When winter comes, her flame will light the way.
Growing up in the North was something people did not take for granted; her family ruled the Icelands and the people that came with it. They trained the girls alongside of the boys, knowing the dangers...
"If you only trust the people you grew up with, you won't make many allies."
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The direwolf Grey Wind led the army of House Stark as they rode towards the imposing structure of The Twins, the ancestral seat of House Frey. Robb Stark rode with his wife, Nyssa, beside him at the front of their company. Nyssa held a strong gaze as her horse carried her forward, her face composed but determined, showing none of the tension beneath the surface.
When they arrived at the castle, the gates swung open, and they were ushered inside the great hall of House Frey. The Starks and their companions were greeted with the stiff air of formality. Walder Frey awaited them at the head of the hall, surrounded by his extensive brood. Servants moved about, offering bread and salt in keeping with the tradition of guest rights—an old custom of protection under the gods.
It was a sacred pledge of hospitality, one that no lord, no matter how cunning, would dare to break. Robb took a piece of bread, dipped it into the salt, and ate it, his eyes fixed on Walder Frey the whole time.
"My honoured guests," Walder Frey's voice creaked through the hall, "Be welcome within my walls and at my table. I extend to you my hospitality and protection in the light of the Seven."
Robb dipped his head respectfully.
"We thank you for your hospitality, my lord," He replied.
As the servant with the bread and salt approached Walder, the old lord took a piece of bread for himself, chewing with a deliberate slowness that made the silence in the room stretch.Nyssa, seated near Robb, spoke next.
"We have come to make our apologies, my lord, and to beg your forgiveness."
Walder's thin lips curled into a mockery of a smile.
"Don't beg my forgiveness, your Grace. It wasn't me you spurned. It was my boys." He motioned with a gnarled hand, and several of his sons stepped forward, each casting a look at Nyssa before standing in silence. "One of them was supposed to be Lord of the Icelands. Now, none of them will."
Nyssa turned her gaze to the sons, her voice steady but respectful.
"I apologize to you all. The Icelands are mine to inherit, and I was always sworn to a marriage. I cannot hand it over to you, nor to my sister, who must make her own choices." Her words were calm, carefully chosen, her sincerity clear. "The fault is not with you. I beg your forgiveness and pledge to do all I can to make amends, so that the Freys of the Crossing, Embers of the Icelands, and the Starks of Winterfell may once again be friends."
Walder Frey clapped his hands slowly, the sound echoing in the hall like the crack of old bones.
"Very good," he muttered, his eyes narrowing as they shifted back to Nyssa. "Come closer, your Grace. Let me have a look at you. I have yet to meet you properly."
