The Red Wedding, the smallfolk are calling it.They swear Lord Frey had the boy’s head hacked off, sewed the head of his direwolf in it’s place, and nailed a crown about his ears.
So if you steal the land of a [Northern]man
Then you shall know this curse
Your first born son’s warm blood will run
Upon the [Northern] earth
Catelyn watched her son as he moved among the men, touching one on the shoulder, sharing a jest with another, helping a third to gentle an anxious horse. His armor clinked softly when he moved. Only he head was bare. Catelyn watched a breeze stir his auburn hair, so like her own, and wondered when her son had grown so big. Fifteen, and near as tall as she was.
“Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth, Catelyn thought. The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their course.”
And I just want to be with you tonight.
au where jon deserts to join robb
Jon leaves the night the letter comes. He rides hard, racing away from the shouts of his brothers. Not my brothers, not anymore. He rides for days following Ghost who seems to know the way. Jon wonders if he can sense Grey Wind, if Grey Wind will tear out Ghost’s throat the way Robb may take his head. The thought makes his stomach seize and he pushes it away. He made his choice, there’s no turning back now. They stumble upon Robb’s camp suddenly and Jon reins in his horse, turning quickly back into the woods. He calls Ghost to him quietly and hopes that no one saw him as they slip between the trees. He waits until the sun sets and scrawls on a piece of parchment Black wasn’t my color after all and ties it around Ghost’s neck.
and now every single day that i spend without you
getting through the night is the hardest thing to do
He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest.