Wedding Vows

Walder Frey was as ugly as she remembered, and much less pleasant, if that was possible. Even in his youth, she imagined, he had not been much to look upon. Now, as an old man, he was positively repulsive. Lanky silver hair hung to his shoulders, leaving the top of his head bald. His nose was long and straight, and his eyes were close-set. The wrinkles that lay upon his skin did not improve his visage, though there were perhaps less than she might have expected for a man of his age. Surprisingly, his middling height had not seemed to recede over the years, nor did he stoop. In fact, it seemed that his earlier displays of immobility had been an act, as he stood strong to greet them. Suddenly, Catelyn was not so sure about Robb’s proclamations that he would be soon in his grave.

His manner was not exactly welcoming. “Here comes the wolf pup, tail between his legs. Where’s that wife of yours, the Westerling whore? I should have liked to meet her. See what sort of body is worth the sacred honor of House Frey.”

Robb trembled with rage at the insult to his young wife, but he could do nothing. Walder had all the power in this meeting; Robb needed him too much. “Queen Jeyne has remained at Riverrun for her safety, my lord. I have paid you a grievous insult, and I am here to make amends.”

Lord Frey cackled. “Aye, so you are. I suppose I can’t fault you too harshly for choosing a warm cunt and a nice pair of tits when it comes down to it. I’m partial to them as well. Speaking of which, where’s my bride-to-be?”

Catelyn stepped out of the throng of the northern party to stand before Lord Walder. She tried to ignore his crass remarks about her, but was blushing all the same. Her face only got redder when his leering eyes took in every inch of her body. Catelyn was three-and-thirty. She had been a great beauty in her youth, and that had not disappeared with age. Her fair face and deep blue eyes were framed by long, wavy auburn hair. Motherhood had ensured she had an excellent figure. Her massive, perky bosom was not well-concealed even by her modest dress, nor were her narrow waist, wide hips, or round behind.

Walder Frey noted all of this. Robb, standing in awkward silence while he stared, finally broke the silence. “I apologize, my lord, but I cannot stay for the wedding. Our cause is urgent, and timing is essential. We must set out immediately.”

Catelyn knew that Robb wanted to spare his honor any of the further humiliations that he was likely to endure at the wedding. Still, she resented him for leaving her in the viper’s nest.

Walder Frey cackled again. “I am disappointed that you shall miss the ceremony, your grace. Still, I understand the need for haste. You may depart, as soon as you apologize to my daughters.”

After Robb had given his apologies to the vast array of Frey maidens, he left with his entire host, leaving her with only a few maids. The company that Lord Frey had sent with him was insultingly small, only a fraction of his strength. But Robb could do nothing but bite his tongue.

Catelyn had been hustled off to the seamstress, to be arrayed in her new gown. It had already been made; Catelyn guessed Walder had a hand in its design. The damn thing looked like something a Volantene whore might wear. Oh, it was opulent enough. Made of a white Myrish lace, it was filled with intricate embroidery, with pearls and golden thread sewn in. The Freys were one of the wealthiest houses in the realm. The problem was the cut. It had such a low neckline that her bosom would practically be popping out, barely going up to her nipples. It also hugged her bottom very tightly, highlighting the curve. Perhaps the worst part was the cutout around the stomach, going from just under her breasts almost to her womanhood. No decent woman would be seen in such a thing; clearly Lord Walder meant to shame her. Still, she had but to wear it.

Before she knew it, Catelyn was walking down the aisle. The sept was a large one, and lavish, filled with guests. But it was not the array of noblemen from the North, Vale, and Riverlands that filled the seats like at her first wedding. Rather, the audience was composed of Freys, making up almost half of those in attendance, as well as a host of landed knights and minor lordlings sworn to the Twins, and even a large number of common servants and soldiers. And rather than stares of admiration, she was receiving leering and cruel laughter at her state of dress. The dress itself was painfully tight, leaving her looking even more of a harlot than she had before the seamstress had tightened it. Instead of the traditional wedding hymn, the musicians in the gallery were playing a well-known bawdy tune about a highborn lady who ended up as a whore in a brothel of ill-repute, and many of the guests were singing along. The final insult was the man escorting her down the aisle; in the absence of any male relatives, the notorious Black Walder was arm in arm with her. He was leering like all the rest.

Truly, she had vastly underestimated the cruelty and perversion of Walder Frey. She could hardly stand the embarrassment of being reduced to a slattern, to be paraded around for the entertainment of peasants. No self-respecting septon would allow this, but the septon of the Twins was a Frey by birth, and a drunkard as well. His gaze was fixed on her bosom as she approached the dais, where he stood with Lord Frey.

Her husband-to-be was standing straight and tall, dressed in immaculate blue and gray doublet and hose. Somehow, he looked 30 years younger than he was. This did not change the oppressive power of his lustful, objectifying stare, worse than all the others in the sept combined. She had never thought a man could a woman with his eyes before. Too soon did she reach the altar, facing Lord Frey’s cruel smirk.

The septon seemed to finally realize that he should be speaking, and managed to tear his gaze away from her breasts. He said in a droning voice, “Do you, Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing and Defender of the Fork, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded lady wife, and swear to guide her, instruct her, and protect her from all undue harm?”

“I do,” he drawled.

“And do you, Catelyn Stark, born Catelyn Tully, take this man to be your lawfully wedded lord husband, and swear to submit to him, take any punishment that he sees fit to give, bear his children, remain faithful to him, and serve and obey him in all things?”

Catelyn was to respond. These were not the sort of vows she had taken with Eddard, they were much stricter and harsher on the bride than was normal. And if she swore before the Gods, she would have but to follow them. Looking into Walder Frey’s eyes, though, she could not help but submit.

“I do.”