She was brought into the council chamber. Robb, Edmure, and all the lords of the North and the Riverlands gathered within, their expressions varied but united by suspicion and anger.
"Mother!"
Robb's voice trembled with disbelief and pain. "You went to see him last night. What did you do?"
Catelyn straightened her back, meeting her son's and the lords' burning gazes. Her face was pale, yet her composure unshaken.
"I saw him," she admitted calmly. "I mocked his crimes. That is all. I swear upon the honor of House Stark and House Tully that I did not release him. The guards can bear witness."
Her eyes swept over the guards, but under her gaze, they faltered, mumbling and avoiding her eyes.
The nobles caught this exchange, and their suspicion toward Catelyn deepened.
Greatjon spoke gruffly. "My lady, tell us the truth! Everyone knows you have two daughters held hostage by the Lannisters, but that is no reason to free the Kingslayer. If you did, admit it. If not, then your silence is treason against the North—and against your king!"
Voices rose around the chamber in agreement.
"I did not!"
Catelyn's voice rang out, sharp with the fury of injustice. "Someone is framing me! It was—"
Her eyes darted across the room, but she met only doubt and anger. She understood then—no one believed her.
Just then, a blood-soaked attendant burst into the chamber, stumbling and gasping, his voice shrill with panic. "Your Grace! Lord Karstark... Lord Karstark has... he's killed Tion Frey and Willem Lannister!"
Tion Frey, the son of Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister—though a Frey by name—had fought for the Lannisters. Willem Lannister was Lord Tywin's nephew, the son of Kevan Lannister. Both had been captured at the Battle of the Whispering Wood, and now, in his rage, Lord Karstark had taken them for his revenge.
Robb's face turned ashen. Karstark's act was nothing less than driving a dagger into the fragile alliance with House Frey, just as the marriage that might mend it drew near.
Moments later, Lord Karstark was dragged into the hall, his eyes bloodshot, his body bound tight with ropes. Robb's gaze snapped toward him. Karstark stood proud, unrepentant, his expression filled only with grim satisfaction.
"Rickard Karstark!"
Robb's voice thundered. "You murdered our prisoners! You betrayed your king!"
Karstark roared back, "I betrayed no one! If you want justice, start with your mother! Lannister blood is the only price worthy of my sons' souls!"
His two sons had fallen to Jaime Lannister at the Whispering Wood, and his hatred for the man had consumed him. Now that Jaime had escaped, that fury found new targets. At dawn, he had stormed the dungeons and slain the two captives himself.
Karstark's bloodshot eyes locked on Robb, then swept across the silent Northern lords. "Robb Stark! You betrayed your vow to the Freys for a Westerling woman. You let a Lannister whelp strut before your eyes in the name of strategy. You are unworthy to be King in the North! The King in the North does not bow to his enemies, nor trade honor for safety!
Look at what you've done! For your selfish desires, you gathered your bannermen and marched south into a war that could have been avoided. Do you think we don't know? You could have traded Jon for Lord Eddard's life! You killed your own father! You let that Kraken bastard Theon go free, letting those Ironborn mongrels ravage our homes! You allied with foreigners, bringing Dothraki savages into our lands! What kind of king are you?!"
His voice thundered through the hall, striking at the hidden resentment many Northern lords held since Robb's southern campaign. Had he not brought them victory after victory, their tongues would have long turned against him.
But after the disaster at Lannisport, with the North's Dothraki allies gone and their own numbers diminished, the losses were unbearable. They had gained nothing—and all because Robb had refused to yield to the Baratheons.
Robb's jaw tightened, the muscles in his face twitching as fury blazed in his eyes. Slowly, he drew the long sword from his belt. The hall fell into a deathly silence.
Robb's voice was low, cold, and final. "Lord Rickard Karstark, you have betrayed your king and murdered guests under the king's protection. By the laws of the North, I, Robb Stark, King in the North, sentence you to death."
He gripped his sword in both hands and raised it high.
Karstark closed his eyes, a mocking smile curling on his lips.
The cold steel fell.
Blood splattered.
A head rolled across the carpet, leaving a dark red trail behind it.
Robb sheathed his sword with stiff, mechanical movements.
As he looked over the hall, the lords below remained silent. In their eyes, he no longer saw loyalty—only distance.
...
The Twins, the vast fortress straddling the Green Fork of the Trident, was shrouded in festivity. Lanterns and banners adorned every wall, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of roast meat, spice, and ale.
The wedding ceremony was held within the castle's dim and damp sept. Light filtered through narrow stained-glass windows, scattering dappled colors across the stone floor.
Old Walder Frey sat upon the high seat, a smile like a cracked walnut stretching across his withered face. His cloudy eyes swept over the hall, taking in the guests below, each wearing their own mask of thought. His sons and grandsons, clad in clothes of garish colors, clustered about him like vultures, their eyes glinting and restless.
Robb Stark sat at the place of honor, his hand clasped tightly around Jeyne's. Catelyn sat beside him.
At the front stood Edmure, dressed in a new ceremonial robe, staring blankly into the shadows beneath the vaulted ceiling.
The wedding began.
The bride was led slowly into the hall, ascended the dais, and had her veil lifted. Edmure drew in a sharp breath.
Roslin Frey was breathtaking.
She wore a simple gown of ivory silk, free of jewels or ornament, yet her beauty eclipsed every gem. Her deep chestnut hair fell like a river over her shoulders, framing a delicate, heart-stopping face. Her skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent, and her wide, light-brown eyes—like those of a frightened fawn—met Edmure's with a purity untouched by deceit.
She looked so unlike the rest of her kin—too pure, too gentle.
In that instant, all of Edmure's bitterness melted away.
He stared at her, dazed, disbelief and wonder warring in his eyes. This… this was the Frey he was to marry? The daughter of that famously homely house? He forgot to breathe.
The ceremony unfolded beneath a strange, uneasy stillness. The septon's dry voice droned through the prayers, echoing off the stone walls.
At last, his words fell: "In the name of the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, and the Stranger, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Scattered applause rippled through the hall.
Old Walder grinned, his toothless mouth splitting wide. "Alright, lads! Time to send the bride and groom to their bed! Escort them to the bridal chamber!"
Amid raucous laughter and crude cheers from the younger Freys, Edmure was swept along like a man in a dream. Taking Roslin's cool, delicate hand, he let himself be led toward the tower chamber that had been prepared for them.
Roslin kept her head bowed, her long lashes trembling, two faint red blossoms blooming on her cheeks.
Back in the great hall, the feast raged on. The long tables groaned beneath platters of food and overflowing cups of ale. The Freys pressed their guests to drink, and though the soldiers of the North and Riverlands were hesitant at first, the warmth of wine and laughter soon wore down their restraint.
In one corner, the musicians played lively tunes fit for dancing.
Then, the music changed.
A chill melody crept through the noise of the feast.
The Rains of Castamere.