Chapter 118

Aegor coughed violently after spitting out his wine, wiping his mouth as he glanced at Stevron Frey—the man old enough to be Roslin Frey’s grandfather. From the way Stevron’s expression shifted from shock to unrestrained glee, it was clear that even the Freys themselves had no prior knowledge of this “good news.” Robb Stark’s decision seemed to be entirely his own.

The Karstarks, Umbers, and other Northern lords were desperately signaling Robb to withdraw his request, their faces filled with disapproval. Yet Robb ignored them all, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on Robert, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, awaiting his response.
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Robert’s face darkened. As Eddard Stark’s closest friend and the head of House Baratheon, he was clearly displeased with Robb’s choice of bride. The Freys were far beneath the Starks, a fact universally acknowledged across Westeros. And Robb was not just any Stark—he was the eldest son and heir.

Robert had hoped for a marriage between Robb and someone like Margaery Tyrell, uniting the North and the Reach to stabilize the realm. Still, a king’s promise was no trivial matter. While the match was disappointing, it did not threaten the Iron Throne’s authority. Robert quickly composed himself and looked to Stevron Frey, the Frey representative at the celebration.

“Stevron! Can you speak for your father on this matter?”

Stevron hesitated for a split second, knowing that Walder Frey alone made decisions for their family. Yet he also knew that refusing this marriage publicly would likely lead to his father beating him to death upon his return. “Yes, Your Grace! On behalf of House Frey, I accept this marriage!”

“Good. In that case, fetch your sister immediately.” Robert’s earlier frustration with Aegor’s reward ceremony seemed forgotten as his mood lightened. He grinned broadly, clearly enjoying himself. “Since the lords and ladies of all the Seven Kingdoms are here, there’s no need to choose another day. Let the peaks of the Vale and the nobility of Westeros bear witness to this union! Someone get me a septon! Robb, behave yourself—you’ll be bedding your bride tonight!”
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At Robert’s command, one of the Freys bolted out of the tent to summon the bride. Inside, the atmosphere erupted like a boiling pot. Northern lords swarmed around Robb, their expressions stern as they voiced their objections. Meanwhile, others began congratulating the two families. Some celebrated Robb’s luck in securing a beautiful bride, while others congratulated the Freys on finding such a prestigious match.

Aegor stood dumbfounded by the sudden chaos. The bridegroom’s own parents didn’t even know about this marriage, yet here was the king himself officiating it on the spot.

It was absurd, but it was also quintessentially Robert.
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Aegor rubbed his temples in disbelief. A man who can’t control himself will always lose control. Still, he reasoned, Robb marrying Roslin was far better than marrying a field nurse or some minor noblewoman whose name Aegor couldn’t even recall. At the very least, this marriage meant the Red Wedding was no longer a possibility.

For a moment, Aegor felt sympathy for Eddard Stark. Despite Ned’s unique sense of honor and self-discipline, he was an outlier in the Stark lineage. In a world where gender equality was non-existent and nobles were practically a different species from commoners, traits like chastity and fidelity were not prioritized virtues for Northerners—or the Starks. Brandon Stark, Eddard’s older brother, had been a notorious womanizer who gloried in bloody duels and deflowering maidens.

As a modern man, Aegor felt morally compelled to condemn such behavior. Yet as a lord and potential father, he understood the practical flaws in Ned’s approach to raising his heir. The stricter the prohibition, the more likely the rebellion. If Eddard had taken a more lenient route—perhaps introducing Robb to women earlier and teaching him the aristocratic mindset that “women are like clothing, while vassals are brothers”—then maybe the young wolf wouldn’t lose his wits at the sight of a pretty girl.
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“Your Grace,” Barristan Selmy finally broke his silence, his voice grave. “Holding a wedding without informing the Hand of the King seems unwise.”

“Seven hells, Selmy!” Robert roared, slamming his cup onto the table. “Everyone calls you ‘Barristan the Bold,’ but I think we should call you ‘Barristan the Killjoy!’ Take this damned jug of wine and get out of my tent! Don’t come back until you’ve finished it!”

The old knight stood frozen for a moment before sighing deeply. With a nod, he took the offered jug and left the tent, his once-proud figure now seeming oddly forlorn.
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The frenzy continued for a few minutes until Roslin Frey herself entered the tent, flanked by her relatives.

The arrival of the timid young bride caused the tent to erupt in cheers. Roslin’s delicate beauty was further accentuated by the firelight and the homely appearance of her relatives. Her slim figure was adorned with a light-colored, form-fitting dress that highlighted her fair complexion. Her long, soft chestnut hair, styled into loose waves, cascaded down to her waist. Her clear, large brown eyes sparkled in the glow of the torches, as though reflecting starlight.

Even the grumpy Northern lords found themselves swept up in the moment. While Roslin’s status wasn’t ideal, her beauty seemed to ease their dissatisfaction. A woman like her as the future Lady of Winterfell and mother of the North? Perhaps it wasn’t so bad.
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“She’s quite the beauty. Even I’m a little smitten,” Margaery Tyrell murmured with a sly smile.

Aegor raised his cup awkwardly, pretending not to hear. He couldn’t openly agree or disagree, so he simply nodded as he glanced at the bride.

Roslin, blushing with both embarrassment and joy, was gently nudged into Robb’s arms. Robert, now thoroughly enjoying himself, loudly declared the wedding ceremony to begin. Nobles began clapping their hands and pounding their tables in rhythm, uncaring that the septon hadn’t even arrived yet.
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Roslin’s allure was undeniable, but Aegor, a modern man who had lived in an era of filtered photos and rampant cosmetic surgery, found his tolerance for beauty far higher than most in this world. After admiring her for a moment, he turned his attention elsewhere.

Margaery, noticing his wandering gaze, raised an eyebrow. “The Night’s Watch forbids marriage. What do you think when you see a woman like that?”

(We can’t marry, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.) Of course, Aegor couldn’t voice such thoughts to this cunning young woman. He adopted a stoic expression, echoing his old mentor Benjen Stark: “We take duty as our wife and honor as our mistress.”

“Pfft,” Margaery huffed, rolling her eyes in uncharacteristic irritation. For once, her carefully maintained facade slipped, revealing genuine annoyance. She glanced at Aegor with frustration, replaying every detail of their interactions in her mind, wondering where she had gone wrong. “You’re insufferably dull,” she muttered.

Sensing her displeasure, Aegor quickly smiled. “Forgive me, Lady Margaery. The Wall has no women, so in the presence of such a refined lady, I find myself quite nervous.”

“Hmmph.” Margaery turned away, clearly dissatisfied. With her objectives in the North still unmet and Aegor proving impervious to her charms, she saw little reason to continue the conversation.

Realizing his role at the feast had dwindled into insignificance, Aegor excused himself. “The noise here is giving me a headache. Please forgive me, Lady Margaery.”

As pleasant as it was to converse with a beautiful woman, Aegor valued practicality above all. Margaery Tyrell was not someone he could afford to let his guard down around. Speaking with her required constant vigilance, and the effort wasn’t worth the reward.
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Outside the tent, the raucous wedding celebration faded into the background. The camp was still lively, but it was far more tolerable than the chaos inside. In the flickering firelight, Aegor spotted Barristan Selmy sitting on a low bench, just a few paces from the tent entrance.

The old knight, still clad in his pristine white cloak and armor, was slowly sipping from the jug of wine Robert had thrust upon him. His once-proud figure now seemed oddly melancholic, a man out of place amidst the revelry.

Is he seriously planning to drink the entire jug before returning? Or is he just drowning his sorrows?

Despite Barristan’s earlier attempt to interrupt the proceedings, Aegor still admired the man’s integrity and unparalleled skill. A knight of his caliber was always worth knowing.