Chapter 10 – A wordless message
As Robb thrust his hips forward, his senses aflame, he looked down at the woman below him, the catalyst of his euphoria, his heart. Her cheeks were flushed, her rose petals lips parted and her breathe moving through in small aphrodisiac pants, and her silken legs wrapped tightly his naked waist, proving no means of escape, even if he wished it. Her arms were likewise wrapped around his neck, threaded into his hair, his face close to hers, allowing him to look upon her eyes, to really see. Those warm brown eyes, looking at him with such lust, he could see, in the depths, pride, at being the only one who would make him feel this way.
He leaned his head forward, still moving his hips into her, stealing a kiss from her as he did, or it would if she didn't give it willingly, muffling her moans, their tongues battling for dominance during the rocking motion of their bodies. Breaking the kiss, he could feel his end nearing. Lifting his head, he thrust quicker, amplifying both their moans as he put his entire being into moving himself inside her. He moved once more, rearing his head back and…
Gasped awake, the gentle background noises tuned out as he focused on his dream that was quickly slipping from his mind, like water through his fingers. He chuckled.
"That night still echoes in my mind," He said, smirking, turning, to see only pillows and furs, no comforting presence he had been expecting. Staring for but a moment, his mind clicked with remembrance. Swallowing back his anguish, he punched the pillow, denting its soft surface as he fell back against his own. Of course, he remembered, my wife, my Margaery Stark, is still journeying to the Reach, almost a kingdom away. Already he longed for the moment when she would fill the gap in his heart and mind, filling the silence that followed with more pleasant memories of the two of them.
A knock came upon the door to his cabin, shaking the mottled wood and him out of his daydream.
"Your Grace, we can see White Harbor upon the horizon." A voice, rough with the morning, called through the door.
"Thank you." He returned, moving himself out of the tranquillity of the furs and onto the cold floor. Walking to the window, he looked out upon the azure landscape, twisting upon itself.
After getting dressed, Robb slowly made his way onto the deck, a maze of thick salt sprayed ropes, moving people and shouting orders that had taken days to acclimatise to. Walking through the swaying jungle, he walked up to the brow of the boat, observing the horizon, as White Harbor came ever closer. He had yet to travel to the harbour city, as the heir to the North or as the King, but the fluttering of a new city was downtrodden by the imminent violence that would occur. The Manderly's were as loyal to the Stark's as any, but that would mean there would be men stationed at White Harbor, and that would present the need for careful planning.
Running a hand through his auburn hair, he realised what must become him if their second rebellion was to succeed. Sighing, he was interrupted from the woes of self-inspection by the sound of heavy footfalls behind him.
"Fuck the gods, I will never be gladder to have stable ground below my feet." The Greatjon's voice filled the air, as he and the other men moved to stand with their king. After inspecting the horizon, he turned to Robb, mouth, set in a hard line, not even his humour breaking through the sombre moment.
"What's the plan?" Robb thought, for but a moment, before he chuckled slightly, the merriment easily cutting through the tension.
"Manderly loves his food does he not? Jon, what do we have to tempt his silence?" he turned to his friend, whose mind was turning to his way of thinking, and smiling his fearsome smile.
"Trout, Your Grace. Trout." Robb laughed a deep full laugh he hadn't used in years it seemed. Looking back at his men, he smiled his smile in return.
"Then let us begin."
It had been a long while since had had to walk anywhere, the litter relieving him of that duty, but needs must, and he wouldn't suffer the shame of a litter to the lavatory. Slowly heaving his weight from one foot to the other, he walked down the darkened corridor towards his court, breathing heavily as he moved so. The Doors were sparse in bedecked jewels, but populated in illustrations of mermen and warriors of honour ages past. There once was a time that the younger Wyman would have remembered them, drunk on honour and riches, until life taught him to different.
Moving slowly through the aged wood of the doorway, the men standing on either side of them announcing him, he took his time surveying his court this morn, mummers farce in play with his simple, fools smile upon his lips. There was the always present, merchants and blacksmiths, farmers guards, but his eyes were drawn, as ever they were, to the sons of the Twins, as present as greyscale to be sure, if the wide birth the other members of his city gave them. There were three of then, as weasel like as their sires, all wearing their colours of deepest blue and palest grey, but it was their mouthpiece, the man in their middle that took his interest, as sickening as it was.
Rheagar Frey, the man named after the dragon, in worms clothing looked like the shadow of his namesake's shadow, as he stood before him, greasy smile fixed in place, greying hair receding from his shining forehead, he stood, hand upon pummel of sword, despite disgusted looks. They had supped upon salt and bread the only the night before, but Wyman paid it no mind, they would all die soon enough, he whispered throughout his mind, lending itself to his fools smile.
Slowly lowering himself into his large supported chair, he heaved a heavy sigh at completing the ever exerting, yet menial walk to his throne. Turning to his Maester, who hands in abundance of scrolls, he laughed lightly.
"Maester, who's to be seen first today?"
Many hours passed in tenuis tranquillity, both the Lords and Ladies, as well as the common people behaving as they would any other court session. But movements were stilted, tongues weren't as forthcoming lest they give something away to the worms in their flayed skin shields. Wyman, who had scarcely time to consume a horn of ale, was looking forward to the break, and the food that would come with it to be sure, when the Frey men stepped forward.
"Wait but a moment, Lord Manderly, we have a need to discuss your support for the Warden of the North, Lord Bolton." Aegon announced, and the tentative peace within the court was broken, as the invited guests.
"But of course, as soon as my son Wylis returns then we shall discuss all of the peace accords that the Warden of the North has us make." This was a stalling turn, at the best, for the Frey's were many things, but none had yet to call them patient.
"The Lord of Winterfell would have you make them now," Rheagar's voice grew in anger, his hand tighten upon the black wood of his pommel. His eyes flickered to Wyman's Granddaughters stood nearby, even the dutiful girls, but the smile upon the Frey's lips allied themselves with his fears.
"I and the Little Walder, currently residing in Winterfell will marry your Granddaughters," he began that smile ever present upon his greedy lips, his eyes flicking back to the Lord before him. "And you, my Lord," he spoke, taking a step forward, "will take a Frey for a bride."
Silence followed, as each and every pair of eyes watched and waited with breathe yet to pass their lips, waiting for their Lords response. Indeed, it wasn't a thought that had occurred to him, but it was an easily circumvented detail in their plan.
He waited but a moment, then smiled a wide smile, raising his arms invitingly.
"I expected nothing less, Frey, my granddaughters and I would be more than willing to take Frey's as our partners of mind and heart." The men and women greeted this in the granite of stony silence, with only his youngest granddaughter, Wylla, her of pretty face, small bust and bright green braided hair, who stepped forward.
"The Frey's murdered our King, why not marry yourself to the Bolton's or Lannister's, the one's you birthed this disgusting plan?!" Her small, delicate hands were trembling, such was her rage, but her older sister, Wynafryd, moved forward, taking one of those small hands in her own, to help calm.
"Be still sister, the Frey's aren't bad, it was the Young Wolf who betrayed us all, we are lucky to have such brave, handsome men to have protected us from him," she finished, her eyes flicking to the Rhaegar, fluttering her lashes at him. His Brave Wynafryd, the perfect mummer, he thought, as Wylla, calmed herself, though her expression of deepest loathing didn't ease itself from her delicate features.
"Now, with that put to bed, let us," He started, projecting his voice to all, before being interrupted.
My Lord," Called Maester Theomore, as he moved to hi liege, quicker than was normal. His mind whirring through reasons, he looked into his Maester's eyes, and saw something, some worry but some hope. The man had something in his arms, something during his distance travelled, but become visible as he moved to stand at Wyman shoulder. He could now see the letter and, what looked to be a Trout, his scales shining with water running down it, eyes looking out but seeing nothing. The Maester handed the fish first to him, holding it in such a way, that all of the guests could only see the side facing them, not the one facing Wyman, and it was this one that held his breathe. Dug deep into the scales, was a pin of silver, showing the Direwolf of Stark.
"This Trout and others like it, were caught this morning, my Lord, my thinking was to have the Frey's taste our Northern style of fish before they leave on the morn," Theomore spoke in a carrying voice, but spoke volumes to the Merman, whose eyes flickered to him. His hands were shaking slightly, but otherwise his poise spoke of loyalty, for he had seen the pin, he knew. He then coughed, handing the letter to him on this nervous hands. He unfurled the seal less scroll and read. Finishing the scroll, wrapping it again in his fatty, sausage hands, he turned to the other man, his mummer's face the picture of hospitality.
"Of course Maester, but tell me, how many of our men would be able to create such a special dish?" He asked of him.
"All of them will try to recreate it from memory, my Lord," he answered, eyes speaking volumes. Turning to the Frey's, whom were looking greedily at the Trout they saw, he called out to all.
Well, seeing as we have now more than an abundance of fish, I invite all here to partake of the feast we are to have tonight, as long as the Lord Frey does not mind?" he asked of the men, eyes flicking between themselves, before shrugging, mind leaping ahead towards the food.
"No mind, Lord Manderly, no mind."
"Wynafryd, would you be able to oversee this important meal?" he asked of her. He loved her dearly then, for she knew, of course she knew that the letter was more than fishermen, and didn't give a sound of dissent, as she walked forward, blue dress shimmering across the floor.
"Grandfather, why must Wyn oversee this? She's a Lady of White Harbor, not a servant," came the angry response from Wylla. Wynafryd turned in a whirl of golden hair to respond, oft soft eyes, hardened towards her blood.
"Be quiet, sister. This is an important meal, and better I find out the tastes of my future husband now." Sending a coy smile to Rhaegar, she moved to the Throne, taking the fish carefully, keeping the pin of the wolf close to her bosom, whilst taking the letter, with the other.
Reading quickly through the instructions, she smiled a ghost of a smile, and a dip of her head in affirmation.
"I believe I can help organise this." She smiled, leaving the room, down the stairs, towards the servants, away from the masses above, before the smile turned to laughter.
Pacing through the room as he had done so many times before, his legs aching from usage, he slowly looked out of the curtains onto the people below. Seeing not a single set of eyes returning his gaze, he turned to strike up his pacing, but Greatjon's voice interrupted him.
"For our sake Robb, best not ware through the floorboards. Us falling through to the bottom of this thrice pissed upon house, may raise an inquisitive eye." He sighed in response, grimacing slightly, as he turned, moving towards one of the seats that wasn't claimed, by man or by mould.
"I know Jon, it's just," he ran a hand through his ruddy auburn beard, that the journey North had provided. "I dislike this waiting. Any number of obstacles could rear their ugly head, whilst we're here, wearing the floor away." The Greatjon chuckled at that, leaning back, the chair seeming puny in scope compared to the giant of the man astride it. He looked across the room at Grey Wind, who seemed to have fallen into his dreams, the pile of light fur rising and falling gently, as his face, so gentle in sleep, twitched, reacting to whatever he dreamt of. A moment of silence fell upon them, in which the deep breathing of his wolves became background noise, before Robb, looking up, broke it.
"If this goes according to plan, what is for us after White Harbor?" his deep blue eyes, spoke of a delicacy, borne of the failure last time. "Whom do we even trust?"
Greatjon, moved forward, arms solidified with muscle, resting upon his thighs as he looked at Robb, really looked at him.
"We take this city, then we go to mine own castle, Last Hearth, sending ravens to all the other houses, that their King has returned. They'll come so quickly, they'll be many a bastard to have," he finished, a quiet laugh. Robb looked at him, assessing what his reaction.
"Jon told me….he told me that there was an army of wildlings south of the Wall, that he himself had allowed through, that would help fight for us, if we but help them free from Castle Black" Robb said, over the now frozen look he was receiving. The man sat there, thinking for several minutes to be sure, before responding.
"They are known to be fierce fighters. Aye, it might make them hate you, Your Grace," and he smiled now, "But I would wager that they would hate the Bolton's and Lannister's more. And I reckon they won't, not with two Starks protecting them"
Laughing, his mind quickly reminded him who he was facing, and where.
"How do we attack Winterfell?"
"We don't lad, we wait for the Bolton's to come to us, that monster bastard of his, and he has the temper, the ferocity, but no brains to plan where his wroth aims at next. We can catch him with his trousers down, and shove our swords so far up his bunghole, he'll be able to lick the blood off them."
"Which other Houses have thrown themselves in with the flayed man?"
"Karstark's, though that shouldn't surprise. They betrayed you, killed Lannister boys; The Bolton and Frey alliance is their final roll of the dice. Bastards all of them, I wish I'd killed more of them when they turned on us at Edmure's wedding, or at least taken another ear of Leslyn Heigh." Robb nodded, remembering.
"No unseen circumstances, we should hold the numbers, Northmen, wildlings and the Northern clans, against the traitors," Robb spoke, seemingly more for his benefit than anyone else.
Looking down at his hands, at the ring placed upon his finger.
Before he left Dorne, Margaery had all but dragged him back to their rooms. Closing the door, she had rushed to seal his lips to hers, her delicate hands steel-like in their grip upon his robes.
Parting, more due to reluctance to suffocate than reluctance itself, he chuckled into her pale skin at her neck, loving the way she shivered, though in Dorne it was never cold.
"Margaery, though I yearn to stay, I have to leave now, or I fear I will be stuck with you forever," he whispered, smirking at her, and receiving a smirk in return.
I know, but before you becoming ensnared in my rosy embrace, I would have you wear this," she said, pulling a ring from her neck, where it had hung on a chain of shining steel.
"Mag," Robb started, to object to be sure but was unable to voice, what was surely an attempt at honour, due to his wife's lips upon his own, again.
"Yes, you will. It was my fathers, it was mine, and now it is ours," She spoke, words bursting of emotion, as he examined it. Made of whitened gold, leaving Robb marvelled that the Reach had such control over metals, on its side, whose purpose was to face to the heavens, a small but opening rose, its petals changing from a pinkish hue, to the edge of the petal, capped with a dusky gold. It was beautiful.
"It's just, in my darkest moments, I would have you something to remind other women that you are taken by the wolf that now smells of Roses." Robb smiled, knowing of what she was thinking, no matter what her words said.
"My father met Lady Ashara at Harrenhal, before my father was betrothed or married," he said smiling at Margaery's fluster. Moving forward, he touched his forehead to hers.
"Wherever I am, I have my wolf awaiting me after."
Smiling at the memory, until he cursed himself. Now was the worst of times to be immersing himself in those happiest of memories.
"When were you married, Jon?" he asked, a nervous smile creeping across his face, as man opposite began to laugh, the deep booming laugh that he knew so well, even people through the yellow glazed windows, had they stopped to listen would have had their ears rewarded with that laughter.
"Many years ago, before you were even a glint in your father's eye," He replied, chest still heaving with mirth. "Aye, my wife was a shy one, she was, when I first saw her before the weirwood, walking towards me in white, arm upon her father's. Blushing and avoiding my gaze, she looked as fetching as the maiden herself. But, given enough time, shared words and fucking, she became a fierce woman. She loved me, cared for our children, and looked after the Last Hearth along with nuncles, Whoresbane and Crowsfood. And baring any interference from the gods, I'll see her before the next moon is up, they owe me that." This was the only time that he saw another side, a quieter side, almost seeming the mummery compared to his normal larger than life persona. His sad line of a mouth swallowed by the greying of his beard. Looking up, he saw Robb's melancholic look.
"Robb, don't get bloody soft on me, now. I am in this till the end, you know this. But you," he said, and the soft malleable metal had turned to cold steel in his eyes, "Must be more than you were. You've been given a second chance. There won't be a third. We hold every oath, we kill every enemy, we leave no one alive to hold that last spark of revenge .When we return to the North, be it a year, be it two, and we do it with no remorse, so we don't have to pick up the sword once again."
Robb absorbed this, face showing none of the storm brewing upon his mind. How could he not, when those words, already infused with power, carried with them, the weight of his most loyal bannerman. He had been weak before, Copper itself; looking the part of King, and yes, he'd won every battle, but when it came to passing judgement, to being the very thing his bannermen had raised up to be, he had broken upon himself, his greenness. This time…this time, he wouldn't be his Ancestor, Torrhen Stark, and the King who knelt. No, no this time, he already had his wife, he was green no longer.
He was interrupted by a knock on the door to their room. Swinging inwards, one of their men passed through, grim faced, sword on belt.
"It's time, m'lord."
Turning he began to move out of the doorway. The Greatjon moving to follow him, Robb crouched down before placing a steady hand on his wolf's head. The eyes, those hypnotic yellow eyes opened without a flicker of sleep in them, focusing upon his friends face
"Time to go, boy," he whispered before standing back up, Grey Wind rushing to follow. Down the narrowed, twisting flight of stairs, the noise of the city swirling around them all the while. Moving into the front room, where the rest of their men were waiting, all as on edge as the first.
"So,' Robb began, all insecurities gone, or hidden before his men rather, "How are we to gain entrance to the Castle?" One of his men, a boy younger than him, with a scar whiter than snow stretching across one cheek, leaned towards the map they had in the centre of the room.
"With respect Your Grace," he started stuttering over his words, such was his nerves. "We can't take Grey Wing with us. We can hide in the castle in armour or in rooms, but they would recognise him anywhere."
Robb looked down at the manifestation of his house and nodded.
"I will need one of you then to stay here, keep watch over him." One of the older men, Osmund, long hair so dotted in grey it looked to be dark snow, stepped forward, nodding. Robb nodded at his affirmation.
"So we war simple clothes, have armour underneath in case the worst happens, and we are discovered in our ruse. Let it not be said that I have no confidence in Manderly's loyalty, but there will be many ears and eyes, and we have not a clear picture which ears and eyes are full of Lannister gold. If….if we are caught, and killed, then you ser, will take Grey Wind away to the Reach to my Lady wife…. She'll need protection," He finished simply, the very thought of leaving her, sobering him. Osmund nodded, eyes twitching to the wolf who stood resolutely by Robb's side, no matter the partner of his life's words.
"So now that the sad shit is out of the way of tonight's plan, what now?" Greatjon's deep voice cutting through the melancholic moment.
"Now," Robb turned to look at him then moved to the window, looking through it as the sun was starting to become lost to the horizon. "Now, it is all down to Wyman Manderly."
The Great Hall was packed, every person louder than the next, up and down the benches, the many colours of his people's clothing, glittered, along with the reflective glint of the horns and flagons, filled to the brim with wine. There had been many a course served, eels, and swordfish seabass a plenty, yet they had but served as distractions before the main course of the night.
Wyman looked about the hall, in between the twisting, laughing bodies, observing, whilst still showing that rich open fools smile, upon his learned lips. The Frey soldiers, garbed in their baggy, rat-like armour, jeering at those of their ilk who had women upon their laps and were reaching in those realms of pleasure upon their person, whilst frisking the skirts of any women unwise enough to wade into their midst. The people of White Harbor were more reserved in their frivolity, though no less joyous about it, cheering, laughing and drinking along with all of the others, save a few. He did not drink of course, his wits were the only weapon he possessed, trapped inside his fatty prison, but his eyes fell upon the others who didn't and there were but a few.
Wynafryd with the Rhaegar Frey, sitting upon his lap and flirting, the likes of which she wouldn't never take account of sober, whilst he had yet to see her actually partake of any alcohol. Wylla was another, but hers was no mummery, for she was seated next to her sister and the Frey, sitting sullenly and saying not a word, staring around, and seeing not a thing for her pleasure. He hoped that later would remedy that, as he could ill afford to comfort her in front of any of the people around his castle for fear of the words, carried on wind to Frey or Bolton ears.
A noise drew him, through the cacophony of merriment assaulting him, to a Guard moving through light green doors opposite him in the cavern light room. The man was young, fresh bodied and small of beard, yet his eyes spoke wisdom as he slowly walked to his liege lords table, to better evade unwanted eyes. Approaching Wyman's table, doffing his head in respect, he leaned into the Merman's ear.
"They have entered m'lord, all of them. They stand with us outside in simple clothes and mail to evade suspicion, and shall enter with us, when commanded." Wyman, turned his head slightly, his eyelids fluttering of a wink, as conformation of this, before shouting jovially,
"Before you brave the cold streets again, I insist on a mouth of Arbor Gold to warm you steps, soldier." The soldier looked at him, wheels of his mind turning, before cracking a bright smile of party and understanding, stooping to quash a mouthful of the sweet wine into himself before bowing and retreating to the doors. Wyman slowly got to his feet, through the use of his hands heavily placed on the table, raising his goblet as he did so, using his knife to ring a clear note through the festivities.
"My lords, ladies and other guests, we have no doubt had our fill of wine and food," he began, smiling as several of the Frey crowd jeered at his words, "But we have but one more serving of food, and it by far the best, bias to be sure."
At that, and a wave of his hand, the doors opened, and servants streamed through the doors, carrying vast plates, rested on each, was a magnificent trout, each stuffed with vegetables and herbs, along with vats of Dornish wine to follow. Above the great cheer, at the sight of their food, the Frey's had moved towards the tables the fish were being laid upon, Rhaegar and his two shadows hastening to join him. Wynafryd, spurned aside by the prospect of better entertainment, picked up her own cup, lifting it to her lips, but not before flicking her eyes towards him, raising an immaculate eyebrow slightly, before looking away again. Wyman's cup sang again, and eyes turned from the wine, of which they had immersed themselves in.
"My lords, before you sink into the very best of fish and wine, I would offer you one more gift,' he said, waving his hands to the people standing to the outside of the rooms. 'Since, you'll be leaving at dawn on the morrow, I would present my gifts, of palfreys, before you all. Since you are to be marrying a northern wife Rhaegar, it seems fair you are learned in the North itself, from Brandon the Builder, all the way to now,' The Frey's smiles of mirth were moving of their faces, replaced by scarcely concealed anger, as the weighty books, bound in ageing leather, were placed in front of the guards and lords alike, but Wyman was not finished, to be sure. 'The Starks have ruled all of that time, from the Builder of the Wall, to Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, the boy king, who you Frey's, with great honour and bravery, killed him and his men. Raise your cups, my friends, to the honour and bravery of Frey's!" His cry carried across the room and whilst the crowd of the people downed their wines, the Frey men looked mutinous, no more so, than the Dragon himself, Rheagar, stormed to his feet, anger upon his face, hand upon his pommel.
"You go too far, Manderly! He turned traitor, and when he reached the Twins, he turned savage, it was all we could to put down the mad dog, before he turned his savagery on all of us. I will not have our family's honour questioned by you, Lord Lard, a man who struggles to wipe his arse, let alone swing a sword."
The hall rang with his words, for there was no other sound, save the laughter of the off Frey, as the people of White Harbor stared at their Lord, who smiled back at them, though this smile spoke of more than insult.
"Why, Lord Frey, you should learn boundaries yourself. And knowledge. For one, I've heard whispers of a tale that says the Young Wolf lives, that you spared his life. Yes, I may be fight, and this body may have become my prison, but a man's cleverness will always win out over his brawn," as he said this, his finger, wrapped around his own glittering cup, rose and feel once against the polished metal. His Master-at-arms, Ser Martyn, started walking, his armoured feet falling heavily, as he moved towards the Frey's. the men of the Twins, intent upon their wounded pride over an insult, were deaf to his movements and Wyman's smile turned cold.
'For even if a wolf has lost his fangs to age, the others of the pack will rise to take his place."
As he finished this, Martyn loosed his sword, intent etched into the steel, as it swung through the air, to land in the oaken table with a heavy thud. Silence for but a moment, then the pained screech of Jared Frey, as he moved backwards of the bench, clutching his bloodied stump, the fountain of blood staining his furs whilst his ringed hand lay for all those to see, still clutching his cup.
The echoes were the only noise. Echoes, heavy breathing and the clank of their armour. The light of the torch being carried by a guard before them was getting smaller in significance as the light flirting from the stairs before them loomed. The mist that formed from their forced breaths was whipped apart as they hurried on, through the light, and began to climb the stairs.
The Frey's were merry, they were joyous, and they were unprepared for the people of White Harbor to fall upon them. Wyman stood, leaning and panting to equal weight, as his people, his glorious people, moved with deadly purpose. All along the tables, where there had once been merriment, there was struggle and pain.
His baker, full of laughter, had stabbed one man in the groin, the man falling to his knees will a pitiful squeal, his hands gripping the blade that was lodged within him. He almost felt for the man, as the baker slowly dragged the knife from balls up, his innards painting the floor below, until the metal lodged itself in bone. But his mind turned to his son, killed in treachery thrice as bad, and his heart turned to stone once more, as he looked away, roving over the room before him.
Most of the men tried to alieve their swords free of scabbards, but bar one all were stopped, knifes punched into sides, ears and eyes, everywhere his people could reach, anywhere that would sing the song of revenge. The one man, who managed to pull free his steel, cut his kennel master across the belly, before the other fell upon him, hacking with renewed anger, as the lord of dogs, bled out, clutching his innards.
Jared Frey lay where he had fallen, stab wounds so frequent in his chest that he looked a bloody toad-in-the-hole, his eyes seeing no mirth in this, seeing nothing. Symond moved when his brother had screamed, hand moving to his own pommel before Ser Martyn, removing his sword from Jared's chest, turned, his blade spinning with him. The blade had parted flesh and bone, as the head fell upon the already bloody floor, body with it, still clutching at life, twitching slightly.
Only Rheagar stood still, his eyes wide, looking around at the room but seeing nothing, his hand frozen, inches away from his own metal as he watched his brethren and men fall around him. But he was not to be spared. His guards were dying or dead, so there was none to stop Wynafryd, her smile belaying effort, moving forward, her skirts fanning out behind her, as she took her own knife, and cut the last standing Frey legs out from under him.
The guards quickly moved to open the doors before them, the old doors scarcely making a sound, such was their oiled hinges. He nodded to the guards, who dipped their heads in return, as they flew through the doorway, for they would not let up their pace. They would not be denied this. This hall lead to the large door themselves that he had seen in another life, one filled with innocence and happiness.
That was gone, turn asunder, and this was all that was left, as they guards before this one rushed to perform the same duty. These doors, though massive in structure, yielded the same results, for even the peoples in the great hall were ignorant of his present.
The room had been set for a feast, with cups of wine and food aplenty, but something had gone wrong, for there were bodies in varying degrees of destruction, sprawled over the tables, sits and floor. Blood spread across, seeping through the gaps between silks, leather and flesh.
On his knees before the high table, before loyal Lord Manderly, was a man, blood soaking the legs through his breaches, was a man, a Frey under assumption, for he was in the midst of a tirade against the merman,
"Get away with this, there will be retribution for sure, you mad fuck. The Twins and the flayed man will turn their wroth upon you. You will be forced to watch as your granddaughters, are handed round the garrison like cheap whores, used as the men will see fit, before your eyes will be turn from that fat head of yours, and your skin shall bedeck the Lord Bolton, and his son, I'd wager. And what about Guest Right? You'll will be as cursed as you yourself see us!" Lord Wyman breathing heavily as he slowly walked round the high tables, supported by his men at arms, before he came to a heaving stop on the on the other side of the high table, above the Frey.
"Ah, but your knowledge betrays your ignorance, for you were all given gifts to mark your farewell marking you no longer guests. Did you really think that you would be welcomed into my hall, after what you did to my son, the Lady Catelyn, the King in the….," He broke off, his eyes finding him then, his face slowly moving to show his true emotion, a smile quickly becoming laughter. The other people at the high table saw him too, the ladies, beauties at that, openly gasping, one of which was holding a bloody knife to her breast like that of a trophy, for what they must think a ghost, before Wyman spoke again, through his laughter.
"But I was not there for as you say, war would not suit me, with my love of eels. We need a more educated experience, not tainted by treachery. What happened at the Red Wedding, Your Grace?"
The other people in the hall turned to Robb then, whispers flying like the wind itself, as the man kneeling slowly turned to look at him, his hair, drenched in sweat, face waxy, and scared.
"They broke their Oaths, Lord Manderly, they killed Lords, they killed Ladies, they killed….' He slowly walked towards the Frey during his words, pausing, his face flickered with pain as his mind turned to his mother, trying with every breath of her body, to allow his freedom.
A son for a son.
"They killed my mother, and Stark and a Tully, so that's more Oaths you broke. You slit her…you slit her throat to the bone, and dumped her body in the river. Oh Aye,' He thundered, having completed his walk before the kneeling man, as his fear turned to dread, on his screw like face.
"I know what happened after you robbed me of conscious. That bastard Joffrey spoke of it a great deal in his torment of me. But it's not just me you robbed of family. What happened to your son, Lord Umber?" he asked of his friend, whose face was as his sigil, a mountain of rage and only one way to march it towards.
"Your Grace, he was cut in two and his head cut off." The curt reply, yet spoke volumes of anger.
"Y…Your Grace…" the man before them uttered, before Robb moved down, his armoured fist connecting with the man's cheek. His head snapping back, he all but fell, leaning heavily spitting both blood and teeth out of a ruined mouth. Robb stood, moving back, thinking, before it struck him.
Bring me his head.
"Do not worry, my Lord Frey, there is good news here to be born to all ears." Robb paused slightly, as the kneeling man breathed relieve, before glancing back at the Merman.
"Cut off his head, send it back to the Frey's. I fear you mistook me, the good news is for Lord Manderly's granddaughter, not for you." Glancing at the Lady Wynafryd, whose face spook a savage joy, he began the walk back down the hall, steps the only noise, the Greatjon falling into step with him.
"Would that I was strong enough,' came the man's thoughts as they walked. "If I was, I would part his head from his neck myself with bare hands, like I do my Wives thighs." Laughing loudly, the two men left the hall, even as the screams of a dying man heralded their departure.
A/N Hi there, it's been slight longer than I wanted it to be, hopefully people haven't given up on me. Here's the nest chapter, Enjoy!