WALDER FREY
The nerve of her.
Walder Frey sat motionless in the high seat, the aftertaste of humiliation thick on his tongue. The old man had weathered lords and kings, watched dragons fall and lions rise, survived every game by staying just barely useful and just barely underestimated. That woman had seen straight through him.
She didn't smile, not really. Didn't grovel. Didn't charm. No frills, no flattery—just demands dressed in politeness, threats hidden like knives under silk.
She dared—dared—to speak of building a bridge. Another bridge. His bridge, his towers, his tolls — what House Frey had clung to for power when no other weapon was theirs. All that gone, just like that, with one sentence. Her voice hadn't even needed to rise. And when she said his line wouldn't last a year?
That was no bluff.
She'd threatened extinction. Not war. Erasure. Not in the way of armies and sieges, but the kind of cold-blooded obliteration a woman like her would orchestrate with a ledger and a smile. He'd seen petty lords prattle about strength. This one spoke like she held the pen that wrote dynasties.
His sons didn't understand. Stevron had been spooked, Lothar cowed, Black Walder furious. But they didn't feel it. They hadn't seen what he saw when that red-clad maid dropped soundlessly in front of him.
Like mist. No warning, no rustle of fabric. Just there. One second she wasn't, the next—she was. Close enough to strike. Close enough that if she wanted his throat open, he wouldn't have known he was bleeding until the warmth ran down his collar.
That smile. The maid's.
Not the smile of victor. The smile of something worse.
She never took the bread. Never accepted guest right. A deliberate move, and he knew it before she even said it. Knew what it meant. She had come here planning risk, gambling on control—and the worst part? She'd won.
All his life, he had read people. Found their needs, their fears. Twisted them just enough. Bargained daughters, sons, promises, pride. He could smell desperation before it even walked through the gates.
But not her.
She didn't smell like desperation.
She smelled like inevitability.
And that was what he couldn't stomach.
Not the demands. Not the insult. Not even the threat.
It was that for the first time in his long, scheming life, Walder Frey had sat across from someone who looked at him like he was already dead. Like he hadn't yet realized it, but she had.
He tried to speak. Tried to rally something—outrage, pride, fury—but the words choked. The guards hadn't moved a muscle.". Not a single one. Eyes glazed, limbs limp. Some sort of trick. Poison? Pressure points? Gods knew.
He didn't.
That was the worst part.
He didn't know.
And in not knowing, he saw it plain: apex predator. She hadn't needed steel. She had walked into his hall and bled him out with nothing but poise and the unspoken promise that if he refused, there would be no second chance.
He would not forget this.
House Frey would not forget this.
And one day—when the wolves slept, when the dragons circled lower, when the empire grew lazy—he would find the crack.
Because pride might not be a sword. But it could wait longer than any blade.
DOMERIC
The wind rolled across the camp in slow, damp breaths. Beyond the canvas walls, someone hammered steel with the same grim rhythm that pulsed through every Northern tent. But inside the command tent, the air was still. Surgical.
Roose Bolton poured wine — not warmly, not ceremonially. A courtesy, nothing more. Domeric accepted it with a nod, but didn't drink.
"You will not ride with me," his father said.
Domeric blinked once. Not surprise — only confirmation. "To represent the Dreadfort?"
Roose's eyes didn't flicker. "To survive it."
That was how he gave his truths. Flat. Unapologetic. A knife laid on the table.
The wine was poor, though Domeric doubted Roose noticed or cared.
"She brought war into that hall without a sword," Domeric said. "And left with four thousand men."
Roose didn't answer right away. Just sipped.
"She also made it clear," he said finally, "we are not the only ones watching the map shift. I believe that's why she wanted me there."
"To witness it?" Domeric asked.
"To understand my place in it."
Domeric's gaze flicked toward the flap of the tent. Voices murmured beyond — captains, squires, the machinery of war grinding into motion.
"Walder Frey will fester," he said. "You saw his sons. They won't forget that humiliation."
"No," Roose agreed. "But she knows that too. Which is why her husband has already begun reshuffling the forces."
Domeric turned his head at that. "Already?"
"He's split the Frey troops under northern captains," Roose said. "No one family commands more than a fraction. No siblings kept together. No messages permitted without sigil and seal."
Domeric exhaled through his nose. Efficient. Precise. Cold.
"And she'll control the ravens," he said. "At least until Riverrun is freed."
Roose inclined his head.
"The princess is cunning," he said. "And her husband is learning well."
Domeric set his cup down. Still untouched.
"She could have taken everything Walder offered and buried him with it later," he said. "But she didn't. She made him bow. And made sure he understood why."
Roose said nothing.
"You were part of that too," Domeric said after a pause. "Not as a threat. As a witness. She used you to validate it — for the Freys. For the North."
Roose looked up at him, steady. "And for you."
That one landed. A quiet weight behind the words. Domeric didn't answer, only looked back toward the tent's flap.
"She'll keep them quiet," he said. "No messages out. Not until Riverrun is secure."
Roose gave a single nod. "He'll owe her for that."
He didn't say who he was. Domeric didn't ask. Didn't need to.
Outside, horns sounded — low, steady, the call to muster. Feet stamped through mud. Shields lifted.
Roose stood. "You'll march with him."
Domeric nodded once.
But Roose didn't move. Not yet. He stood over the war map like a priest at a shrine, studying the placement of carved animals across painted terrain.
"You understand what Robb Stark has done," he said.
Domeric stepped closer, eyes tracing the arc of the campaign.
"He's trusting you with the bulk of the army."
"No," Roose said. "He's trusting me not to win."
Domeric stilled.
Roose moved a carved wolf east, across the river. "He'll strike Riverrun with speed. He needs Tywin to think this" — he gestured to the larger host — "is the real push. That it's young pride charging headlong."
"But it isn't," Domeric said quietly. "It's discipline. Holding the line."
Roose's mouth twitched — almost a smile. "And who else among our lords can do that?"
Domeric thought of them — the Greatjon, Karstark, Manderly, Hornwood. Loud men. Glorious men. Hot blood.
"They'd chase a Lannister crown across the Trident if it meant glory," he said.
"And get us all killed for it," Roose murmured. "Tywin Lannister doesn't fight unless he knows he'll win. He'll only come when he thinks he can crush us."
Domeric watched his father's hand on the map. Precise. Unshaking.
"So you must make him think that moment has come."
Roose nodded once. "And then deny him."
The brazier cracked softly in the corner. Firelight flickered across steel and furs.
"It's a powerful position," Domeric said. "You'll command more men than any other lord."
"Power given freely is never free," Roose said. "I carry the weight of a battle that must be lost, but not truly lost. A war that must be blooded, but not broken."
He moved to the armor stand. Began fastening his vambrace.
Domeric watched in silence. "And if Tywin doesn't take the bait?"
Roose didn't look up. "Then we hold. And wait for the river to rise."
Outside, horns again. The scrape of shields. Boots moving.
Domeric took a breath. "You trust him, then? Robb Stark?"
Roose tightened his belt. Met his eyes.
"I trust that he wants to win," he said. "And that she"—his voice cooled—"knows how."
He took his cloak from the hook.
Domeric didn't follow. He stayed, eyes on the map. The real plan. The illusion. The waiting snare.
At the tent's edge, Roose paused.
"Stay close to him," he said.
"I will."
Roose's voice was low as smoke. "And watch the banners. If the wind changes, ride."
Then he was gone.
TWO WEEKS AFTER
ROBB
"The men are ready, but I'm still worried about House Frey. They will not forget what was done to them," Robb said as he fastened the leather straps of his armor. The steel plates gleamed in the dim light of their tent, each piece a reminder of the battle to come.
Ruyan moved with quiet precision around him, her slender fingers checking each buckle with practiced care. "They're not reliable allies to begin with," she replied calmly. "Don't worry. I have had men watching the towers since then."
"And the ravens?" he asked, his eyes following her movements as she selected his gorget from the armor stand.
"Already taken care of," she said cryptically, a slight curve to her lips that wasn't quite a smile.
Robb hesitated, his hands stilling over his vambraces. "Is it..." He paused, uncertain how to frame the question. He had never seen her abilities in action, but he had witnessed her with that owl of hers, and the falcon that seemed to appear whenever she stepped outside. The way ravens came to her without fear, as if greeting an old friend. "Your spirit walking?"
"Yes," she answered plainly, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "I've communed with them to deliver messages to me first."
A silence fell between them. She had explained her affinity for animals before—likened it to what he had with Grey Wind. Yet seeing it in practice, watching her silent communication with the birds, still left him unsettled. Not with fear, but with the realization of how little he truly knew of her capabilities.
"The ships arrived at Seaguard yesterday," he continued, pushing past the moment. "Lord Mallister has already started offloading supplies. They'll be ready once we recapture Riverrun."
Ruyan nodded and stepped closer to help him with his breastplate. The metal was cold against his chest, even through the padded gambeson. Her movements were efficient but gentle as she positioned the armor against his torso.
"Are you sure Lihua is enough to protect you?" he asked, trying to focus on practical concerns rather than the unfamiliar intimacy of her assistance.
"She is more than enough," Ruyan replied without looking up from her task. "And I can defend myself. We will be waiting at the hilltop."
Robb nodded, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. "Thank you for assigning Gao Shan to Mother, though she thinks you are spying on her."
"Gao Shan will report to me everything," she admitted without apology, reaching for his sword belt.
Her honesty was disarming—she made no pretense about her methods, offered no false reassurances. It was both frustrating and oddly comforting. In a world of hidden agendas and veiled threats, her transparent calculation was almost refreshing.
As she helped him secure the belt, she stepped even closer, her body nearly pressed against his as she reached around his waist. The scent of her hair—jasmine and something sharper, like winter air—filled his senses. Robb felt his breath catch, suddenly aware of how rarely they occupied such close space outside their marriage bed.
Her arms were nearly around him in an embrace as she adjusted the belt's fit, her fingers working with deliberate precision at his back. For a moment, he felt an unexpected impulse to pull her closer, to seek comfort in the solid reality of her presence before facing the chaos of battle.
Instead, he remained still, caught between gratitude for her support and the lingering uncertainty about the woman he had married. She had orchestrated their crossing at the Twins through methods that still made the Northern lords whisper behind their hands. She had commanded birds to spy for their army. She had killed men with hairpins and never flinched.
Yet here she was, helping him prepare for war with the same careful attention she gave to everything—not with the tearful worry of a new bride, but with practical, unsentimental support. It was exactly what he needed, though he hadn't known to ask for it.
"It's normal to be anxious," she said quietly, her face close to his as she secured the final buckle, "and... afraid. It is your first battle."
The acknowledgment of his fear—spoken without judgment or pity—loosened something tight in his chest. His hands had been trembling slightly all morning, a fact he had tried desperately to hide from his commanders and bannermen.
"I know," he admitted, meeting her dark eyes. In that moment, with battle looming and the weight of the North on his shoulders, Robb found himself genuinely grateful for her steady presence—even if he still didn't fully understand the woman behind those impenetrable eyes.
She stepped back to assess her work, nodding with satisfaction at his battle-ready appearance. The moment of closeness passed, but something in the air between them had shifted—not warmer, perhaps, but clearer. They were partners in this war, whatever complicated feelings lay beneath.
"The Kingslayer awaits," she said simply. "And so does victory."