GOT/ASOIAF: Ruler Beyond The Ice

Aegor coughed, wiping his mouth after nearly choking on his wine. His gaze instinctively turned to Roslin Frey's brother, a man old enough to be her grandfather. The eldest son of Walder Frey had gone from shock to outright delight, clear proof that this good news had been entirely Robb Stark's decision, without prior discussion with the bride's family.

The northern lords—Karstark, Umber, and the others—frantically signaled their young lord to withdraw his request. But Robb did not even glance their way. His eyes remained locked on the King of the Seven Kingdoms, awaiting an answer.

---

Robert's expression darkened. As a close friend of Robb's father and the head of House Baratheon, he was far from pleased with this choice of bride. The Freys were not worthy of the Starks, this was an undeniable fact in the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms. And Robb wasn't just any Stark, he was the heir of Winterfell.

If his godson truly wanted to secure his power and forge a lasting peace in the realm, he should have married that cunning girl from House Tyrell, binding the North and the Reach together.

That said, a king's promise was not given lightly. While the match wasn't ideal, at least it posed no threat to the stability of the Iron Throne. Robert quickly composed himself and turned to the Frey representative sent to negotiate on behalf of the family.

"Stevron! Can you make this decision in your father's name?"

Of course not. Walder Frey had always been the sole authority in his family. But Stevron knew that if he dared refuse, his father would have his hide the moment he returned home.

"Yes, Your Grace!" Stevron declared without hesitation. "On behalf of House Frey, I accept this marriage!"

"Good!" Robert's earlier irritation faded, replaced by amusement. He had never officiated a wedding before, and now that things had taken this turn, he saw no reason not to enjoy it. "Since we have lords from all over the Seven Kingdoms gathered here, why wait for another day? Let the mountains of the Vale and the nobles of Westeros bear witness! Someone bring me a septon—Robb, straighten up! You're getting married tonight!"

---

A Frey knight immediately rushed out of the tent to fetch the bride, while inside, the atmosphere erupted into chaos.

Several northern lords quickly surrounded Robb, their faces tense as they spoke in hushed but urgent tones, clearly objecting to the match. But they were soon drowned out by the swelling tide of congratulations, some cheering for the Young Wolf's good fortune in love, others praising the Freys for securing such a powerful match.

The shift from tense silence to deafening celebration happened so fast that even Aegor was momentarily stunned.

Robb's parents didn't even know about this, yet here was Robert, throwing a wedding for their son on the spot?

Coming from him… it actually makes perfect sense.

Of course, a king had the authority to grant marriages but only with the consent of the involved parties and their families. When the Mad King had appointed Jaime Lannister to the Kingsguard, Jaime had considered it an honor at first, but Tywin had taken it as a personal insult and turned against the crown.

Robert might seem reckless, but he knew exactly where the line was. He would never arrange marriages for major vassals like Robb or Margaery without their families' consent that would be inviting disaster.

But this was different. Robb had made the request himself. Robert was merely giving him what he asked for.

If Eddard and Catelyn Stark were furious when they heard the news? That was Robb's problem, not his.

And as for the Freys? They could celebrate in silence. Who has the time to care what they think?

---

Aegor rubbed his temple.

Some men can't even control their own hair, how can they be expected to control anything else?

That said, if Robb had to marry someone, this was certainly a better choice than some random noblewoman or an insignificant girl whose name Aegor could never remember. At the very least, the Red Wedding will never happen now.

Still, he couldn't help but pity Robb's father.

Eddard Stark was an exception, a man with an unusual sense of morality and self-discipline. But in this world, where gender equality was nonexistent and nobles and commoners lived in entirely different spheres, virtues like chastity, fidelity, and monogamy were not the qualities most valued by the Stark bloodline.

Aegor, raised in modern values, might condemn the irresponsibility of such behavior. But from a lord's perspective? From a father's perspective?

A man like Eddard, who tried to raise his son with strict moral boundaries, was only increasing the likelihood that Robb would rebel.

If Eddard had instead let his son indulge early, taken him to a few brothels, taught him the real rules of the nobility, made him understand that women are like clothes, but vassals are like brothers, then perhaps Robb wouldn't be so easily swept away by a pretty face, making impulsive decisions that disregarded the interests of his house.

---

"Your Grace," a voice finally broke through the noise.

A knight stepped forward hesitantly. "Should we not, at the very least, inform the Hand of the King before proceeding with the wedding?"

"Damn you, Kingsguard!" Robert bellowed. "They call you Barristan the Bold, but I think Barristan the Killjoy suits you better! Now, take this jug of wine and get out of my sight! Don't come back until you've finished it!"

The old knight in white armor stood still for a few moments, casting a glance over the chaotic feast before him. With a sigh, he took the jug of wine from Robert's hand and silently left the tent.

A few minutes later, Roslin Frey—Robb's bride, whom Aegor had been curious to see arrived, escorted by her family.

The atmosphere inside the tent, already lively, erupted into full-blown revelry. Many of the gathered lords had seen Roslin Frey before, but tonight, under the flickering firelight and against the backdrop of her rather unfortunate-looking relatives, she appeared even more striking.

Her light-colored gown hugged her slender frame, making her fair skin glow with a delicate radiance. Dark chestnut hair cascaded in loose curls down her back, framing a face of delicate beauty. But it was her eyes—large and brown, shimmering with nervousness and a hint of mystery beneath the candlelight that drew the most attention.

Even the stern northern lords, who had initially shown little enthusiasm, found themselves swept up in the moment. Though her status was not ideal, her beauty more than compensated. Few could object to such a woman becoming the future Lady of Winterfell.

---

"She truly is a beauty. Even I'm a little moved," came a voice beside Aegor.

It might have been inappropriate to comment on another man's bride in such a way, but coming from Margaery Tyrell, it was merely playful banter. Aegor couldn't simply ignore it, so he raised his cup, glanced at Roslin, and nodded in agreement.

Roslin, blushing shyly, was nudged into Robb's arms. Robert, grinning broadly, loudly declared the wedding's commencement. The lords and knights banged their cups against the tables in celebration.

The septon had yet to arrive, but no one cared for such details.

---

Roslin Frey was undeniably beautiful. But Aegor, who had lived in a world of Photoshop and cosmetic surgery, had long since developed a certain immunity to beauty. After a brief appreciation, he looked away.

Margaery, observing him with interest, suddenly asked, "The Night's Watch forbids marriage. What do you think when you see women?"

(Just because I can't marry doesn't mean I can't touch.)

Of course, he couldn't answer the scheming little rose so bluntly. Instead, he channeled Benjen Stark's solemn demeanor and replied with a straight face, "We take responsibility as wives and honor as concubines."

"Tsk—" Margaery rarely dropped her refined facade, but this time she actually rolled her eyes, pouting in mock displeasure. She stared at him, clearly annoyed. She had been making idle conversation, and yet this black-clad Night's Watchman had responded with such a stiff, humorless answer. "You're no fun at all."

Realizing he had been too cautious, Aegor quickly softened his tone. He smiled and said, "There are no women at the Wall. I get nervous when speaking with a lady as refined as you, Lady Margaery. If I have offended you, I ask for your forgiveness."

"Hmph..."

Margaery sighed in mild frustration. She had traveled so far north and had yet to accomplish half of what she set out to do. Now, even her conversation partner was proving difficult. She no longer had the patience for small talk, so she simply turned her head away and stopped engaging with him.

From the moment Robb had asked for his marriage, Aegor had gone from being a center of attention to just another spectator. But it was still unwise to ignore a noblewoman entirely.

"It's too loud in here. My head is starting to ache. I'll excuse myself," he said politely, before slipping out of the tent.

Talking to a beautiful woman was pleasant enough, but Aegor was a practical man. Margaery Tyrell was never going to be his lover, and every conversation with her was a carefully measured game. If he let his guard down for even a moment, he might walk into one of her traps. It was exhausting. Better to just avoid the risk altogether.

---

Outside the tent, the sounds of raucous celebration continued, but at least it was quieter than inside. The moonlight and the glow of scattered campfires cast long shadows across the field.

That was when Aegor noticed Ser Barristan Selmy.

The old knight sat on a low bench a few feet from the entrance, still clad in his white cloak and armor. In his hands was the jug of fine wine Robert had gifted him. He drank slowly, his once-imposing figure slightly hunched, his silhouette seeming far lonelier than before.

Does he actually intend to finish the whole jug before returning?

Or was he simply drowning his sorrows?

Even though Barristan had tried to ruin his plans earlier, Aegor still respected the man's unwavering integrity and unmatched skill. There was never harm in forming a connection with someone as formidable as Ser Barristan Selmy.

***

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