silently, she thanks the seven that her father had chosen to ride in his own wheelhouse, accompanied only by his newest bride, that it is olyvar who sits beside her - - - sent as robb’s squire, but come to fetch her. quietly, he has tried to soothe her fears, tells her with soft words that robb stark is good to those who serve and love him, that she need have no fear of him. (he is not their father, that is the lesson given in between each spoken word. if nothing else, mustn’t riverrun and then, someday, the north be better than the twins?)
yet as the wheelhouse rumbles to its stop, roslin feels the breath caught in her throat. nothing may assuage the fact that she has been sent to wed a stranger, that she does not know much more of robb stark than the things that she has heard. she knows nothing of what it means to be a wife, even less how to be a queen! has never been north of the twins, has never thought to be placed so high! it would have been a joy, she thinks, to be wed to some lower lord, not to be made queen! perhaps to think she might find love in such a match, not simply to be given as a trading piece for passage across her father’s bridge! she is the toll, and it makes her stomach flutter nervously. she is the toll the king had to pay….she knows he does not want her, truly.
yet as olyvar hands her down, she draws a breath to steady herself, keeps her head high as she can, tries to fix a soft smile to her lips (it falters, just a little, the first time she catches sight of the man who soon shall be her husband). her father’s hand grips her elbow tightly, suddenly, though with what might pass for tenderness from lord walder frey, he tucks her arm beneath his own and leads her toward the northern king. yet when they are but steps away, when lord frey has nodded quickly, said, “my daughter, roslin,” he leaves her there to stand before robb, all alone. immediately, she sinks into a curtsy, soft brown eyes downcast.
“it is an honor to be here, your grace,” she says, dares a glance at him from underneath soft lashes, though she does not rise - - will not, until he asks her to stand.
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.”
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