IV.

                                    

                                          
CHAPTER FOUR
[ the wedding ]

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
THE TWINS WERE DULL AND BORING AS EVER. Drab and dreary and ugly, just like the man that ruled over it. Poetic, almost, Asena thought, that the exterior should match the man inside. 
A small party of the Starks and Tullys entered the Twins to watch Robb grovel and beg Walder Frey's forgiveness. He did, and once he had apologized over and over, and Frey had insulted each of them, and made vile comments about Talisa, they retired until the start of the wedding. 
Asena donned her best dress, a deep gray with wide sleeves that nearly touched the floor. Attached to the shoulders was a cape of the same colour, fastened with a silver direwolf. Her hair was swept into a complicated mess of braids, arranged to hide the blonde beginning to show through the dye at her roots.
Robb found her in her tent after she had finished dressing, clad in his own fine clothes. "You look lovely, sister," he complimented. 
"And you, brother," she replied, turning from her mirror to look at him. "Ready for the wedding?"
"No," he told her truthfully, chuckling a little, "are you?"
"Gods no," she scoffed, shaking her head. "An entire evening with the Freys? The stuff of nightmares, truly."
They laughed together for a while, but once it died out Robb became suddenly serious. He approached her, his Tully blue eyes trained on hers. "Asena, I have something I want to ask you."
"Anything."
"Now that Renly is dead, we have no ally in any king that vies for the throne." She nodded, of course knowing all this already. "I do not want it, not at all, and I have no claim to it. I cannot back Stannis, and Balon Greyjoy is, obviously, out of the question. So, once Joffrey is dead, there is no one left."
"I know this, Robb. What are you asking?"
"I'm asking you to be what you are." Her heart stuttered, her body stilling at his words. "Be Visenya, take the Iron Throne, rule the kingdoms, it is your birthright—"
"It is not," she interrupted, shaking her head. "It was never supposed to be me. It was meant to be Rhaegar, or even Viserys, but never me."
"But it is you. You are the only one that can." His eyes never left hers, dead set on making her agree. "You have a legitimate claim, and you are strong, kind, fair. You would care for each kingdom in equal measure, and the northerners know you, know that you understand them, that you would not wrong them. The kings in this War of the Five Kings are nothing. You are the queen, Visenya. The one true queen."