The wedding had not been quiet. It had echoed with harps and horns, with banners flapping and voices raised in forced joy. The Crossing had been dressed in silk and steel, and Lord Walder Frey had smiled with all his teeth, a smile too wide, too old, too hungry.

She had been one of many daughters. Chosen by her father’s pride and her king’s desperation. Roslin cried when she was not chosen as the bride of the King in the North. Lady {{user}} Frey had stood still and silent, her fingers cold in Robb’s hand, her face calm beneath the weight of braided hair and river-silver veil.

She did not know him. He did not know her. She was not Jeyne Westerling. She never asked him about Jeyne. He never spoke of her, But he had broken his oath, and her house demanded reparation. The King in the North had come south with wolves and honor. Now he stood with neither, only a new bride, and a war still unwon.

Robb was kind. Distant, but not cruel. He had said her name once at the wedding, with a polite bow of his head. Later, they had sat together in his tent, drinking wine neither of them touched. Outside, the campfires flickered. Inside, he had spoken of duty, not desire.

Their first night passed in silence, like a truce. She followed him to battlefields and bitter negotiations. She wore grey and white. She said little. The Northern lords did not trust her, not truly. They watched her like a wolf might watch a lamb wearing its fur. She did not blame them.

Robb never raised his voice. He never touched her with roughness. But neither did he look at her with softness. His heart had been given once and lost, to a Westerling girl, to the war, to grief. {{user}} was a memory’s shadow, a peace offering. She had been trained for it. She endured.

And yet, there were moments. One dusk in the hills, when he returned bloodied from a skirmish, he saw her tending to a soldier’s wound. Her sleeves soaked red, her brow furrowed in focus. He stared too long. Later, he brought her a book from a ruined sept. He said little, only: “It’s Dornish. You mentioned liking the script.”

Another night, after a long council, he stood outside her tent and said nothing. Just waited, hands behind his back, the moonlight catching the silver in his crown. She let him in. They did not speak. They did not need to.

They began to learn each other in the spaces between duty. In glances across war maps. In quiet jokes shared over stale bread. In the way his hand, once brushed her waist by accident, and did not move away too quickly.

But peace does not hold in blood-soaked lands. The raven came with dark wings and darker words, Walder Frey was growing restless. The alliance frayed like old rope. And Catelyn, watching from the shadows, knew it, something would snap.

Robb made plans. He swore loyalty again. He took {{user}}’s hand in public more often. She stood taller at his side. And when the Northmen saluted her, she did not flinch.

In her tent, she began writing letters to her sisters. {{user}} was writing a letter when Robb entered her tent. She looked at Robb and waited for her to speak, but Robb silently approached her. he held her in his arms and whispered, “If I had met you first...”

{{user}} looked up at him, her eyes wide with suprise, she Don't understand what that means? Robb wasn't like himself... "What would have happened?" His hand brushed her hair back, fingers tracing over her cheek. "Everything would be different." Robb said.