Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/832872.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Roslin_Frey/Edmure_Tully
  Character:
      Roslin_Frey, Edmure_Tully
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-07 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1807
****** The Price of Life ******
by SoulOfSnow
Summary
     Roslin and Edmure post red wedding
Notes
     Edmure and Roslin are sent off to consummate their marriage, and
     Roslin must deal with the guilt of the secret she's been told to
     keep.
They strip her in the usual wedding fashion, and slip Roslin under the sheets
of her marital bed. The Greatjon is the most eager, and his hand lingering on
her leg just a fraction of a second longer than the rest does not go unnoticed.
Roslin tries to convince herself that is cause enough to justify what he will
soon endure, but her heart fails her.
Edmure slips into the room; only a few candles illuminate his figure, but in
the dim lighting Roslin can see he is hard, and he obviously wants her. She
clings to the sheets around her chest and holds them tight; trying to swallow
the lump in her throat that threatens to have her erupt into tears. "My lord."
She says by way of greeting, but Edmure does not smile. 
"There is no need for formalities now, Roslin. You are my wife." His final
spoken word lingers in the darkness like heavy dust clinging to her skin.
Edmure's shadow casts a monster behind his back; poised and ready to strike.
Roslin considers all those that might replace that shadow with a blade. Father,
Ryman, Black Walder, Benfrey, even Roose Bolton. He is in this too. She cannot
help but cry now and shake like a leaf in an autumn wind. 
Edmure approaches her cautiously, and Roslin flinches. "Please, don't my lord,
I beg you." she whimpers, and as he attempts to console her she wrenches free
the sheet from the mattress and clambers off the bed. 
"Roslin? What’s wrong?" Edmure sits as naked as his name day on the edge of the
bed. He looks displeased, and Roslin's heart breaks. Unable to speak between
fits of tears, she can only sob with her back pressed against the cold stone
wall. "Look Roslin, you must listen to me," Edmure sighs and clears his throat
"I know I am not King Robb, and must seem a disappointment to you. But I am
your husband now, and we must consummate this marriage."
Roslin's eyes dart towards the door. She can hear the bards playing their music
louder than usual, and their shadows dance across the wall through the tiny
window at the top of the door. "You must go, my lord. You have to go." 
Edmure frowns. "Are you afraid? Roslin, they cannot hurt you now, I am
here." You sweet fool; it is not me they intend to hurt. Roslin only shakes her
head. "Which one of your siblings has hurt you? Tell me and we will bring him
here and settle this now."
"No! No you mustn't!" Roslin edges towards the bed with a pleading look in her
eyes. Tears stream down her face but she does not sob. "Forgive me, my lo--...
forgive me Edmure, I am being foolish." She smiles softly and wipes her eyes,
but Edmure does not seem convinced. 
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes I am quite sure," Roslin carefully straddles his lap and lets the
sheets slip down passed her shoulders "I will be a good wife, I promise." And
there she sits, unsure what a good wife should do. Edmure's fingers dance
through her long brown hair and trace down her neck, before he pulls her down
into a kiss. The sudden motion makes her gasp, but her breath is lost against
his lips.
At first he is gentle, but as Roslin’s mouth relents, Edmure feels the urge to
slip his tongue between her lips and kiss her with more and more passion. His
cock ruts against her leg and outside the bards play louder. For a while they
envelop her in sound and fear and regret; she whispers her guilt between kisses
and when Edmure opens his eyes she thinks he has heard her.
“I have been a vain and childish man,” he says, and as he kisses her nose his
beard scratches against her skin “forgive my apprehension, Roslin. I could not
be happier that I have found you, and fallen in love with you already.”
Her lips pull up into a fragile smile, but soon falter. Worried she may be
giving away her own apprehension, Roslin cups Edmure’s cheek; burying her thumb
within the tangles of his fierce red beard. So much hope for the future in your
bright blue eyes.Roslin knows the risk her husband faces, and how it all rests
on this night. “Keep him happy, keep him busy” they had said “and you keep him
alive”.She has only known Edmure a short while but already she feels compelled
to protect him in the only way she knows how: with silence. She kisses him with
the tenderness of a lover, and she allows herself to relax against his chest.
She doesn’t deserve this; a part of her wishes he’d be overpowering, demanding,
forceful. At least then she might have some cause to resent him and wish him
ill (though that would not justify his family suffering).
But instead he is kind and sensitive; laying her back against the pillows with
such caution and consideration you’d think him the maid. And he takes his time
to show her how wonderful all this can feel when he slips a finger inside her
and allows her to adjust to the strange sensation. She knows he’s desperate to
do the deed, but Edmure shows restraint enough to pleasure her a while before
he enters her, and when he at last does so he smothers her sharp intake of
breath with kisses and is slow and understanding.
She is so lost inside this little world that the bards cease to play. The
heaviness of Edmure’s breath is a sweeter song; the little moans of pleasure
they exchange whenever he sheathes himself fully inside her, or if she dares to
lift her hips beneath him. He kisses her neck and along her shoulder while his
hands explore the parts of her body no one has touched before. Every bruise her
brother’s rough-housing has given her is replaced by a flurry of little kisses,
and Roslin is surprised that Edmure can be so light and gentle. With him
looming over her now, she realises just how great he is in comparison to her
Rosby genes. His broad shoulders feel firm beneath her hands; his chest is
strong and in the darkness she can feel the tufts of dark red hair that grows
there. He is muscular but lean and she notes how he rests on his elbows to
prevent from smothering her under him.
She had not expected to climax on her first time; she feels herself contracting
and stifles her cries against Edmure’s shoulder, digging her heels into the
mattress though they slip and she scrambles to find her footing again. He holds
her close and buries his face in her hair, rolling forward as slides himself
inside her one last time. It’s painful, but a sweet hurt that is dulled as she
comes to her senses. This time she feels the full weight of him on top of her
as he collapses exhausted against her. When at last he lifts his head; Edmure’s
cheeks are as red as his hair, and she laughs at the exasperated look on his
face.
Resting on an elbow with his head resting in his hand, Edmure lays beside her
with a leg settled between hers. Roslin catches a glimpse of the blood on her
thighs and immediately feels dirty, but Edmure doesn’t seem to mind, or even
really notice. He runs a hand down her temple and through her hair. In the
silence, the bards seem to begin again, and it reminds her of her duty. But
now, she has created a duty of her own. Keep him alive. Keep him safe.“I heard
a story about you once.”
Edmure smiles. “You did?”
“Well, it was more of a song.” She notes in the dim light how his face drops,
and oddly enough it makes her smile. Of course he’d be annoyed to learn she’d
heard Tom of Seven’s mocking song. She lifts herself up and kisses his cheek.
“Tom was quite wrong.” He smiles again then.
“I wonder if a song will be sung about our wedding day, of how the Lord of the
Riverlands met his beautiful wife.” He sits up suddenly and Roslin reaches for
him as he stands up off the bed and heads towards the little table in the
corner of the room where a flagon of wine has been placed.
“Edmure-…” she pulls the sheet up over her naked breasts; her heart races with
a sudden rush of fear. Keep him alive. Keep him safe.
“I hope not, I fucking hate bards.” He takes a sip “Do they have to play so
loud? Gods, I can’t hear myself think!” He suddenly lunges for the door and she
thinks he might attempt to open it. She knows they’re locked in, and just a few
metres away guards have been posted. She knows that Edmure Tully is already a
prisoner.
But Edmure doesn’t. He slams his fist against the large oak door. “Be quiet! Be
quiet out there!”
“Edmure please,” she crawls to the end of the bed and grasps his hand. From the
little window she can see the shadows moving “come back to bed.” He turns
towards her with a lusting look playing along his face just as one of the
guards appears to check on the commotion. She speaks louder this time. “Come
and lie down with me.”
“Have I not pleased my little wife enough already?” He climbs back onto the
mattress on his knees, finishing his cup of wine and tossing it across the
room. His large stature boxes her in against the pillows and she feels small
and insignificant again. Behind him, Roslin sees the guard disappear.
The second time he takes her it is not so enjoyable. Edmure is no less kind or
gentle, but the Rains of Castamere plays through the window and swallows the
silence like a serpent with its prey. Each great boomfrom the drums makes her
jump, and Edmure moans a little louder from her involuntary movements. When at
last he finishes inside her, she is thankful that he rolls off and falls asleep
instantly (mid-kiss of her brow). She has had to supress her desire to cry
again the entire time, but now she can sob silently in the darkness without
alarming him.
When he wakes, they will take him. They will lock him in a cell and leave him
there. And she will have known, and she still said nothing. I have to keep him
alive. I have to keep him safe.Was it worth it? Would he understand? “No” she
thinks to herself sombrely “he will never understand.”
Boom, boom, boom.The music stops; the massacre is at an end.
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