Robb watches Lord Frey go with a faint twitch of his eyebrow; surprise, but not really. When has Walder Frey ever been polite? They don’t need him, Robb reminds himself, to be polite; they just need his men, and the crossing clear, and they can be on the King’s Road in a month. And then: and then, King’s Landing, and Sansa, and Arya, and Joffrey Lannister’s head on a pike. He likes that thought rather more than he likes the sight of Walder Freu’s wizened figure heading straight for Riverrun’s great hall, and the ale contained therein, abandoning his small daughter to her fate.
He likes the look of Roslin Frey, too, though the two thoughts in quick succession are so in contrast that they make him smile. She’s soft, doe-eyed and gentle-looking, certainly pretty, not half a weasel at all like Theon had said - and that’s a bad train of thought, too. Gods, how he hates this, all these memories tainted. He tries to pull himself back to the present, to keep his feet planted securely on the cobblestones, because thoughts of Theon tend to lead to such a rush of anger that he finds it difficult to be civil to anyone, let alone his - well, his future wife.
“Please,” he says, and reaches for her hands, raising her from her curtsey. Most of the time being King feels, if not natural then at least not unnatural, but he isn’t entirely used to the depths to which people bow to him. He prefers being King on the battlefield than the castle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope your journey wasn’t over-long?”
The pleasantries come easily to him; his mother taught him well. She’s made herself scarce; the political situation when it comes to Catelyn Stark, the woman who freed the Lannister boys, is fraught and she didn’t want to add tension to an already tense meeting. Robb wonders if Roslin knows about Jeyne - he thinks about the maliciousness in Walder Frey’s face and wouldn’t be surprised if she did, but Olyvar’s a good boy, not much younger than Robb. He’d protect his sister, if it came to it. Robb found himself, almost on instinct, kissing the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, then, quietly under the bustle as her things are unpacked and Riverrun is flooded with Freys, “we have to meet like this. I wish we had time to get to know one another properly.”
she cannot help but be relieved that her father has gone, finds comfort in the fact that olyver and perwyn linger somewhere nearby - - - helping to unpack her things, perhaps, or tending to the horses, but not far, and...she cannot help but like robb stark’s smile. it makes it easy to return the smile, easy to let him take her hands and lead her up from the dip of her curtsy.
“no, my lord. it....it hardly seemed like any time at all.” for when they had started out, she had longed for time! she had dreaded this moment, though now she could not quite remember why: the rumors that he was more wolf than man, that his wolf had a taste for human blood. she had half expected fangs and claws, but found only gentle hands and courtesy.
it awakens something small and fragile: a hope trying to bloom. he does not even need to love her, she thinks now: if only he was ever as kind to her as now. let him only like her, have some sort of fond affection. (she has heard whispers of a girl at a castle, yes - - - she does not know if they are true or not, yet why should he not have fallen in love elsewhere? she was the toll-price bride, a bartering piece, the price of his crossing. she did not expect love, truly.)
still. it sends a pleasant shiver down her spine as his hands press to her lips, and the contact brings a soft pink to her cheeks. when she speaks, it is barely more than a whisper, barely more than could be heard over the noise around them: “as do i, my lord. only...please, do not apologize. i feel that i am the one who should do so. i know....i know my father asked for much. and yet, already, you have been so kind. ”
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