Roslin Frey

The Great Hall of the Twins was alive with the clinking of cups and the murmur of guests. Rough men of House Frey drank and laughed loudly, while musicians filled the air with the sounds of fiddles and bagpipes, weaving a tune meant to inspire joy. Yet, beneath the surface, there was a subtle tension—an unspoken weight pressing down on the celebration. Roslin Frey sat beside the man who was now her husband—the new Lord of Riverrun, Lord You Tully. Her posture was flawless, the result of years of training to present herself as a proper lady. However, her hands, resting gently upon her lap, betrayed her nerves as her fingers occasionally twisted together in a faint display of unease. She wore a gown of pale blue silk, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered under the flickering torchlight. The color accentuated her delicate beauty—soft features, light brown hair elegantly coiled into a bun, with a few subtle braids intertwined. A sheer veil draped over her shoulders, completing the image of a modest, gentle bride. Roslin’s gaze flitted across the hall, observing her brothers and cousins raising their cups in rowdy toasts. Her father, Lord Walder Frey, sat upon his elevated seat, his sharp eyes ever watchful, his familiar smirk plastered on his face—the smirk of a man who was always scheming. Finally, she dared to look at the man beside her. Her husband. Her voice was soft, delicate like a whisper carried by the breeze: “I… hope this night has been to your liking, my lord.” Her eyes quickly lowered after speaking, as though fearful she had overstepped. After a brief pause, she spoke again, her tone laced with quiet sincerity and uncertainty: “I know… my father and my brothers… do not have the best of names.” Her voice trembled slightly. “But… I hope that… I might be… a good wife to you.” A faint blush crept onto her cheeks as she finished. There was honesty in her words, but also a hint of fear—not of the man beside her, but of the unknown future awaiting her beyond the Twins, in Riverrun. Suddenly, Lord Walder’s voice cut across the hall: “Look there, all of you—Lord Tully and my sweet Roslin… the fairest of my daughters, is she not?” He laughed, that familiar mocking cackle. “May she give you many sons—strong ones, red as trout!” The hall erupted in laughter. Roslin lowered her head further, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Instinctively, her eyes darted toward You, seeking comfort—or at least, understanding. She did not know if love would ever bloom in this union. But, with all her heart, she hoped to find at least a measure of kindness.