sounds of revelry grew louder, mingling with the chorus of laughter and song that filled the night air. Despite the sense of unease that lingered in the back of his mind, Rody couldn't help but feel a sense of calmness amidst the familiar faces of his comrades.

As Rody and Jon made their way back to the great hall, the air around them buzzed with anticipation, the sounds of laughter and merriment echoing through the night air. Rody couldn't help but feel a sense of relief as they drew closer to the warmth and light of the hall, the tension of the earlier confrontation fading into the background.

Amidst the jovial atmosphere, Rody couldn't resist breaking the silence. "You listened to my words, spending time with your men," he remarked, a note of approval in his voice.

Jon offered a tight-lipped smile in response, his expression guarded. "They're good men. They deserve it," he replied, his tone measured.

Rody nodded, sensing the weight of responsibility that Jon carried on his shoulders. "Aye, they do," he agreed, falling silent as they made their way through the bustling corridors of the castle.

As Rody and Jon stepped into the great hall, they were enveloped by the warmth and revelry that filled the air. The atmosphere was one of joyous celebration, with nobles from both Houses Stark and Frey gathered together, feasting and drinking as if the recent tensions had never existed. The hall was alive with the sound of laughter, conversation, and the clinking of tankards, while the flickering light of torches and candles cast a warm, golden glow over the scene.

Taking in the sight before him, Rody observed the guests mingling and enjoying themselves amidst the grandeur of the hall. The crown prince, Robb Stark, stood with his new bride, their faces radiant with happiness as they shared whispered conversations and exchanged affectionate glances. Nearby, King Eddard Stark conversed with Lord Walder Frey, their expressions serious as they discussed matters of diplomacy and alliance.

As they made their way through the throng of guests towards the tables, Rody couldn't help but notice the anticipation building in the air. The call for the bedding ceremony echoed through the hall, drawing excited murmurs from the assembled nobles. It was a tradition steeped in history and tradition, a symbolic gesture of unity and fertility that marked the beginning of a new chapter in the lives of the newlyweds.

…

AN: This was a very long one for me. I wanted to continue and finish the plot in the Twins but alas.. What do you guys think will happen after the bedding? :)