The Twins rose from the banks of the Green Fork like a great stone clasp, a button fastening the two halves of the Riverlands together. The river itself churned below, broad and relentless, while the bridge that linked the castles arched across its waters like a hand pressed to a throat.
Control of the crossing meant control of all who wished to pass. That power had made the Freys rich and bold, their tolls filling coffers and their bloodline spreading like roots.
Old Walder Frey styled himself a Marquis, though no one else in the realm acknowledged the title. The name suited him, for he was neither quite lord nor king, but something in between—too powerful to ignore, too base-born in reputation to truly respect. A parvenu draped in silks, sneered at behind closed doors.
Yet even the proudest houses had to bow their heads when they came to his bridge.
---
Inside the Twins' great hall, the old man himself sat hunched upon the high seat. His body was shriveled, his back bent nearly double, but his eyes still glittered sharp and cunning beneath bushy brows. Age had not dulled him. If anything, it had made him meaner, like old leather pulled tight over bone.
Below him, his family gathered. Sons, grandsons, great-grandsons—rows upon rows, more than a small army could count. Old Walder had married eight wives, sired more than twenty children, and countless grandchildren besides. He had even taken a new bride not long ago—barely more than a girl—and rumor claimed she already swelled with child.
Whether the seed was truly his or not, no one dared question it aloud. Walder Frey believed himself fertile to the end, and his brood lived in constant fear of his displeasure.
If you shouted "Walder" in the Frey host, half the men would turn their heads. It was less a family than a swarm.
Old Walder sipped wine from a silver cup and croaked, "Where is Robb Stark's army?"
A stooped figure rose from among the sons. Stevron, the eldest, was himself more than seventy, his hair thin and white, his face lined deep. To strangers, father and son could have passed for brothers.
"They are less than thirty leagues off, Father," Stevron said, bowing his head like a beaten hound. "They will arrive soon."
Old Walder grunted. He knew well how the world mocked him as the Late Lord, the man who had delayed during Robert's Rebellion until the battle was all but done. Tywin Lannister had done the same, yet no one called him late. No, the insult had been saved for Walder Frey.
This alliance with the North was his chance to scrub the stain away.
Another Frey, sharp-eyed and eager to please, leaned forward. "Grandfather, word is that Robb Stark's bastard half-brother rides with him. They say the boy's fierce in battle."
Murmurs spread. Every scrap of gossip was currency in the Twins. To amuse Old Walder was to earn his favor, if only for a moment.
But the old man snorted. "Good at fighting? Pah. As good as Arthur Dayne? Rhaegar Targaryen was said to be the finest of knights, and where did that leave him? Dead in the Trident's waters. Fighting's no use. Breeding, that's what lasts."
The Freys chuckled dutifully. Old Walder raised his chin proudly. He had spilled his blood across half the realm, in the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the North, even the Westerlands. That, he believed, was true power—not swords, but sons.
Still, he was intrigued. The letter from Winterfell had been well-phrased, striking directly at his pride, promising not just alliance but honor. Whoever had written it was no fool. A "mastermind" lurked among the wolves. If they came into his hall, Old Walder was confident he would know them.
A servant hurried in, breathless. "My lord, Robb Stark's vanguard is five leagues out."
The old man licked his lips. "Good. Prepare to receive them."
---
Robb Stark rode at the head of his party when they reached the Twins. The towers loomed tall, their stone faces lit by dozens of torches. The bridge stretched between them, solid and impenetrable, as if the Freys themselves had clasped their hands across the river to bar the way.
At Robb's side rode Jon and Theon. Jon's eyes scanned the fortifications, noting the soldiers lining the walls, braziers blazing at intervals, spearmen standing stiff at attention. Direwolf and twin-tower banners fluttered side by side above the gate, a show of welcome carefully staged.
Jon let his gift—his so-called God's Perspective—wash over the walls. He saw the archers standing straight, bows ready. He could not pierce stone, but he knew well that hidden chambers would be crammed with more men, waiting. The Twins was no mere crossing. It was a fortress.
The gates opened, and a stout, barrel-chested knight strode forth. His beard was thick and black, his face hard as stone. A white surcoat bore the blue emblem of the Twins.
"Lord Robb Stark," the man declared, bowing low. "I am Walder Frey, great-grandson of the Marquis. You may call me Black Walder. The Marquis awaits you. Please, follow."
Jon remembered the name. Black Walder was no small man within the Frey brood. Ruthless, ambitious, quick to spill blood.
They rode into the courtyard. Though the sun had not yet set, the castle glowed with torchlight. Soldiers lined the path like statues, eyes forward, armor polished. The Freys knew how to stage a spectacle, if nothing else.
At the far end lay the Great Hall, its doors thrown wide. Inside, Old Walder sat hunched upon his throne. His lips stretched into a grin as Robb entered.
"Hah!" the old man barked. "I smelled the north wind and the direwolf from leagues away!"
His laugh rattled through the hall, cracked and wheezy yet full of mockery. His eyes darted to Robb—tall, handsome, proud. They gleamed with something like admiration… and greed.
"Robb Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North," Robb said formally, bowing. "The North greets the Marquis of the Crossing."
The Northern lords echoed the greeting.
Robb wasted little time. "Marquis, since you have agreed to ally with the North, may I ask—how many men will the Twins provide?"
Jon winced inwardly. He had warned Robb that Old Walder prized flattery above bluntness, that his pride must be stroked before business was broached. But Robb, still young, still too direct, had walked straight into the snare.
Old Walder's lips curled. He set down his cup slowly, deliberately. "Robb Stark," he said, using the name in full, his voice carrying across the hall. Every ear strained to listen.
"To be plain, I like you. You are truly Eddard's son. Why, I'd marry you to one of my granddaughters this very day if not for the war." Laughter, dry and mocking, rippled through the Freys.
"But the Freys do not come empty-handed. Two thousand men stand ready—eight hundred horse, three hundred longbowmen, the rest solid infantry. Well-armed, well-trained."
He stressed well-equipped, his voice sharp. He wanted the North to understand this was no charity, but strength worth paying for.
Jon hid a smile. The old fox had reminded Robb of his leverage, then dangled his sincerity. Those who lived long did not do so by being fools.
---
When all had taken their seats, talk turned toward battle plans. But Old Walder's gaze slid sideways, fixing suddenly on Jon.
"You there," he croaked, pointing a bony finger. "You're Eddard Stark's bastard, aren't you?"
Jon rose smoothly, bowing his head. He expected mockery, perhaps dismissal. Bastards were easy targets. If the old man wished to score a point against Robb, humiliating Jon was an obvious choice.
But instead, Old Walder leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Tell me, boy. You've been at the Wall, no? Cold nights, no women. You must be itching. What sort do you fancy? I'll find you a girl from my brood."
The hall erupted in whispers. Lords shifted, smirks spreading. A bastard offered a Frey bride? Absurd. Yet to some, enviable.
Jon's ears burned, but his face remained calm.
Robb's voice cut in, sharp. "Marquis, Jon left the Wall to rescue our father. He has not sworn his vows. He is no deserter."
Jon glanced at him, gratitude hidden beneath his steady mask.
But all eyes were still on him. Pressure pressed from every side—the Freys expecting, the Northerners watching. Refusal would offend, acceptance would bind.
Jon drew a slow breath. "Marquis," he said clearly, "a marriage between your noble house and Lord Stark's trueborn son would be a bond of honor. To add me—a bastard—would be like striking a sour note in a fine song. I believe the sword in my hand is of more use than a bride at my side. But if ever the Twins have need of me, you have my word I will serve."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Some lords frowned, others nodded. Jon had refused, yet not insulted. He had turned aside the trap without snapping it shut.
Old Walder stared at him, lips pursed. Then he snorted, a sound sharp as a whip crack. "Hmph. Sly boy."
The hall fell silent at once.
Jon held his bow, his heart steady. The game was only beginning.
--Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)