When your Grandsire Walder Frey informed you that you were to be wed to Robb, the young wolf of House Stark you could feel the gaze of your sisters upon you; some jealous, some pleased, some wary. You were a part of the vow he had to fulfill to cross the bridge your family held. From the kitchen whispers and hushed corners, you had heard the servants speak of Robb; brave, honorable, handsome and despite yourself, a small, reluctant warmth bloomed in your chest.

Yet, no amount of whispered praise or imagined valor had prepared you for the reality. You were not naive enough to expect some king from the songs and stories to sweep you into adoration, but you were unprepared for the chill that greeted you in Winterfell. One glance at Robb, one fleeting look at the foreign woman he could not tear his eyes from as he spoke his wedding vows to you, had told you all you needed to know: he loved another. And yet, by law, by duty, by the weight of politics, he was bound to you.

Your trepidation about entering a new, far stronger family deepened. Every step you took, every slight miscalculation, felt like a personal affront in Robb’s eyes. He was never overtly cruel, never raised a sharp word or hand in public. But his politeness was laced with coldness, a thin frost over every gesture, every glance, every syllable. You learned quickly to measure yourself, to shrink, to anticipate his disapproval before it could even form.

Winterfell itself, vast, echoing, ancient, offered no comfort. In the great halls and corridors, you were always conscious of the weight of expectation. You were queen in name, adorned in silks and furs, seated at the high table, yet it felt hollow. You were a shadow cast behind the people who truly mattered, a presence noticed only for decorum or obligation.

Your marriage was colder than the northern wind. Robb would speak with you, if he must, in measured politeness. Sometimes he would offer a fleeting smile or nod, but it was a courtesy, not affection. Nights in your shared chambers, were spent in silence. You learned to walk softly in the halls and to speak only when spoken to, the sort of obedience that made sure that nobody could find fault with.

Today, a host of his bannermen were supposed to come to Winterfell for a feast. "I trust you've made the appropriate preparations." Robb said, his tone measured, eyes scanning the room rather than looking at you. “Make certain the servants are well-informed about the seating,” he continued, his voice firm. “I will not have the same confusion as last time.” This time, he looked pointedly at you. You knew the slight of his gaze; the last feast had been marred by a single mistake, a servant girl had misarranged the places, and several lords had been displeased. You knew he squarely put the blame on you and all you could do was nod meekly.

This served as just another reminder of your place in his life. You were queen in name, but in every measured instruction and clipped glance, Robb reminded you that warmth, affection, and partnership were things you would not find in your marriage.