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Elmer Frey did not live to see his wedding.
He met his bride. A Northern beauty, wild of heart and dark of hair. A princess who scowled at him in clear distaste at the thought of their impending vows. Old Walder laughed and said not to worry about it. She’d hardly be the first bride brought to the altar by force if need be and she’d learn her place soon enough.
He’d ridden out with his brothers for a hunt to bring in more game for their wedding feast.
His body was brought back after a stag had run him through with its antlers. His throat ripped open.
Waldron Frey was offered up next. Princess Arya had raged, saying her betrothal was to Elmar and Elmar was dead. Her betrothal should be dead as well. Her mother had told her to be silent, because they were still allies to House Frey. And they still needed passage across the bridge.
Their wedding was before the Seven and Lady Stark was incensed when her daughter refused to say the vows. The Princess had merely sneered at the Septon and reminded her mother that the Seven were her gods but that she kept to her father’s faith and did not hold the Seven Who Are One in any great regard.
King Robb sighed and looked at his sister as though to beg her forgiveness when he spoke the vows on her behalf. She glared at her brother and declared him a traitor and no true wolf, much to the shock of the guests.
Old Walder only laughed and called for the feast to begin. Later Waldron went outside to piss. The bedding was to be called upon his return.
They barely heard the screams. It was a frightened servant who came inside and called for the Maester that alerted them to something being wrong.
Rats, the large ones the size of small lap dogs and which most stable cats would refuse to take on, had been hiding in the garderobe nearest the storerooms. Waldron must have accidentally pissed on them and rather than flee they had attacked.
His balls were gone and his cock maimed.
As he could not consummate his marriage, the Septon declared it void. He also made some tremulous mentions of this likely being the will of the Seven in answer to the bride’s open derision. A blasphemous bride was unworthy of a pious husband.
Old Lord Walder was unable to find any sons willing to step forward after that. One brother murdered by a stag during his own wedding hunt and another emasculated at his own wedding feast. Nervous looks were cast towards the Northern Princess.
It hadn’t help that the bride had continued to sup on meat pies and honeyed rolls even as the Septon preached against her. Behaving all the world as though she had no interest in the goings on. When done she had gotten up and walked towards the doors of the hall even as Lord Walder had railed against his boy’s injuries. He demanded to know where she was going.
“To your forests, Lord Frey. I must give the Old Gods my thanks.” She had ignored her mother’s outraged and embarrassed cries as she’s swept out from the room.
They kept their rites of passage over the bridge. It wasn’t King Robb’s fault that none of Walder Frey’s many sons and grandsons were brave enough to step up and try to wed a bride many were now whispering was cursed.
It was betrayal on the part of House Bolton that had brought Princess Arya her next bride groom. Though Roose Bolton failed to kill her kingly brother or their mother, his bastard did manage to capture her. Joffrey Baratheon had declared Ramsay a Bolton and named Roose Bolton the Lord Paramount of the North. It was a position they couldn’t hope to maintain given that Robb Stark lived and the bulk of the Northern lords still held to House Stark. In an attempt to solidify their claim, they dragged Arya to a Godswood to force her into marriage to Ramsay. The bride had spat into his face when Roose Bolton asked who came before the gods to be wed. The Leech Lord merely wiped her spittle from his face and told his son he would have trouble bringing her to heel.
Bringing her to heel.
Her would be good father stilled when she started to laugh. She stopped struggling against the men holding her arms and just laughed. They looked at her as though questioning if she’d gone mad as she became louder.
Then the barks, snarls and howls grew closer to them. Voices cried out in surprise as Ramsay Snow/Bolton’s beloved hounds came running into the Godswood, their fangs bared. They ignored their master’s commands as they swarmed him. Roose Bolton and his men tried to pull them off, but not in time. Not before they savaged his face and tore out his throat.
The shock of it was too much. None were prepared when the princess they’d lost hold of snatched up one of their swords and ran it through Lord Bolton’s back. The Leech Lord’s eyes went wide in shock as she snarled above his head.
“Winter has come from House Bolton!”
His men fled. Partly in shock that their lord was dead. Partly in shock that Ramsay’s loyal dogs had turned against him and torn him apart. The few that had not been killed by the soldiers wagged their tails happily as they helped themselves to man flesh.
Once the men stopped running and made their way to the nearest tavern, tales of the Cursed Bride grew further.
King Robb wrote to the wall and freed his half-brother from his vows. He said that he needed Jon to return to Winterfell to hold the North in his absence and watch over their sister who now dwelt there. The whispers and rumors reached his ears as well during his journey home. Unlike the Freys or the Boltons, he had a good idea as to what was truly happening. When Jon found his direwolf’s littermate returned to Winterfell as well, he was certain of it.
“Inventive, dear sister. I know you are the last to wish marriage, but you might change your mind in another year or two. You may have ruined any chances.”
His sister scoffed as she tossed more chicken to Nymeria Without her mother or a septa to scold her she was far from likely to play the part of a princess. “What do I care what they say of me?”
“You may care if they decide you’re a witch and come to hang you.”
“If they do, they’ll find themselves torn apart by wolves. Or run through by my favorite brother.” She grinned brightly his way. He answered with a scoff of his own.
“I wouldn’t have time to clear my blade from its scabbard. You’d beat me to it. Did Septa Mordane take Needle from you? I notice it’s absence.”
“One of the Lannister men took it. Father let me keep it. Even hired someone to teach me how to wield it.”
“I’ll have Mikken forge you another, then.”
“I’d rather have Needle, but I suppose I will just have two blades once we get it back.”
“Get it back? I am supposed to keep you here with me. Surely you won’t abandon me to try and manage Winterfell on my own.”
Arya gave him a roll of her eyes but smirked. “I will stay here and protect you from the grumkins and snarks, brother. But I will have my sword back.”
Jon sighed in defeat as Ghost stole his last meat pie from his plate. “I’ll send word to Robb about the blade so he will know to keep an eye out for it. I would caution against getting your hopes up, though. One single small sword amidst thousands? We may never find it.”
“I’m sure someone will. We could make a song of it?”
“A song?”
She bared her teeth at him. “Aye. Sing out that Needle’s return is the only way to free the ‘Cursed Bride’.”