Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

27th Day of the 5th Moon

Edmure Tully, the North

After the narrow causeway of the Neck, the kingsroad had dwindled to two winding dirt tracks, surrounded by endless hills and forests.

"I can barely feel my arse anymore," Kirth Vance groaned. "After so much riding, it must have taken the shape of the saddle. I hope all the coin spent buying two dozen more palfreys from Lord Vypern and this mad rush is worth it."

Edmure's backside and legs felt much the same, together with the rest of his weary body, but not just him; all of them were worn out from the ambitious journey. They had ridden hard for nearly twenty days now, travelling an almost impossible distance if not for having almost four good horses for each rider. Ronald's poor Pemford squire was left with the thankless task of taking care of all the additional steeds.

The Tully heir felt a tinge of guilt; they had been near Vypern Castle when the news of his nephew's upcoming wedding had reached his party. It was his daring idea to buy additional horses and ride northwards in a bid to catch the wedding, no matter what. All of his friends were here with him, albeit grumbling, and it warmed his heart.

"I started dreaming of a soft feathered bed and a hot bath each night," Ellery Vance shook his head forlornly. "Yet when I open my eyes in the morn, all stiff, tired, and covered in grime and sweat, I'm greeted by the cold ground below and the gloomy sky above."

"Stop your poetic whinging; we managed to find an inn to sleep twice! It will be worth it - it's not every day a princess is married to a highlord's heir," that was the tired voice of Marq Piper. "Such a grand occasion happens twice a century at most!"

"Aye, and the king knows how to feast and celebrate, if nothing else," Ronald Vance, the eldest brother and heir to Atranta, added sluggishly. "I still remember the endless bounty of the royal wedding. Wine flowed like a river, and the tables were so laden heavy with food that your belly got filled just by the sight of it."

"The old lion spared no expense once his dream came true. Sadly the rest of us don't shit gold," Lymond Goodbrook japed, eliciting a wave of hearty yet tired chuckles.

"This feast should not be any lesser in Winterfell; after nearly ten years of summer, even the cold and frugal North would have their stores full and cattle grown fat," Patrek Mallister noted dryly.

"I wouldn't be too sure," Hugo Vance countered quietly. "They have summer snows every year, the last one apparently less than a moon ago."

"If that's the summer, I dread to imagine a northern winter," Ellery Vance shuddered, and he was far from the only one. Indeed, the weather had been noticeably colder when they had passed the Moat.

"I just hope we're on time," the youngest Vance brother groaned again. "Imagine if we missed the wedding by a day, and we only arrived for the clean up after all the barrels of ale and wine dried up."

"Don't jinx us, Kirth," Edmure warned. "We passed Cerwyn this morn, and the castellan said the wedding should be either today or tomorrow. Come now; we can see Winterfell in the distance on that hill yonder."

"The man was so old and frail I wager he didn't have all the wits to him," the Vance heir snorted. "I wouldn't be surprised if he even knew which day it was."

They continued in silence; the long, harsh journey had taken a toll on them all. Edmure signalled to Kirth, who grumpily raised the standard bearing the silver trout of House Tully.

Winterfell's granite walls became more and more imposing as they approached, and while they weren't as enormous as Harrrenhal, they were just as staggering, doubly so, when they neared, as it became clear that there was an inner, even taller wall behind the first one. Edmure could see at least two dozen men patrolling the ramparts above, steel helmets glinting with silvery lustre in the sun. Beneath the enormous walls, the fabled Winter Town mentioned by his sister could be seen.

"The second wall must be at least a hundred feet tall," Marq Piper whistled as they ascended the hill leading up to the gate.

"If properly manned, this castle will be impregnable," the Mallister heir noted, awe in his voice as he gazed at the looming grey walls.

"They can still be starved out," Lymond Goodbrook said. "A big castle like this will require a big garrison, thus plenty of mouths to feed."

"I heard the godswood is enormous with small animals and wild fruits. The castle also has glass gardens where food can be grown even in winter," Edmure countered. "Besides, there's plenty of space inside to raise poultry if need be."

"Aye, and when summer snow falls and blocks the roads and the baggage trains, the fools sieging this place will be dying in droves from hunger and cold," Patrek laughed.

"What else would you expect from something made by the hands of the Builder himself!" the Tully heir agreed with a chuckle.

They made the rest of the slight ascent in silence. Beneath the walls stood rows of small, neat houses made from logs and undressed stone extending towards the east. The muddy streets were filled with cheery smallfolk, and Edmure could see various stalls offering goods and produce beside the main road. Bards and mummers were plying their trade in the square. This was the biggest gathering of people they had seen since entering the North.

They finally crossed a large square just before the formidable gate, flanked by two crenellated bulwarks on each side. There was an enormous stake crowned with a severed head on display that they looked at curiously next to the gate.

"Halt!" A burly man clad in ringmail and padded surcoat wearing the grey direwolf of House Stark stepped forth as soon as their party approached the opened gate. Edmure had seen plenty of sentries and guardsmen, yet the one before him was one of the most formidable, both in bearing and stature. The rest of the guards behind him were just as dangerous-looking and well-armed. "What brings you Southerners up to Winterfell?"

"I am Ser Edmure Tully, brother of Lady Catelyn Stark and uncle to Robb Stark," Edmure nudged his steed forward, then turned to introduce his companions one by one. "These are Ser Ronald Vance, the heir of Atranta, and his brothers, Sers Hugo, Ellery, and Kirth. This is Lord Lymond Goodbrook, Ser Marq Piper, heir to Pinkmaiden, and Ser Patrek Mallister, heir to Seaguard. We're here to attend my nephew's wedding!"

"Your presence here is surprising, Sers. You can go in, but no funny business. Lady Stark has been notified of your arrival, and you better be who you say you are, else you might end up warming our dungeons," the guardsman grunted. "Or you might join our lauded deserter king over there."

The man pointed to the impaled head covered in tar; it was beginning to rot, but you could see the weathered face twisted in an angry snarl.

"Deserter king?"

"Aye, Mance Rayder, the fooling King Beyond the Wall who tried to sneak into the castle once the royals arrived. He was found the next night and shortened a head for all to see!"

With that final warning, the guardsman signalled, and the rest of the sentries freed up the way.

They bypassed the portcullis and a small tunnel where the ceiling was filled with murder holes, only to step on an enormous drawbridge and see that a formidable moat separated the inner and outer walls.

"That explains why the guardsmen are so strung up," Lymond noted.

"Can't blame them. Hosting the royal retinue must be an arduous task, sneaking wildlings or not," Edmure shrugged amiably.

"How'd they get enough water to fill a whole moat up the hill?" Patrek Mallister scratched his neck as he looked around.

"Winterfell has hot springs," he supplied idly. "They probably feed into the moat."

"Good, I'm dying for a warm bath," Kirth groaned.

"Fret not. We'll have plenty of time to get presentable. Weddings before the old gods take place in the evening, and there's still a few hours until sunset," Marq added.

The second gatehouse was even larger and more formidable than the first, and after bypassing it, they entered an open courtyard only to be faced with a veritable wall of steel.

Despite wearing a modest wollen dress and looking particularly weary, Catelyn looked like a regal flower amidst a sea of burly guardsmen who were all eyeing them suspiciously.

"Edmure?!" His sister's surprised cry seemed to bleed out the tension from the men-at-arms.

"Cat!" The Tully heir cried out and dismounted with a wide smile that changed to a wince as soon as his feet landed on the packed ground. Gods, he was sore! "We rode as hard as we could as soon as we heard about the wedding. I hope we're not intruding?"

"No, I'm glad to have you here," Catelyn's face warmed up as she held her brother in a hug. "You arrived just on time; the ceremony is tonight! When I heard of Tully banners, I didn't know whom to expect."

The younger man smiled broadly, "There was no way I would miss the chance to visit, sister. I hardly remember the last time I've seen Robb; making it to his wedding is the least I could do."

"Come, come. Be welcome to Winterfell, all of you," She signalled to a servant holding a tray of bread, salt, and wine, and her nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly. "You all need to get into a clean garb and wash away the stench of the road."

***

The rest felt dreadfully short when a knock on the door awoke him from his stupor.

"Lady Stark is expecting you at the Great Keep's entrance, m'lord," it was the voice of a young serving girl who had shown him his rooms. "The wedding is about to start soon."

"I'll be there in a few moments," he half groaned and heard muffled footsteps moving away.

The news had chased away any remaining drowsiness, and Edmure leapt from the bed, only to regret it a moment later as his muscles and joints complained in protest. He hastily grabbed the clean dark blue cloak that Catelyn had generously provided, then left his room.

The pleasant hot bath and the new clothes did not make Edmure feel any less sore and tired. The flagged stone of the hallway stood unsteady before his feet, and most of his body ached with every step taken. Since the Guest Hall was packed full, he was given rooms in the Great Keep with House Stark, but his companions' quarters were in a fancy tower near the Guest House. The stairs proved to be an arduous task, but Edmure braved them anyway.

At this moment, he felt thankful that weddings before the old gods were far quicker affairs than the drawn-out drudgery of sermons and vows in the Septs; the Northerners didn't dawdle with needless pomp and pageantry, that was for sure.

Outside was already dark, and a soft reddish glow could be seen receding to the west. A few braziers and torches illuminated the yard as the chilly evening gusts made Edmure shiver and pull his cloak closer.

Cat, now a head shorter than him, lantern in hand and garbed in a warm red and blue gown, was already waiting by the entrance, accompanied by three children, but he could also spy a few guards shadowing her from a distance. Far enough to provide privacy yet not too far to be useless. The children caught his eye as Edmure had not met them before, but his sister had described her brood well enough in her letters, and it was quite easy to guess who they were. The oldest, Sansa, looked like a younger and more beautiful version of her mother with her high cheekbones and soft red curls, garbed in a beautiful silvery gown. She was fast approaching her mother's height as well, clearly the blood of her father at work. Arya was all wolf; there was not a single trace of her mother in her with her dark hair, grey eyes, and long face.

Clad in an ermine mantle, Rickon was peeking from behind Cat's skirts and had also inherited his mother's colouring. He looked at Edmure curiously with his large blue eyes and- "You walk funny."

The honest observation made all of them freeze for a long, drawn-out heartbeat before Sansa coughed politely with reddened cheeks. Arya tried very hard to stifle laughter with a fist while Catelyn's eyes darkened, and her brow wrinkled with displeasure.

"Rickon, that's not a polite thing to say," the Lady of Winterfell reminded with a soft yet firm tone. "You should apologise."

"Uh, sorry," the boy mumbled sadly with the high-pitched voice that all young children had. "But, it's true, though! You said lying is bad…"

"It's fine," Edmure chuckled, waved reassuringly, and reached down to tussle his thick auburn curls. "But if you're unsure what to say, you can also remain silent and observe."

Rickon nodded vigorously, and Cat threw him a grateful look.

"You look like Mother," he noted timidly. "And like Robb."

"I'm glad you noticed, nephew, for I am Edmure Tully, your mother's brother," he smiled proudly at the boy who perked up. "You can call me Uncle Edmure."

"We should start walking," Cat said, turning to lead the way, her grey cloak lined with heavy wool spinning behind her. "There's quite some way to the Heart Tree, and Ned and Robb are already there waiting."

They headed towards one of the walls where the entrance to the godswood resided; thankfully, the pace was set by Rickon and his still-short legs, which suited Edmure just fine.

"I have to apologise again for my lacklustre gift," he coughed in embarrassment.

"Nonsense," his sister shook her head vehemently, "Robb loved the feathery cap. Ser Piper told me you shot down the grey owl yourself. Besides, your presence here means far more than some gift. Few would deign to ride so hard for almost a moon just to attend a nephew's wedding."

The wall surrounding the godswood was a little over twenty feet tall, and Cat led them through an arched stone door with two guards stationed on either side.

"Follow me carefully and watch your steps for the roots and stones," the lady of Winterfell warned as she led the way forward, the lantern in her hand cleaving through the thick darkness. As the four of them followed after her, Edmure felt like they were little ducklings trailing uncertainly after their mother. To be fair, Catelyn had been the one to raise him…

They walked upon a path of sorts, a meandering footpath of ancient, cracked stone overgrown with moss, half buried under the packed dirt, and the fallen leaves, gold and red. Treacherous, thick brown roots pushed from underneath, threatening to make unaware visitors slip.

The grove was a dark, ancient place, especially at night, as the thick canopy above veiled the moon and the stars. Bushes, branches, and trees twisted and danced under the flickering light. It was very different from the godswood of Riverrun, with its trimmed bushes and pruned trees. If anything, It reminded him of Harrenhal's godswood, albeit with a far more primaeval feeling to it.

"Uncle Edmure," Rickon's childish voice broke the silence. "Do you have any dreams?"

"My sleep is nice and easy, but if I have any dreams, I don't really remember them by the time I wake," he offered after a moment of thought. "Do you have any?"

"Lots! I keep dreaming of Jon," the young boy turned around and beamed. Edmure had the feeling that Sansa and Arya were listening on with interest while Catelyn's form had stiffened.

"Jon?"

"Aye! My brother," Edmure was once again dazzled by a smile. "They say he's gone north to fight the snow bears, but I see him fighting the dark icemen with a blade of fire!"

"Quite interesting," the Heir of Riverrun scratched his head, unsure what else to say. Jon Snow was an uncomfortable topic for House Tully at best.

Having a bastard or three was not unusual, and in fact, it could even be expected. No, Edmure had nothing against the boy, but Lord Stark's decision to raise him in Winterfell along with his trueborn children had been indeed insulting, if nothing else. The fact that he supposedly took after his father's colouring and was quite capable was another sore point when Robb took after his mother.

And last but not least, the mysterious mother, an unnamed woman that still somehow remained in Eddard Stark's heart; from Catelyn's infrequent letters, Edmure suspected that his sister harboured a measure of fear that she would be put aside in favour of that unknown woman. He didn't know what to think about that, though, since the Lord of Winterfell had stubbornly ordered all talks on the topic to cease.

"Uh huh, and he's wearing large wolf skin with snowy fur as armour," Rickon continued relentlessly, "and there is Ghost and lots o' wolves and those short leafy people! Sometimes, there's Uncle Ben too!"

"Do you have some other dreams?" Edmure subtly tried to change the topic as he carefully stepped over a thick root. Had he also been so excited in tales and stories as a child?

"Once, I saw Bran resting below the ground in a chair of pale roots," the boy's voice grew hesitant. "There was this very old man with one red eye, too. It's just stupid dreams, though. Bran's sleeping in the crypts, and they say he won't wake."

The sorrowful, angry turn took the Tully heir aback. His nephew's abrupt death was a tragic thing he had learned of earlier today upon his arrival, but he hadn't had much time to think about it. It made sense, though, as Rickon was at the age where children could not yet grasp the concept of death.

"Shh, sweetling," Catelyn's soothing voice came from the front. "We all miss Bran."

"I just want him to wake up and play with me again already," Rickon's glum voice made Edmure's heart clench.

Would his ailing father simply not wake one day, leaving him… alone? Edmure shuddered at the thought, although it might be the Stranger's mercy - under the grave ailment, Hoster Tully's wits were slowly leaving him, and he was growing weaker and weaker with each day. His father had been strong, firm, and wise in his memory, but watching him become this frail ghost that could barely leave his bed had broken Edmure's heart. Staying in Riverrun had become too painful.

They continued in eerie silence, and soon, the darkness became enveloped by a shroud of warm mist, wafting out a few bubbling pools they passed over. They walked in silence until they arrived at a large clearing filled with men and women. Many a guest held an oil lantern in their grasp, and along with the ruddy glow of the flickering torches stabbed into the ground, the clearing was almost as bright as day.

A strong gust of wind parted the thin, misty veil, revealing the enormous weirwood. Edmure barely suppressed a shudder - its five-pointed leaves were like hands grasping at you, and the white bark reminded him of bone, let alone the sad face that looked as if it was about to weep crimson tears at the sight of you.

With their chilling macabre aura, the heart trees had always scared Edmure. Yet, beneath the crown of crimson red leaves, just next to the carved face, stood a young man. Powerful, well-built and nearing Edmure in height, with dark auburn curls framing his sharp, clean-shaven face. Robb Stark stood there, garbed in grey leather boots and a black velvet doublet studded with a large silver direwolf across the chest along with rims lined with silver. His face was impassive, but a hint of nervousness could be seen in his blue eyes.

Cat led them through the solemn crowd to the right of the heart tree, where Eddard Stark stood proudly, with four hounds sitting like statues beside him. No, not hounds, they were too shaggy, and their heads were too large and ears too sharp - were those the lauded direwolves? The Lord of Winterfell nodded warmly at them as they arranged themselves beside him. The groom's family always stood on the right, while across them, to the left side of the weirwood, stood the royal family - the Queen with a sharp smile that did not reach her eyes, Joffrey Baratheon with his golden curls and gold and yellow garb with a bored face that gazed at the weirwood with odd curiosity. The younger prince, Tommen, looked more afraid than anything else and tried to hide behind the Queen's skirts in vain. The infamous Lannister brothers stood there next to each other, one tall, proud, and valiant, clad in white and gold, the other one - short and misshapen, garbed in the colours of the Lannister lion.

As Cat leaned in and whispered softly to the unnerved Rickon, Edmure's eyes wandered across the foggy clearing, further away from the heart tree where the rest of the guests stood on both sides of the smattering path. He wagered that there were more than a hundred souls here; living in the cold north had given almost all the northern chieftains and lords a harshness to their rugged faces; there was little softness to be found in their stout or burly frames.

Then, the crowd stilled utterly.

From the drifting mist, a large figure loomed in, and when another gale parted the fog again, the king was revealed; huge in a way that reminded Edmure of a hulking bear, he was escorting a young maiden, almost two heads shorter than him. Wild, fierce beard as black as coal like his hair along his reddened face contrasted his daughter's gentle golden curls and delicate pale skin.

"Who comes before the old gods?" Robb's powerful voice tore through the silence; all traces of hesitation had fled his nephew.

"Myrcella of House Baratheon comes here to be wed," Robert Baratheon's voice boomed like a warhorn as he arrived before the heart tree. "A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?!"

"Robb of House Stark, heir to Winterfell. I claim her." The crimson leaves above rustled despite the lack of wind. "Who gives her?"

"Robert of House Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and her father," the king turned to his daughter. "Princess Myrcella, do you take this man?"

"I take this man," her voice was soft, sweet, and firm as she looked at Edmure's nephew.

Robb was a lucky man; the princess seemed ethereal in her white silken dress that gracefully hugged her womanly body. Even the Queen, for all of her cold beauty, could barely compare to her daughter. The Realm's Delight, indeed!

The king stepped aside as Robb and Myrcella joined hands and knelt together before the heart tree in silent prayer. The carved face stared down at them as if in judgement, and Edmure could not decide if it was happy or found them wanting.

They stood up, and Robert undid Myrcella's golden cloak emblazoned with the proud crowned golden stag of House Baratheon. In its place, Robb clasped the heavy white wool cloak bordered with grey fur and bearing the savage grey direwolf of House Stark.

And just like that, they exchanged a kiss, and it was done.

Robb boldly picked up his now-wife in his arms and made way for the Great Hall as tradition dictated; the crowd followed, erupting in cheers, the most boisterous of them belonging to the king.

Despite the dark and horrifying heart tree, Edmure found himself liking the wedding ceremony, which must have lasted less than a quarter of an hour. It definitely had nothing to do with his aching body and growling stomach.

They streamed into the Great Hall like a hungry flood, welcomed by long tables laden with a vast bounty of food and drink. Edmure was seated with Tyrion Lannister to his right and Lord Howland Reed to his left. On the other tables, his friends were dotted among the northern lords and chieftains.

Any grand speeches prepared were forgotten when the King directly grabbed a roasted boar leg and bit into it, juicy fat spiling into his coarse beard.

By the time he grabbed a mouth-watering honeyed mallard, a serving wench filling his cup with wine, the hall had already been overtaken by the celebration. Wine and ale flowed like a river; half the men sang along with the bards to Fair Maids of Summer, and the other half were chattering merrily.

"There's a septon in Winterfell, is there not?" Edmure asked after washing down a bite of succulent meat with some arbour gold.

"Yes, Septon Chayle," Tyrion Lannister said after swallowing a piece of venison pie. "A young, cheerful man you'd never expect to see in a sept devoted to a dreadfully boring thing like the gods."

Edmure had seen the infamous Imp before, and he was not easy on the eye as always. His face was grotesque, and his mismatched eyes, along with his sharp, biting words, tended to unnerve you.

"I expected that the wedding would be hosted by a septon at the very least. Wouldn't the High Septon and the Most Devout be offended when the Faith was spurned at a royal marriage?"

"Mayhaps," Tyrion snorted as he took a generous gulp of his goblet. "But what will they do but complain to the king and risk his wroth? It was his idea all along, you see. My dearest sister insisted that the High Septon himself came all the way here because Chayle was not of high enough rank. Lo and behold, my royal good-brother didn't have the patience to wait more than a moon and commanded to forego the clergy entirely. Although I can't complain, northern weddings suit me just fine - a quick ceremony without the needless pomp and straight to the drinking and feasting!"

"The Faith can whinge and whine, but they have no power in the North, even less so the High Septon," Howland Reed said after sipping what looked to be ale. The crannoglord was a short, slim man with a trimmed beard, piercing eyes and mud-brown hair.

"But, there's a sept here, in Winterfell? And don't the Manderlys follow the seven?" Edmure sputtered.

"The septon here is born and bred in the North, along the White Knife," Lord Reed waved dismissively. "The tiny shack made of wood you call a sept is Lord Stark's willingness to have a harmonious marriage more than anything else. Septon Chayle might believe in the Seven, but he believes in the Starks more. The Snowy Sept in White Harbour is not under the power of the Most Devout or the High Septon; they answer to the Manderlys; otherwise, the wolves would have never allowed the mermen in."

"Maegor pulled out the Faith's teeth long ago," Tyrion added after another generous gulp of wine. "It's been almost three centuries since the High Septon had the power to make or break a crown. You should see the current one - he's even more impressive than my royal good brother in girth and, according to the rumours, takes bribes from anyone willing to offer him any. Even godly men like him have needs - I have seen him in a brothel once or twice, and it was not to preach sermons to the whores. Our beloved clergy are all bark and no bite!"

"That might be so down in King's Landing," Edmure agreed with a sigh. "But I've heard that the Most Devout in the Reach has grown rich and prosperous off the bounty of the long summer."

"Fascinating," Tyrion's tone was dreadfully dull and bored, but Edmure noticed Howland next to him squint with a calculating gaze. The Imp then turned to look at him curiously. "We weren't expecting any southern guests since my royal good-brother had decided to hold the wedding as quickly as possible, truth be told. Although the more, the merrier!"

He lifted his cup in a toast and drained its contents in one go, only for it to be immediately refilled by one of the serving wenches.

"The queen does not seem happy," Edmure observed.

"The North does not agree with her," the dwarf chortled merrily. "But then again, few things do. Little can warm my sister's cold heart, let alone the North. I imagine she's loath to give away her precious daughter, too. Lord Reed, you ventured into the Tower of Joy and lived to tell the tale, did you not?"

There was genuine interest in Tyrion now; he had his whole attention upon the Lord of Greywater Watch like a hawk ready to dive on its prey.

"That I did, albeit barely," the crannogman confirmed, voice as soft as silk. "But do not ask me to regale you with the details. It was a brutal, bloody battle, and I have no wish to relive it."

"A pity," another generous gulp of wine, the third or the fourth newly-filled cup, made Edmure wonder where the dwarf managed to keep all of it and still seem sober. "It might have been a fight for the ages. Lord Stark's valiant skill would have been immortalised in the songs for taking down the Sword of the Morning and his fellow kingsguard!"

"There's nothing glorious in battle, lord Tyrion, only blood and death," Howland's voice grew as cold as the night outside.

"Ah, but deeds of valour must be eternalised for the generations to remember - I'm surprised none of the bards have begun singing The White Huntsman and the Maiden Fair!"

"The White Huntsman and the Maiden Fair?" Edmure echoed curiously as the crannoglord sighed and turned away from the dwarf, intent on ignoring him.

"Do you see that enormous white pelt?" Tyrion pointed to the wall above the King and Lord Stark's seats, and an awed gasp involuntarily escaped Edmure, so busy with the feast that he didn't notice it upon entering the Great Hall. "Magnificent, isn't it? Pristine and twice larger than anything else I've ever seen! I wouldn't truly believe it, but all the mountain clansmen tell the same story. Your good brother's bastard slew the beast on his lonesome with a single strike, saving Lord Liddle's young daughter. He asked for no rewards from the chieftain but to send the pelt to his lordly father as a gift. And now his daring deed is going to be remembered every time a bard-"

"Kin is important in the North, and some of us just want to honour their parents," Howland Reed interrupted dryly. "I doubt Jon Snow thought of songs, honour, and glory when charging against a beast over ten times his size. Although I'll admit, it makes for a good story."

Edmure had mixed feelings about the whole thing. On the one hand, if the stories were true, what Jon Snow had done was a valiant deed, but on the other hand, all the honour and glory he earned shamed Cat. But doubtlessly, the Imp would know all that yet had decided to raise the topic anyway. Was it to try and drive a wedge between House Tully and House Stark? With a sigh, he shook his head; it was better to enjoy the festivities than dwell on such bothersome topics right now, so Edmure dived once again into his half-eaten mallard.

"Ah damn you, Northmen, no sense of humour," Tyrion tutted and drained the contents of his cup again. Then, his gaze turned into a frown as he looked at the head of the table, where the princess was beginning to look somewhat nervous. "My favourite niece seems to be dreading the upcoming bedding. Would you be amenable to assist me in a small endeavour, my lords?"

"Do tell," Edmure sighed.

"I mean to start a brawl," the Tully heir almost choked on his wine at those devious words, but Howland Reed was quick to pat his back.

"You want to make a distraction so Lord Robb and his wife sneak away without the bedding?" The crannoglord asked evenly.

But it seems that Tyrion's idea had arrived a tad too late; the bawdier songs had begun, and Greatjon Umber immediately stood up. "BEDDING!"

The other Northmen joined in his bellows, but before anything else could happen, the Kingslayer, who, unlike everyone else, had abstained from food and drink so far, swiftly swept his royal niece off her feet and dashed towards the bedchambers before anyone else could move.

"That's cheating!" Galbart Glover cried out, and the rest of the men drunkenly chased after the bride, but the wine and food had made them grow slow and sluggish. The surprised Robb was left to the ladies, who swept him up and began to tear away his clothes like hungry vultures as they carried him towards the bedchambers.