Chapter Text
The Twins.
285 years after Aegon’s Conquest, Bethany Rosby, the sixth wife of Lord Walder Frey, Lady of the Crossing and mother to four sons, died in child bed bringing forth a daughter.
Most had wondered how it had taken so long.
The Rosbys are hardly known for their robustness, the Lady being an anomaly in her own right birth after birth. The Lord Frey would often jest that it was due to the strength of his seed, as only his could take root in such unfertile ground.
She would always simply smile, and offer to sing.
Lord Walder Frey had not minded the daughter, the fifth trueborn, and barely gave a thought to his wife’s still cooling corpse as he drank cup after cup with his near endless sons and grandsons, a whore on his lap.
He would only find out his daughter’s name the next day.
“Roslin.” Perwyn said, voice tight as he presented his little sister to his father, the girl pink and bawling in the great hall of the Twins, the remnants of last night’s feast scattered about, the stench of Ale and vomit near overpowering. Lord Walder gave an uncommitted grunt, barely looking at the new-born. As Roslin’s cries rang out however a smile found its way creeping across the Lord’s face.
“Here’s to hoping she gets her mother’s voice eh? Less of this bitchy whining.”
Perwyn’s hands tightened, almost imperceptibly, about the girl. “I’ll take her back with your leave, Lord Father.” He said, bowing and walking away before hearing an answer, dodging stray cups, plates, and passed out brothers and nephews as he did. The slight was lost on his Father though, mind already drifting to where he might procure his next wife from.
Within the chamber the long suffering Steward had allocated for the girl, door shut behind him Perwyn sank to his knees, the urge to weep a clawing pressure at his throat as looked upon little Roslin, still bawling. Wanting to soothe her as much as him, the ten and seven boy held her close, rocking, walking, and shushing the babe as the grey light of dawn grew over the banks of the crossing. Sighing at Roslin’s continued crying, he began to sing the lullaby his mother had sung him when he was small enough to crawl into her arms, terrified of the rolling summer storms.
Rest little river
Flow gently down
Be safe in my song and my arms
Be brave little river
Little singer of mine
Be clever and bold in time
Sing little river
And listen to its might
While I keep you safe through the night.
While I keep you safe through the night.
Silent tears streaming over his cheeks Perwyn laid the sleeping Roslin down, placed a kiss upon her forehead, and left her to dream.
And in the breaking dawn of that day, if anyone had listened close enough, they might have fancied that they heard the river not rushing,
but singing.