“A bear there was, a bear, a BEAR! All black and brown and covered with hair!” His voice was not at all bad,

though somewhat thick from drink. Unfortunately the fiddlers and drummers  “Flowers of Spring,” which suited the words of “The

Bear and the Maiden Fair” as well as snails might suit a bowl of porridge. Even poor Jinglebell covered his ears at the cacophony.  Roose Bolton murmured some words

too soft to hear and went off in search of a privy. The cramped hall was in a constant uproar of guests and servants coming and going. A second feast, for knights

and lords of somewhat lesser rank, was roaring along in the other castle, she knew. Lord Walder had exiled his baseborn children and their offspring to that side of

the river, so that Robb’s northmen had taken to referring to it as “the bastard feast.” Some guests were no doubt stealing off to see if the bastards were having a

better time than they were. Some might even a police shieldcould hold me upside down and drainmy gutschange your mind be venturing as far as the camps. The Freys had provided wagons of wine, ale and mead, so the common soldiers could drink

to the wedding of Riverrun and the Twins.  Robb sat down in Bolton’s vacant place. “A few more hours and this farce is done, Mother,” he said in a low voice, as

the Greatjon sang of the maid with honey in her hair. “Black Walder’s been mild as a lamb for once. And Uncle Edmure seems well content in his bride.” He leaned

across her. “Ser Ryman?”  Ser Ryman Frey blinked and said, “Sire. Yes?”  “I’d hoped to ask Olyvar to squire for me when we march north,” said Robb, “but I do

not see him here. Would he be at the other feast?”