Chapter 42: To Go or Not to Go
"Mhysa!"
A gaunt young man cried out suddenly.
"Mhysa!"
Before his voice had even faded, another joined in.
"Mhysa! Mhysa—!"
More and more voices followed, swelling like a tide, until the cry rolled across the entire plaza of Yunkai.
"What are they shouting?" Daenerys asked, her eyes bright, turning to Missandei.
"It's Old Ghiscari," Missandei replied joyfully. "It means mother."
At her words, faint smiles appeared on Barristan's and Jorah's faces.
Though they had once opposed Daenerys's decision to wage war for the sake of two hundred thousand "useless" slaves, standing before the people of Yunkai now, even they felt a quiet sense of fulfillment.
That title—mother—had once been a source of pain for Daenerys. Yet now, hearing it spoken by these voices, she felt something entirely different.
She stepped down from the platform.
The crowd surged with her movement, pressing forward even as Unsullied spearpoints blocked their way. Still they strained to advance, until Daenerys quickly ordered the Unsullied to lower their weapons.
Seeing her walk directly into the sea of people, Barristan and the others stiffened—but the moment they noticed Drogon on her shoulder, their tension faded.
They had seen his power the night before.
Not only had he spared Jorah and the others from grievous injury or death, he had burned down the gate guards with dragonfire. Some of them privately believed that the five-man assault team had been unnecessary—Drogon alone could have taken the city gate.
As Daenerys approached, the people of Yunkai reached out toward her, hands trembling, desperate to touch the Mhysa who had given them freedom.
Though the plaza was packed, the crowd instinctively parted before her.
Looking at their hollow cheeks, their emaciated bodies, and the fervent light in their eyes, Daenerys felt a sharp pang of shame—for that fleeting moment when she had once regretted freeing Yunkai's slaves.
She walked forward along the path they opened.
Yet as she drew closer, those who had longed to touch her now hesitated. In their eyes, she saw fear—and realized its source.
They were afraid of Drogon.
After witnessing the terror of a dragon the night before, even this small dragon perched on her shoulder was enough to stop them from coming closer.
"He won't hurt you," Daenerys said gently in Valyrian. "Do not be afraid."
Hearing her reassurance—and seeing that Drogon showed no sign of hostility—the bolder among them finally dared to step forward. They tentatively touched her arm, her shoulder.
No one dared touch the shoulder where Drogon stood.
Moved by the emotion around her, Daenerys reached out herself, taking the hands of the people nearest to her.
The cry of "Mhysa!" rose even louder.
Two strong, dark-skinned men lifted her onto their shoulders, carrying her toward the center of the plaza amid cheers and tears.
Bathed in the devotion and reverence of Yunkai's people, Daenerys smiled—a smile freer and brighter than any she had ever worn before.
Above them, Rhaegal and Viserion, circling in the distance, seemed to sense the fervor below. They swooped down over the plaza, crying out in ringing dragoncalls as they danced through the air.
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Riverrun — The Council Chamber
"Robb, we cannot go."
Catelyn Stark pleaded with her son, her voice tight with urgency. "Walder Frey must harbor deep resentment over your broken betrothal. That is why he would ally with the Lannisters to murder us."
Robb stood over the war table, his fingers resting on the carved sand-table models. His brow furrowed slightly.
"That letter is Tywin's provocation," he said calmly. "He wants to prevent an alliance between the North and the Twins. Yes, breaking the betrothal was my fault—but Uncle Edmure has already agreed to marry one of Walder Frey's daughters. That is exactly what Walder has always wanted."
"Robb, you do not understand Walder Frey or his family," Catelyn snapped, staring straight at him.
"When I went to negotiate with him, he was still brooding over the fact that your grandfather failed to attend three of his weddings. And do you know why your uncle Edmure remained unbetrothed for so many years?"
Robb hesitated. "Because of Walder?"
Catelyn nodded grimly.
"When your uncle was twelve, Walder already tried to marry one of his daughters to him. Your grandfather refused, saying Edmure was too young. Two years later, when more of Walder's daughters had come of age, he tried again—and was refused again."
"For that reason, your grandfather deliberately delayed Edmure's marriage until now, fearing Walder's resentment might destabilize the Riverlands."
Robb lowered his head, thinking for a moment, then replied,
"But now Uncle Edmure has agreed to marry his daughter. Hasn't Walder finally gotten what he wanted? And I do not believe Walder Frey to be the sort of lord who nurses grudges forever."
Seeing his mother about to interrupt, Robb continued firmly:
"When my grandfather learned I would wed a Frey daughter, Walder immediately dispatched nearly all of the Twins' soldiers to support me—leaving fewer than five hundred behind to defend his own castle."
"And the Twins lie between the North and the Riverlands. If he dares violate guest right and butcher nobles from both regions at a wedding, how could House Frey ever survive afterward? My scouts have also reported nothing unusual about Roose Bolton. That letter must be Tywin's attempt to sow discord."
Catelyn fell silent.
For a moment, she found no words to counter him—yet the contents of that mysterious letter still sent a chill through her bones.
No, she told herself.
I have already lost my husband. My eldest daughter is trapped in King's Landing. My youngest daughter and two sons are missing, their fates unknown. I cannot risk losing my eldest son as well.
"If you insist on going," she said at last, her voice iron-hard,
"then you will attend the wedding with your army and your weapons. Otherwise, I will not allow you to go."
Robb stared at her in shock.
It was clear his mother had not recovered from the consequences of freeing Jaime Lannister. What noble in all the Seven Kingdoms attended a wedding armed and accompanied by an army? If word spread, he—the Young Wolf, the King in the North—would become a laughingstock.
Worse still, Walder Frey might seize upon the insult to cancel Edmure's wedding outright, shattering the alliance between the North and the Twins—an outcome Robb could not afford.
He still had to avenge his father, rescue his sisters, and prove that he, like Eddard Stark, could lead men to victory. How could he return to the North in disgrace, inviting scorn from houses like the Karstarks?
"You know that is impossible," Robb said, locking eyes with his mother.
"I have already lost your father," Catelyn replied, unyielding. "I will not let you risk your life as well."
At last, Robb's restraint snapped.
"You arrested Tyrion to avenge Bran—and Father lost his life for it. My sisters were trapped in King's Landing. You freed Jaime to save them, and House Karstark murdered captives in response, abandoning me and costing me half my army."
"And now, in the name of protecting me, you would destroy our alliance with the Twins. Must I imprison you again to stop you?"
The words he had buried for so long finally spilled out.
Catelyn's expression slowly went blank.
She had never imagined that her son carried such deep resentment toward her—yet every word he spoke was true. The weight of it crushed her spirit, leaving her hollow and numb.
Robb saw her face and felt a pang of regret.
"I'm sorry, Mother," he said quietly, then turned and walked toward the door.
"Robb!"
Catelyn rushed forward, grabbing his arm, tears streaming down her face.
"I beg you—do not go!"
Robb pried her fingers loose, his expression unreadable, and continued walking.
"Robb!" she cried after him desperately.
"If you must go, then promise me this—wear mail beneath your clothes, hide a dagger, bring more guards, and station a thousand men outside the Twins. If you refuse, I would rather die than let you go!"
Robb stopped.
After a long pause, he lowered his head slightly.
"I promise."