The Twins, straddling the Green Fork, sat on the river like a giant button.
House Frey had gotten rich fast thanks to that crossing, becoming a well-known—if not especially respected—power in a short time.
To show off, old Walder even styled himself a "marquess."
No one really cared. A nouveau riche lord was still a nouveau riche lord, and putting on airs mostly just made people laugh.
Inside the Twins' great hall, a hunched old man sat high on the lord's seat, positioned so he could look down on everyone.
Unlike most houses, the Freys were almost absurdly numerous.
Old Walder had taken eight wives. He had more than twenty children.
And despite being nearly ninety, he'd recently married yet another wife—who was rumored to be pregnant.
Whether it was truly his child… well, nobody could say. Either someone else fired the shot, or the old man was just built different.
With Walder as the example, the number of his grandsons was beyond counting.
In the Frey host, if you shouted "Walder," half the men would turn around.
Old Walder looked down at the sea of sons and grandsons and asked, "Where is Stark's army?"
A similarly aged noble rose to answer. "Father, they're less than thirty li away. They'll arrive soon."
It was his son, Stevron.
Standing together, they looked less like father and son and more like brothers—one was seventy-one, the other ninety, and in an era where many men died around thirty, that gap didn't feel as huge as it should have.
Still, you could see the difference in how Stevron carried himself: in front of Walder, even his sparse eyebrows drooped, like the tail of a well-trained dog.
Then a sharp-looking young noble spoke up.
"Grandfather, I heard Robb's bastard brother came back from the Wall—and he's a monster in a fight."
Old Walder was skilled at one thing above all: managing an enormous family while keeping them all desperate to please him.
If they had something useful to report, they reported it. If they didn't, they entertained him with gossip.
Jon was today's entertainment.
Walder took a sip of wine and snorted. "A monster? How much of a monster? Is he Arthur Dayne?"
"Rhaegar was a 'monster' too, so people said. And how'd that end?" He waved a hand dismissively. "It's all talk."
In Walder's eyes, Jon's reputation was probably inflated.
And Walder didn't care much about "can fight" anyway. His life experience told him that surviving—and breeding—mattered more.
Just look at him: he had blood in the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, even the North.
Still, Walder carried an old resentment.
During Robert's Rebellion, he'd arrived late and people had called him "the Late Lord Frey."
But Tywin Lannister had also waited until the outcome was clear at the Trident before committing—and nobody dared call him "the Late Lord of Casterly Rock."
Part of why Walder agreed to ally with the North wasn't just profit. It was vindication.
And when he read the Northern letter and saw the way it framed things, Walder became convinced there was a "clever mind" in Winterfell.
He wasn't interested in how hard Jon hit.
He was interested in the person who'd known exactly what words would hook him.
He trusted his own eye. If that person appeared, Walder believed he'd spot them.
A messenger hurried into the hall.
"My lord—Robb Stark's vanguard has reached a point five li outside the castle."
"Good," Walder said. "Then let's meet him."
......
Robb rode ahead with his guard and a selection of Northern nobles. Jon and Theon stayed close at his side.
From a distance, Jon saw the bridge spanning the wide Green Fork like a blade laid across running water.
On both banks stood two matching castles.
The Twins, true to the name.
Fortunately, this world didn't have airplanes—otherwise the layout would look even more ridiculous.
By the time they arrived, Walder had already sent a welcoming party.
At its head rode a short, thick-built man with a fierce black beard, giving off the impression of a walking shield.
He wore white over his armor, marked with the Twins' blue tower-and-bridge emblem.
He reined in before Robb, bowed, and said, "Lord Robb, my name is Walder Frey. I'm the marquess's great-grandson."
"You can call me Black Walder. The marquess is waiting for you. This way."
Jon recognized the name immediately.
This man would lead part of the Frey force later.
They rode up to the castle walls.
It still wasn't dark, yet the Twins already blazed with torchlight. Soldiers lined the road in rigid ranks, and between every two stood a brazier throwing orange light into the cold air.
Whatever else could be said about the Freys, they'd put effort into the welcome.
The men stood tall. They at least looked like soldiers.
Jon looked up at the battlements and saw direwolf banners interspersed with Frey banners.
Walder was making a show of partnership.
Jon activated Gods'-Eye View, taking in the defenders along a long stretch of wall.
Archers and spearmen stood straight and ready.
Unfortunately, Gods'-Eye View couldn't see through stone like some kind of magical scan. Jon had no doubt there were hidden chambers inside the walls—places to stash men and weapons.
They entered a castle that looked freshly scrubbed, crossed clean flagstones, and arrived at the great hall.
Old Walder sat high at the far end, visible the moment they stepped through the doors.
Before anyone could speak, Walder threw his head back and laughed.
"Hah! I could smell the north wind and direwolves from miles away!"
He stared down at Robb—tall, handsome, standing like a young lord should. Walder's body was hunched and thin, but his eyes were bright and hungry.
There was appreciation in that look.
And greed.
"Robb Stark," Robb said, bowing, "son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, greets the marquess of the Crossing."
Those behind him bowed as well.
After the greetings, Robb got straight to business.
"Since you've agreed to ally with the North, how many troops will the Twins provide?"
Walder's expression soured. He'd lifted his cup—and now he set it back down.
Jon had warned Robb: this old man lived for flattery. Handle him gently.
Robb… clearly hadn't absorbed that lesson.
"Robb Stark," Walder said, using the full name like a hook. The hall went quiet to listen.
"Truth be told, I like you," Walder said. "You're Eddard's son, all right. I'd marry you into my family this minute if I could—put you in a bed with one of my granddaughters tonight."
"But war waits. House Frey's two thousand men are already gathered."
"Eight hundred horse. Three hundred longbowmen. One thousand foot."
"And they're well-equipped."
He emphasized that last part on purpose.
Jon found it almost entertaining.
Walder reminded Robb of the promise first, then displayed his "good faith" immediately afterward.
Men who lived that long weren't stupid.
If not for Arya in the original timeline, House Frey might've ended up ruling the Riverlands in all but name.
Two thousand men really was significant—top three among Northern bannermen, easily.
And by Robb's own later judgment, Frey troops weren't weak either.
After the initial exchange, everyone took seats.
Next would come the discussion of marching plans and targets.
Then old Walder surprised them again.
He pointed right at Jon.
"You. You're Eddard's bastard, aren't you?"
Jon blinked, wondering why an old viper like Walder Frey would care about a bastard at all.
Still, the rank difference was real, so Jon stood, stepped forward, and bowed.
If Walder wanted to embarrass Robb by telling Jon to get out, fine—Jon could walk out cleanly, then settle scores later.
But Walder didn't try to humiliate him.
Instead, he asked something that made the room stare.
"You ran from the Wall because you wanted a woman, didn't you?" Walder said bluntly. "Go on—tell me what kind you like. I can pick one out for you right here."
In an instant, Jon became the center of the hall.
Everyone had the same thought: this old bastard really will say anything.
Jon was a bastard.
No matter how desperate House Frey was, offering a Frey girl to a bastard like this was still… shameless.
Murmurs spread behind Jon.
"He'll take it. A bastard marrying a Frey is already a stroke of luck."
"Exactly. What more could he want?"
Robb spoke up, trying to smooth it over.
"My lord, Jon left the Wall to help save our father. And he never formally swore the Night's Watch vows, so he isn't a deserter."
All right, Jon thought. At least you didn't leave me hanging.
But Jon still refused politely.
"My lord marquess, I'm only a bastard. I don't consider myself worthy of a Frey daughter."
Walder snorted. "Clever little bastard."
The hall fell so quiet you could hear someone's sword bump against a table leg.
"You will choose one," Walder said. "Or House Frey withdraws from the alliance."
Jon's thoughts raced.
Why am I the one he's doing this to? I'm a bastard. I'm nobody.
A paranoid thought flashed across Jon's mind: does Walder somehow know who I really am?
He forced himself to stay calm and read the man.
First, Walder might be using Jon to pressure Robb—punishing him for the lack of flattery, making a point.
Second, Walder was greedy in a way that never stopped. The kind of greedy that later made the Red Wedding possible.
If Walder wanted something, he wanted it in his mouth, not on paper.
Jon cleared his throat and chose his words carefully.
"My lord marquess—your marriage pact with Lord Eddard's trueborn heir is noble and proper."
"But adding me—a bastard—would be like hanging a cowbell on the last note of a song."
"It ruins the harmony."
He rested his hand lightly near his weapon, then continued, voice steady.
"I'm more useful as a blade than as a bridegroom."
"So how about this: if the Twins ever has need of me, I will serve you."