Work Text:
She heard the Northmen before she saw them. When she finally did catch sight of them, Betha Frey saw that they were afoot and weary. She had heard her uncles and cousins saying that most of the horse had gone west with Robb Stark to free Riverrun. Her younger brother, Hoster, was named for the Lord of Riverrun. She had thought that Robb was the Lord of Winterfell, at first, but her mean old cousin Edwyn had told him he was just the heir, and slapped her behind the ear. But with Eddard Stark clapped up in the dungeons of King’s Landing, his son might as well have been, in any case.
She was almost ten-and-six, a woman grown, and flowered, yet no-one at the Twins seemed to treat her anything more than a lackwit girl. The elder men were cruel to her, the boys her age thought her a fool, and the girls were vapid and stupid anyway. She had once tried to make friends with the twins, Serra and Sarra, but they only giggled at her and told her to go away. Marissa, the daughter of Merrett, was nice to her sometimes, but a sickly girl, and Marissa’s brother was mean and witless. He had taunted her as Poxy Betha once when he’d saw the two of them together. Her only real friend at the Twins was her full-blooded cousin, called Walder, like their grandfather. He was ugly, but because he was a boy no-one seemed to mind, and sweet for all that. They had played games at the river together, and once when Elmar had whacked him with a stick she’d jumped into the Trident and dragged him back to shore. The other boys all laughed at him, but she was proud of herself.
But now all of her friends was leaving. Elmar was promised to a Stark of Winterfell, and Walder was to foster with the Lady Catelyn, Robb Stark’s mother, at Winterfell. She had told him scary stories of the crannogmen the night before he was to leave. All of the Freys had been called to the Twins on her grandfather’s orders, but it had seemed a meaner and distant place since her only friend headed north. She hoped these Northmen would be kind, kinder than her own kin had been. The Lady Catelyn had seemed sweet when she’d seen her, even if she was old enough to be Betha’s grandmother. She was born a Tully of Riverrun, but had married Eddard Stark as a girl, and seemed every bit a lady of the North.
It was Lame Lothar, the steward of the Twins, who came to bring her into her grandfather’s hall to meet the Northerners. Lothar was one of the few Freys she counted as friend. It was a silly thing, she knew, but he had been sweet to her. At dinners, he would give her a second serving when she asked for it, and once when his girl Tys had poured a flagon of wine on her head, he had cleaned up her hair, and made his daughter apologise. Hobbling in with his deformed leg, Lothar had told her she was to meet the heroes of the Green Fork, who fought valiantly against Tywin Lannister. When she’d asked who their commander was, he had said that it was Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort.
Betha had not liked the sound of that, and she liked the look of Lord Bolton even less. He was almost gaunt, and his pale eyes matched his skin. “My lord of Frey. The North thanks you for your hospitality.” Her grandfather, Lord Walder Frey of the Crossing, sat on his oaken throne. He was old and wrinkled and past ninety, and her cousins swore he was bound to die any day. By any measure, he was a foul man. He had said vile things to the Lady Catelyn, and about her aunts and uncles, but in some queer way she did trust him. Walder Frey had always looked after his family, and while his heir Stevron might have been kinder, sweeter, more pleasant, she knew as long as Walder lived she would be safe at the Twins.
“I heard Tywin Lannister gave you a right old routing,” Lord Walder tittered.
“Our men fought bravely, Lord Walder, but we were outnumbered. I grieve to tell you that we were forced to retreat, and that a number of our men were captured. Your sons Hosteen, Danwell, and Jared were among them.” She could not quite place Danwell, but Jared was mean and Hosteen stupid. Jared was too old for it now, but Hosteen had ridden in a tourney at Riverrun when she was 12. He was broad-shouldered and muscled, but slim Patrek Mallister, the heir to Seagard, had unhorsed him on the same. He fell on his arse with a curse, and Betha remembered laughing. Her father had given her a clout behind the head for that, but she still giggled when it came to memory.
For a moment she thought her grandfather had giggled as well, but he had only let out a snort. “Fools, the lot of them. They disgraced me last year, did you know?” Some of the Northmen had smiled at that, but Bolton’s face was cold as ice, unmoving.
“I was not aware, my Lord. Nevertheless, they fought valiantly, and I hope my men will be able to bring them back to you.”
“Fat chance of that if you keep getting beaten by the Lannisters.”
“Lord Tywin’s men are overextended, my Lord. My lord of Stark has the horse, and the element of surprise. I would not be so…pessimistic about the matter.”
“A boy against the Kingslayer.” Lord Walder snorted again.
“In any case, my Lord, we share the same cause, and I mean to strengthen the alliance between our two great houses. My wife passed a number of years ago, and since the unfortunate death of my son, I have no trueborn children. I mean to take another wife, and if you consent, it would please me to wed a Frey girl.”
Her grandfather seemed pleased at that. The girls on the dais with her whispered. Every highborn lady knew that her duty was to one day wed for the honor of their house. None of her full-blood cousins had yet, but her aunt Morya had. Amerei, who was only a year older than her, had been wed to a hedge knight, though that was after she had been found abed with three men. But the more children and grandchildren Walder Frey had, the less that could be guaranteed a good match. Many of her female relatives had hoped to marry Robb Stark, who had promised himself to House Frey. Even little Shirei, who was only six, had made herself a crown of flowers and dreamed of being the Lady of Winterfell.
The man before them was not nearly as comely as the Young Wolf, and in truth his look frightened Betha. But Northmen were noble and valiant, Lothar had told her, and one of these men was like to be a better match than she could hope for. As the girls around her tittered and giggled, Betha was fool enough to step forward and speak up.
“Lord Grandfather, may I wed as well?” At once, all the eyes in the hall turned to her. Lord Bolton stared with squinted eyes, and the ladies of Frey had anything from sympathy on their faces to daggers in their eyes. Her aunt Tyta had even pulled at her dress to stop her from stepping forward, but she had broken free of the sharp tug.
Walder Frey regarded her suspiciously. “Quiet, girl. Roose Bolton has no interest in you.”
“Not him, another,” she blurted out, “one of his Northmen. They are brave men, and I am still a maiden.”
“And you will still be a maiden once these Northmen are gone back to their bogs and shacks. Hold your tongue, girl.”
“Lord Grandfather, I beg of you..”
“Unless you have anything important to say, you will leave the room.” Tyta tugged at her dress again as Betha’s stupid mouth gaped open, but then she heard a voice.
“Father, surely you can let her speak. She could forge another alliance for our house.” It was Lothar who had spoken for her. A smile crawled on her face as she broke free of her pudgy aunt for the second time, and she stepped forward. Lord Walder looked wroth, but if Betha did not speak now, she was not like to get the chance again.
“I am named for a queen, the wife to King Aegon,” she began, “and I am Whalen’s eldest child. I am a Blackwood on my mother’s side, so I have the blood of the old gods in me, just as I do the new. And, and, if I am not married now, I may not be a maiden for much longer. My cousin Ami…her three brides, and my cousin Walder snuck into my bedchamber the other week, he said he had taken my cousins, and that I was a woman grown, and that he would have me if I wanted, I shooed him away, but…”
Damn her fool mouth, Betha thought. Lothar had wanted her to speak well of House Frey, but she had slandered her kinsmen. She had not known what she was saying, she thought, Tyta was going to drag her out and her septa would discipline her, and…
“Which Walder, child?” Betha realised she had not said, even though Black Walder was staring at her from opposite the dais with hate in his eyes. There were tears in her eyes, too. “Are you mute, girl? Say it!”
“It was Ryman’s Walder, Lord Grandfather.” Feigned gasps went up around her, not that anyone in the room was truly surprised. Every maid at the Twins knew of his reputation, even her little sister Merry had heard the tales. The Northmen stayed silent, sullen looks on their faces.
“I suppose it would have been. Ryman is a sot, and his whelps have no sense to them.” Her grandfather sighed, and motioned her closer. “I will discipline him later. What’s your name, girl?”
“Betha. I’m Whalen’s eldest, my Lord.”
“Yes, yes, I heard the first time. And you must be flowered, though you don’t quite look it. Are you ten-and-four?”
“Ten-and-five. My name day is in two moon’s turns.”
“Very well. You are still a Frey, and I won't have any of my lackwit sons despoiling you. You are a pretty enough thing, so it is best you wed soon. Bolton, do you have any men of noble birth who would consent to marry my granddaughter?”
The pale-faced Lord of the Dreadfort hesitated. “Many of our highborn men were taken at the Green Fork, my Lord. Our young are soldiers, some knights out of White Harbor, or peasant boys.”
Lord Walder scowled. “I won’t have a Frey girl married to a bloody hedge knight, not again. She is of noble blood, and deserves a match as such. Come back tomorrow, Lord Bolton, and I will have your marriage, and if you can, find her a lordling to wed. Else I’ll give her to one of the Riverlords, if they consent, heh. They’d be wise to. My grandson will be Lord of Winterfell one day.”
Betha Frey hardly slept that night. Everyone had been gossiping about her. Marissa had said that she wished she’d been as bold, Arwyn had slapped her on the face, while Walda – Rhaegar’s Walda – had dreamed of becoming the next Lady Bolton. She was only ten, so Betha thought Roose Bolton would never pick her, but she entertained her, and shared dreams of the Northern boy who would sweep her off her feet tomorrow. Tyta had been wroth with her, but Black Walder was to be sent away from the Twins, to join Bolton’s men, so Betha was still pleased with herself. Alyx, her half-cousin, said she hoped the Lannisters captured him and cut off his balls. She should not have laughed at that, because she was a highborn girl, but Betha did, and heartily. After she was done with Walda, her, Alyx, and Roslin had spent the evening sharing wicked stories. Roslin said she was pretty, and would make a good bride, but it would not matter, because men of the north were known to turn into wolves and rip their brides apart, inside and out. When Alyx told that she had seen a Manderly knight-at-arms disrobing with a male member as stout and long as a horse’s, they had all laughed heartily. She found sleep well after midnight, and was awoken early by her younger brother Hoster, who took her to the high hall, where she had been one of the first assembled.
When all the Freys and northerners were in the room, and her grandfather had been carried to his seat, Betha knew it was time.
“My Lord,” said Roose Bolton with a bow.
“Did you find a bride for my granddaughter? Bessa, or Betha, or whatever she was called?” At the mention of her name, Betha Frey came forward to stand next to her grandfather on his wooden throne.
“I have no less than three men, kin to Northern lords.” The first of them came forward, a short old man with white hair and a round belly. “Ser Gerrold Manderly of White Harbor is a third cousin to Lord Wyman. He is fifty, and twice-widowed, but a follower of your Faith, and the girl may find White Harbor more pleasing than the far north.”
The second man hobbled forward. His face was pimpled and scarred, and he let out a wheezing cough. “This is Lord Vymar Karstark, a brother to Lord Karstark. He was wounded at the Green Fork, but is like to recover soon. He has never wed before, although he is nearing thirty.”
Lord Walder squinted suspiciously. “He looks near-dead. Does the boy have the pox?” Betha had to laugh at that, and so did a number of the other Frey girls, most of whom knew what sort of pox their grandfather was referring to.
“No, my Lord. He was wounded in battle.”
“In the camps, I’d wager.”
Lord Bolton ignored him, and brought forward the third man. Unlike the Manderly, he had only hints of grey in his hair, and had a haggard, untamed beard. He still looked old, Betha thought, though she would rather marry him than the Karstark boy. “Willam Cerwyn is the cousin of Lord Medger Cerwyn, captured at the Green Fork. He has just celebrated his fourtieth name day, but has never taken a wife.”
“Cousin?”
“Cregan Cerwyn was my grandfather, Lord Walder, the same as Lord Cerwyn’s. Cregan had three children, all boys. The eldest sired Medger, and the second me and my brother Jon. I am Medger’s first cousin, if he still lives.”
Betha’s grandfather sighed. “Is this the best you could find, Bolton?”
“If none of these please you, my Lord, I can offer forward my natural child, Ramsay. He is at the Dreadfort, so you would have to send the girl up to marry him, but he is of an age with her, and kindhearted.”
Lord Walder let out a sigh, and looked at Betha for a moment. “What do you say, girl?”
In truth, none of these men were what she had imagined. The Karstark was a whore worse than Amerei, the Manderly looked like his legs would collapse under the weight of his rump, and the Cerwyn…well, he was awfully old. But did she want to brave the Dreadfort? Roose Bolton was a fearsome man, and bastard blood corrupted a man, if her lord grandfather would even permit her to wed a baseborn boy. “Where is Cerwyn’s seat?”
“Castle Cerwyn is on the White Knife, my lady, not far from Winterfell. They are good friends of House Stark.”
Winterfell, thought Betha. Until Aegon the Dragon landed and Torrhen Stark bent his knee, that had been the seat of kings. Lord Robb had left his younger brothers behind there, and her cousin Walder was fostering there. Cerwyn might be an old man, but if wedding him meant Winterfell…
She thought of a story Roslin had told her last night, of a dragon princess from a hundred years ago. She’d married Lord Plumm, an elderly man, who had fainted at the sight of beholding her naked beauty, and went on to bed her own brother, being a Targaryen, and passed off the son as poor Lord Plumm’s. Alyx had laughed especially loudly at that one. Would this Cerwyn faint at the sight of her beauty?
“I am willing to wed the Cerwyn groom, Lord Grandfather.”
Walder Frey let out a shrewish smile at that. “Very well. Lord Willas, is a dowry of 20 gold dragons reasonable?”
The Cerwyn man seemed surprised, though whether he thought the price was far too high or low Betha was not certain. “Of course, my Lord.”
“Then you shall wed my granddaughter in the eve. As for you, Lord Bolton, you may have your pick of any of my girls. Whichever one, you’ll have her weight in silver as a dowry.”
The Frey maidens were raucous at that, and a number went forward to woo Lord Bolton. Only one caught his eye.
“The lady in pink lace, my Lord. What is her name?”
Walder Frey had a grin on his face. “You think I know?” Some of the other girls slipped back in disappointment, but the one Roose Bolton had his eyes fixed on beamed with pride.
“Walda Frey, if it please my lord of Bolton.” There were many Walda Freys at the Twins, so that ought not have narrowed it down by much…but this was the one her kin called Fat Walda. Betha Frey had always thought this a rather mean name, and when she’d caught Walda’s younger brother taunting her with it, she’d asked him how he would like it if she’d called him Ugly Walder. At that, he’d slapped her on the face, and Merrett Frey had been made to separate the two of them.
But for all it may have earned her mockery, no-one was like to make fun of Fat Walda Frey now. Lord Roose Bolton, it seemed, was like to take advantage of the dowry offered, and marry the fattest bride he could find. It was smart, Betha thought, but she was not quite sure. Men were pigs, she knew, and perhaps this Lord of Bolton had come to the Twins looking for the roundest girl he could find and taking her to wife. Betha could scarce read his pale eyes, though, so what did she know?
“If my lord of Frey consents, I would like to take this girl for my lady wife.”
Lord Walder Frey still grinned devilishly. “Very well, then. You and my granddaughter Walda shall wed. We do not keep a godswood at the Twins, though, so you Northmen will have to make do in a sept. And hurry up with it too. I want these girls wed before nightfall, for a feast.”
And so Betha Frey and her cousin Walda were taken off to be prepared for their weddings. Betha did not know Walda Frey all that well, but she seemed like a sweet girl. She was younger than her, but only by a few months. Their mothers, Sylwa and Mariya, had gone off to find gowns for them, while the brides-to-be were accompanied by Joyeuse Erenford, the eighth Lady Frey, scarcely older than either of them.
“The Lady of the Dreadfort!” Walda squealed. “They’re one of the great houses of the North, did you know that? I’m going to marry Roose Bolton and give him scores of children!” The thought of bearing Bolton’s children filled Betha with whatever the opposite of delight was, but she smiled anyway. Her cousin’s joy was endearing.
When their mothers came with two beautiful gowns and Frey maiden cloaks, Betha suddenly realised she would have to disrobe. She would have been embarrassed by that, had Mariya not been so quick to unzip her daughter’s dress first, and suddenly Walda Frey was naked before her. The singers might not write about her, Betha thought, but her cousin was certainly beautiful – not just in her own way, or for a girl of her weight, but beautiful. I could fit my face in her bosom, thought Betha, but then Lady Frey started to put the dress on. It zipped up snugly, but Walda looked beautiful in white, as it turned out, and the lace patternings of the dress were ornate.
Then it was Betha’s turn. Her gown fell off, replaced by an even more luxuriant one, of the same pale white that Walda Frey wore. Betha’s mother cupped her cheek and stared into her eyes with pride, while Walda told her she would be a beautiful bride.
And then, after the cloaks of Frey had been affixed to them, it was time to be wed. The bridegrooms, to be sure, were no maiden’s fantasies. Willam Cerwyn, her husband to be, was forty, and Roose Bolton had to be of an age with him. Cerwyn smiled nervously, while Bolton had nothing more than a placid expression on his face. For her part, Walda Frey still smiled as if floating on a cloud, living in a dream. Robb Stark’s right-hand man was better than she let herself hope for, clearly.
Walda and Roose Bolton were first. Roose was holding a cloak with a fearsome sigil. It had a pale-red background, the colour of a man’s skin, with a blood-red man flayed of his skin…although his legs were black, like a duck’s. A queer amusement fell over Betha then imagining the serving ladies having to make these up on short notice. The Lord of the Dreadfort stroked the shoulder of her cousin, who was dumbly beaming, and then took her maiden’s cloak from her neck.
Walda Frey tittered at that. She was so excited, Betha thought, and could not help but be pleased by it. Her chins jiggled as she put her back to Lord Bolton, and Betha hoped that she would take well to the Dreadfort. It seemed a hard place, and she was such a beautiful girl. Perhaps she should have wed Bolton’s boy, so the two of them could almost be sisters. And then Roose placed the cloak of Bolton on Walda, and kissed the side of her neck. Walda almost squealed at that. Her joy was so delightful.
She swirled around to face Lord Bolton, who had his hands on her hips. Walda stared into his ice-white eyes with enrapture. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband!”
Roose Bolton seemed to almost have a smile on his face as he gripped her waist closer. “And with this kiss I pledge mine, and take you for my lady wife.” He cupped Walda’s face and pulled her in for a deep kiss. To the room it must have been sweet, but Betha was close enough to hear her cousin whimpering into Lord Bolton’s lips. She hoped he was gentle with Walda when the time came for their bedding.
Oh gods, the bedding. As the lips of husband and wife parted and the septon said his words, it dawned upon Betha once more that she would have to bed this man before her. She had been too shy to look at him, worrying his gaze would fix on her. Lord Cerwyn had shaved his face for the occasion, leaving a tightly trimmed bob of black hair. His face was light and framed by wrinkles on his forehead, which threatened to crawl down his cheeks. She noticed the grey in his sideburns and a reassuring look on his face. And then he moved closer, and Betha realised that he wanted her maiden’s cloak.
Like Bolton’s, Willam Cerwyn’s cloak had been quickly fashioned too, with the black battle-axe of Cerwyn on a pale silver background, like the one Robb Stark bore when he crossed at the Twins. She did not recall Cerwyn’s arms having a purple unicorn’s horn for the tip of the axe, though.
She turned around for him. He was a broad-shouldered man, and he almost had to bend his knee to reach the clasp of her cloak, emblazoned with the twin towers of Frey. He did not kiss her like Roose had Walda, but as he placed his own house’s cloak around her, he told her that she was very beautiful, and she blushed. Perhaps her man had not excited her as much was Walda, but she remembered that she was still a maid on her wedding day.
Betha Frey turned to him and said the words. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”
“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.”
Willam put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. She had anticipated, and maybe even hoped, that he would kiss her on the lips, but the small gesture was a courtesy nonetheless, and it made her smile and blush once more. Perhaps she was not swept off her feet as Walda had been, but she was only the daughter of the fourteenth son of the Lord. To get herself, and perhaps Hoster and Merry too, out of the Twins was mercy in and of itself.
The grey wizened septon held his crystal up and repeated himself, but for Betha instead of Walda. “Here in the sight of gods and men, I hereby solemly proclaim Betha of House Frey and Willam of House Cerwyn to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”
A flurry of polite applause came from the assembled crowd around them. Weddings were a common sight for most of the Freys, but some of the Northmen might never have seen a southron wedding like this, and it was them who hootered and hollered the loudest. Her lord grandfather had ordered a feast to be held by the hour, but her lord husband, Willam Cerwyn, had asked for a moment’s privacy with her, and so they had taken away to a small room. For a moment she had thought Cerwyn meant to claim his rights in her bedchamber, and wondered if beddings were any different in the North, but it was nothing of the sort.
“Lady Betha.” Her lord husband gave her a curtsy. “I confess, when I left Winterfell to fight, I had not thought that I would wed while at war.”
“I…I thank you for choosing me, my lord.”
Willlam snorted. “I should be the one thanking you, girl. Frey’s daughter’s to marry Robb Stark. The Lord of Winterfell will have a Frey mother, and I’m bringing home a Frey bride. The Cerwyns are friends of the Starks. Gods be good, Winterfell will be like a second home for you. Better than this old place.”
Betha did not know what to say. She knew all of this, and she was pleased to leave the Twins, but she found herself utterly wordless before her new husband. Why did he choose her? What did he want with her? What drives a fourty-year-old lordling to take a sixteen-year old girl for his first wife in any case? “I am honoured to help bring our houses together.”
“You honour me, my lady. But truth be told, when Bolton came around to the men, I didn’t put myself forward for love of your house. You seemed a sweet enough girl.”
“You…did you put yourself forward for love of me?”
“You are a beautiful girl, but…truth be told, I have never had a great desire to marry. But you seemed eager to leave these bloody castles, and it saddened me to imagine you with one of Too-Fat’s knights or the poxmarked Karstark boy. And so I thought, well, I suppose it might please my cousin and Stark, and it does get awfully cold alone at night up there.”
“Lord Cerwyn, I…”
“Willam, please. I don’t expect much more from you, but we are man and wife now.”
“Willam…thank you. I mean it, I truly do. You are a true man of honour.”
“There’s no need to flatter me, Betha. Any man would be lucky to have a girl like you, whether he were me, Lord Stark, or the Prince of Dorne.”
“...Beth. That’s what my mother calls me, and my little brother, if it please you.”
Willam gave his bride a toothy smile. “It does, Beth. I have my duties with Lord Bolton, but once we’re done fighting the Lannisters, I’ll take you back up north to my castle. Medger’s boy is of an age with you, and the castellan’s daughter is a sweet girl. If your lord father–er, grandfather consents, your siblings and mother can join you as well. I hope the Twins will serve for the meantime.”
“They shall,” Betha smiled, “though I will pray for your quick return to my bed, safe and unharmed.”
“You are too kind, Beth, but I do not expect you to share my bed, or at least, not until we have known each other more. I did not ride south to take the maidenheads of girls, and if you are my wife now, then it would please me if you came to my bed willingly.”
Betha was surprised by this. What sort of man would flee from his wife’s bed on their wedding night?, she thought for a moment, but as she looked into Willam Cerwyn’s dark-brown eyes, she knew the answer: a noble one. It was a gesture sweet enough she should kiss him, although she thought she should not.
“Have you told my lord grandfather about this?”
Willam shook his head. “I will, before the feast. He might grumble and moan, but I wager if I give him some of that dowry back he won’t mind too much. You are my lady wife now, after all. Some of my own men might call me craven, but at least if my guts get opened by some Lannister you’ll still be a maid for your next husband.”
Betha had to laugh. “That would be most unfortunate. There are not many maids in the Seven Kingdoms who could ask for a better husband than you, Willam.”
“I am a lucky man too, Beth. I hope you remember that while I am gone. You are too precious a flower for just any old sot, and if one day you come to truly love me, I will be the luckiest man in all Seven Kingdoms. But for now, I want nought from you other than courtesies and sweet words. Perhaps I will be a good deal more attractive when I return from the war as a hero of the North, but I will not lust for you until you can truly say that you love me, and not simply tolerate me. Is that acceptable to you, my lady?”
“Of course.”
Willam smiled at her, and bent to kiss the palm of her hand. “Then let us make for the feast, Beth. It is your wedding night, and I hope I will make you feel special.”