# *That evening, beside the Kingsroad*
The Northern host had pitched their camp upon a broad meadow beside the kingsroad, where the land sloped gently down to the river's edge. From a distance it looked like a city sprung up overnight, a sprawl of canvas and cookfires laid out in orderly rows that stretched nearly to the treeline. The smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke clung to the cool evening air, mingling with the murmur of men's voices as they shared bread, dice, and stories of home. Steel glinted where patrols moved between the tents, watchful even in comfort, their boots squelching softly in the damp earth.
At the heart of the camp, Lord Stark's command tent had been stretched wide and high to accommodate what had become a custom—the evening council that was less council of war than council of family. The great tent's canvas walls billowed slightly in the evening breeze, and golden light spilled from beneath its edges like honey poured across the grass. Stark bannermen might have found it curious that babes still in swaddling, and children hardly old enough to master their letters, were included in such gatherings. Yet those within the tent knew better. The children's questions had a way of cutting closer to truth than many a maester's treatise or lord's speech.
Inside, torches burned in iron sconces, their smoke drawn out through the vent above where it disappeared into the darkening sky. The adults had taken chairs or supply chests arranged in a loose circle, while the children sprawled on the carpets like young lords already certain of their authority. Wooden blocks and carved animals were scattered about near a low table laden with wine cups and the remains of honey cakes, but the toys lay mostly ignored—discussion held more fascination than play this evening.
"The Twins tomorrow," Ser Brynden Tully said, his gravel voice carrying the weary humor of a man who had wrestled with Freys half his life. He cradled a cup of mulled wine between scarred hands, the steam curling about his craggy face. The Blackfish's weathered features bore the map of countless campaigns, and his grey eyes held the sharp intelligence that had made him the most feared cavalry commander in the Riverlands. "Lord Walder sends his compliments and assurances of fair treatment for all who travel under Tully protection."
Arthur Dayne gave a short huff of laughter, pale eyes narrowing in skepticism as he leaned back in his chair with the fluid grace of a born swordsman. "Fair treatment meaning twice the proper toll instead of five times?" His voice was smooth, deep as a warhorn, carrying the weight of a man used to command. Even seated, he seemed to tower over the others, his silver-gold hair catching the torchlight like spun moonbeams. The Sword of the Morning had traded his white cloak for grey wool and leather, but nothing could diminish the aura of deadly competence that clung to him like morning mist.
Brynden's mouth tugged into something between a smirk and a grimace, the expression deepening the lines around his eyes. "Fair treatment meaning the Lord of the Crossing will not press his luck while surrounded by enough steel to make him reconsider his appetites. Old Walder loves his gold, but he loves his skin more." He took a long draught of wine and grimaced. "Though knowing that weasel, he'll find some way to make us pay for the privilege of his restraint."
Elia Martell sipped delicately at her wine, her beauty cast in soft firelight, her dark eyes thoughtful as she cradled baby Aegon against her shoulder. Even in travel clothes of practical wool and linen, she carried herself with the unconscious grace of royal bearing, her movements economical and elegant. *Diplomacy backed by sharpened steel,* she mused silently. *More honest than half the courtiers of King's Landing ever were.* Aloud, she said, "Lord Frey has always been... practical in his loyalties. Perhaps he will see the wisdom in not antagonizing those who might remember his courtesy—or discourtesy—when times change again."
Catelyn leaned forward in her chair, her copper hair catching the lamplight like burnished bronze, practical as ever in her manner. Her green eyes held the sharp focus of a woman accustomed to managing both castle and crisis. "And what courtesies do we owe for smooth passage? I'd know the proper forms before we reach the gates. My uncle is well used to sparring with Freys, but I would not see us give offense by accident." She smoothed her skirts with one hand, a gesture that spoke of years spent in the delicate dance of lordly politics.
Brynden waved a hand dismissively, as though swatting a particularly persistent gnat. "Standard courtesies, Cat. Bow to his station—not too deep, mind you, the old goat will read meaning into the angle of your spine. Pay his toll without complaint but don't seem eager about it. Endure his prattle about the glory of House Frey and how underappreciated he is by the great lords. Pretend his brood are more charming than they are, though gods know that'll be a test of acting." He chuckled darkly. "He values acknowledgment of his importance almost as much as he values coin. Almost."
From the carpet, Rhaenys lifted her head, her hair spilling in dark waves about her shoulders like a midnight waterfall. She had been busy arranging blocks into something that looked suspiciously like a bridge, complete with towers on either end, while Cregan Stark lent his solid hands to the construction with the methodical precision of a master builder. Despite her eight years, there was something in her dark eyes that spoke of depths beyond her age—a quick intelligence that missed little and forgot less. "And what happens if we don't pay the toll? Can't we just... go around?" She asked the question with the sort of innocent directness that cut straight to the heart of complex matters.
Arthur turned to her with the same solemnity he might have offered a lord of fifty years, his pale eyes serious as he considered her question. "There are other crossings, princess, but none so quick or so safe. Upstream are fords that would cost us days and food besides, through country less secure where bandits might take notice of so large a party. Downstream lie ferries, small and slow, unable to carry so many as we bring with all our wagons and horses. The Twins are the swiftest way north, and in winter's approach, swift passage is worth its weight in gold."
"So it's a convenience fee," Rhaenys said matter-of-factly, as though explaining something obvious to her elders, her slender fingers adjusting a block with architectural precision. "You pay for the safest bridge because the alternatives cost more in time, risk, or resources. Reasonable, if the service is good and the price fair. Basic market economics."
The tent fell silent for a moment at the casual way she'd summarized what most lords would have taken half an hour to explain. Catelyn's mouth curved despite herself, a mixture of amusement and wonder crossing her features. "Just so, sweetling. Lord Frey maintains his bridge, guards the crossing, offers shelter when needed. The toll works because both sides gain something of value from the exchange."
Cregan gave a solemn nod, stacking another block with the same deliberate care a mason might use placing stones in a cathedral wall. His deep voice, incongruous in one so young, was careful and measured, too thoughtful for his tender years. "Fair trade makes strength. He gets coin to keep his bridge and towers strong, travelers get safety and speed. Everyone wins." He paused, considering his words with the gravity of a judge delivering sentence. "But only if it stays fair. If the price becomes too high, or the service too poor, people find other ways. Then his bridge becomes worthless."
Ned Stark studied the boy with quiet intensity, his grey eyes reflecting the steady burn of the torches. *Eighteen months old, yet he speaks like a man of twenty.* The thought carried both wonder and unease. *Either the gods have marked him with some gift beyond understanding... or the old wolf's blood runs truer in this one than I ever guessed.* He kept his expression neutral, but his weathered hands tightened slightly on his cup.
Ashara Dayne, languid in her seat but watchful beneath half-lowered lashes, let a wry smile tug at her full lips. Her violet eyes—startling and beautiful as amethysts in starlight—moved between the children with undisguised fascination. "The gold will be simple enough to part with," she said, her voice carrying the musical lilt of Dornish accent beneath careful cultivation. "It is the eyes we must weather. Lord Frey will want to see who travels under our banners, and his curiosity will be sharp as any blade. His questions may prove thornier than his tolls."
"What sort of questions?" Elia's voice carried the calm of a mother masking unease, though her hand tightened protectively about baby Aegon's swaddled form. Her dark eyes moved to each face in turn, reading expressions like a book written in familiar script.
"The obvious," Jaime Lannister drawled from his sprawl in a camp chair, his golden hair gleaming in the torchlight like burnished metal, his voice edged with the wry candor that had made him both famous and infamous throughout the realm. His green eyes held their usual mixture of amusement and calculation as he gestured with his wine cup. "A Martell princess and her dragon whelps under Northern guard, traveling in comfort rather than chains. The Sword of the Morning not in a dungeon but riding as protector and teacher. A lion of Lannister keeping company with men my father would see flayed if he had his way, instead of bringing their heads back to Casterly Rock in a sack." He took a long drink and grinned with dangerous charm. "Any lord with eyes and half a wit will wonder what in seven hells we are about."
"Then we give them the truth," Ned said, his voice quiet but iron-strong, carrying the authority that had made him respected from the Wall to Dorne. His weathered hands were steady on his cup, and his grey eyes held the unwavering certainty of a man who had built his life on bedrock principles. "Princess Elia and her children are wards of the North, under crown protection while the realm decides their future. Ser Arthur serves by royal appointment as master-at-arms at Winterfell. Ser Jaime is sworn guardian to the wards. All plain, all lawful, all documented with proper writs and seals."
"True enough," Arthur agreed with a faint nod, his pale eyes thoughtful. "And none can call it treason without calling the Crown itself into question. More importantly, all can be proven if need arises. Documentation has a way of silencing doubters."
"Still sounds dull as dirt when you put it that way," Rhaenys interjected with a little sigh, flopping back onto the carpet with dramatic flair that would have done credit to a Myrish player. "If Lord Frey asks me directly, I'm going to tell him the truth-truth—that he charges entirely too much for what is essentially a fancy bridge, and it had better not wobble when we cross it or I'll write a very stern letter to the Crown about shoddy infrastructure maintenance."
Laughter rippled through the tent like a stone thrown into still water, even drawing a rusty chuckle from grim Brynden. Ashara's laugh was particularly musical, her violet eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Gods help us when she's grown," Ashara murmured, though the gleam in her eye was pride as much as mischief. "She'll negotiate trade agreements that leave seasoned merchants weeping into their ledgers."
"Or start wars with her correspondence," Jaime added cheerfully. "I can see it now—the great Bridge War of Princess Rhaenys, fought over toll prices and structural integrity."
Cregan, with all the seriousness of a master builder examining blueprints, rumbled his agreement while adjusting their block bridge. "If it wobbles, we should build a better one. With proper foundations and engineering principles. Stone, not wood. Made to last centuries, not decades."
The casual way he discussed massive construction projects as though they were as simple as stacking toys drew another wave of amused glances among the adults.
Elia glanced down at her children—Rhaenys sprawled dramatically on the carpet but still managing to look regal, Aegon gurgling contentedly in her arms, and Cregan methodically perfecting his architectural creation—and felt something warm and sharp lodge in her chest. *Seven save us all,* she thought with a mixture of pride and trepidation, *for these babes will shame kings and queens before they're grown, and they'll do it with such confidence that everyone will think it perfectly natural.*
Catelyn Stark's auburn head bent toward the others, her voice carrying the careful concern of a mother and chatelaine. "What of the children's... insights? They speak too plainly at times, with knowledge that seems beyond their years. Should we be concerned they'll share understanding where they ought not, or ask questions that reveal more than we'd prefer?"
Before any of the adults might venture an answer, Rhaenys looked up from the carpet, her dark eyes flashing with something that might have been indignation mixed with patience for the slow-witted. Her manner was suddenly poised and imperious despite her youth, though she continued to toy absently with a carved rook between her slender fingers. "We've discussed this already, Lady Catelyn," she said, her tone carrying the assured authority of one who assumed her place in the council by right rather than indulgence. "Small improvements, introduced gradually as family habits or household traditions we've learned from books or wise teachers. That way no one can accuse us of conjuring miracles from thin air or claim we possess forbidden knowledge."
She sat up straighter, unconsciously mimicking her mother's regal bearing. "It's no different than claiming to have listened carefully when grown folk talked about practical matters, or having read extensively in the Winterfell library. Children who pay attention learn things. It's perfectly normal, even if the results are... comprehensive."
Cregan, slow and steady as always, didn't look up from the defensive wall he was constructing from blocks with mathematical precision, but his voice came grave and measured, like a seasoned commander weighing strategy. "Food systems first. Clean water supply. Basic health practices. These things show results quickly and obviously. No talk of anything that cannot be demonstrated step by step, with clear cause and effect." He placed another block with deliberate care. "Let them see improvements. Trust grows with visible results. Theory without proof is just noise."
The adults exchanged glances heavy with meaning. The children's casual discussion of information management and strategic implementation was becoming a familiar wonder, but no less remarkable for its frequency.
Ashara Dayne's eyes—violet and sharp as starfire—lingered on the pair with undisguised fascination. *Gods and demons, they've thought it through like generals planning a campaign,* she realized with something approaching awe. *Complete with contingencies and long-term strategy.* Aloud, she only said, "Practical. Subtle. Effective. Even a maester trained in the Citadel would struggle to argue against so sensible an approach. You make it sound almost... routine."
Arthur Dayne leaned forward, his long frame folding with predatory grace as he rested his arms on his knees. His pale hair caught the lantern-light like silver drawn thin, and his voice carried the weight of hard-won battlefield wisdom. "Gradual change is the strongest change," he said with quiet conviction. "Too much transformation at once, and men fear it, resist it, sometimes destroy it out of sheer terror of the unknown. Introduce improvements slowly and logically, and they'll not only accept them—they'll claim they thought of the ideas themselves."
"The art of making others feel clever," Jaime observed with his crooked grin, raising his cup in a mock toast. "Essential for dealing with lordlings who mistake birth for brains. Though I must say, watching you two work will be better entertainment than any mummer's show."
Ser Brynden chuckled into his cup, shaking his shaggy grey head with the bemused expression of a man who'd seen much in his long years but never quite this. "A fine stratagem, I'll grant you that. Still..." He squinted at the children with one weathered eye, his voice carrying genuine puzzlement beneath the humor. "I find myself wondering where a girl of eight summers and a boy who scarce fills his boots properly learned to speak of resource management and gradual integration like they were discussing the weather. Castle-raised brats are usually lucky to master their letters and basic courtesy, let alone... whatever scholarly magic this represents."
The Blackfish's words hung in the tent like morning mist, and for a heartbeat only the distant music from the campfires filled the silence. The torches flickered slightly in a stray breeze, sending shadows dancing across the canvas walls.
Elia Martell sat perfectly poised, every line of her bearing regal despite her practical traveling gown of deep blue wool. She inclined her head with the grace of a woman born to courts and diplomacy, her dark braid sliding over her shoulder like silk. "Remarkable children will discover remarkable ideas," she said smoothly, her voice as warm and carefully modulated as silk laid over steel. "Especially when they are raised in households where their words are heard with respect, their questions answered with honesty, and their curiosity encouraged rather than dismissed."
"And when their mothers and aunts place good books in their hands from an early age," Ashara added quickly, with a flicker of protectiveness beneath her wit. Her violet eyes sparkled with mischief as she continued, "Amazing what children absorb when you give them histories and treatises instead of just songs and stories. Though I admit, some of their favorite reading material would surprise most people."
"Books, is it?" Jaime said, leaning back in his chair with theatrical skepticism, his smile crooked as ever and twice as dangerous. "I've read books, you know. Whole stacks of them. Chronicles of battles, treatises on swordwork, even some of those dusty tomes maesters love so dearly. Never once made me contemplate sanitation systems or crop rotation yields. I'm beginning to suspect these two are secret septons in disguise, plotting to improve the realm one sensible suggestion at a time."
Rhaenys rolled her eyes with the long-suffering patience of youth dealing with particularly slow adults. "Secret septons don't know half as much as we do about practical matters," she said airily, her tone suggesting this should be obvious to anyone with sense. "Besides, Ser Jaime, you never really read properly. You just look at the pages until the words give up trying to teach you anything and walk away in despair."
Jaime barked a laugh, genuinely delighted rather than offended. "Guilty as charged, little princess. Words have always been slippery creatures where I'm concerned. Much prefer the honest language of steel on steel."
"That's because you approach reading like combat," Rhaenys observed with clinical precision. "All force and no finesse. Books require patience, not aggression. You have to let the knowledge come to you, not try to beat it into submission."
"Seven hells," Brynden muttered into his wine, his chuckle deepening to a full-throated laugh. "She's got your measure there, Ser Jaime. Been wondering for years why such a fine warrior seemed allergic to proper learning."
Cregan, with all the seriousness of a knight delivering judgment in a matter of life and death, added his contribution without looking up from his architectural project: "Sanitation is critically important for any large group. Armies die of disease and poor conditions faster than they die of enemy steel. A general who cannot see that basic truth is a fool who will lose more men to his own ignorance than any enemy action could claim."
That observation won more appreciative laughter from the circle, though Arthur inclined his head gravely toward the boy as if he'd spoken nothing but absolute strategic wisdom—which, in truth, he had.
"Well then," Brynden said when the mirth subsided, raising his cup in a genuine toast, "whatever strange alchemy gave us these young sages, I'll take it gladly. Better to have children with uncommon sense than lords with common foolishness. Seven save us all from fools in high places who think birth trumps brains."
"Hear, hear," Arthur agreed solemnly, his pale eyes reflecting the steady light of the torches. "I've seen battlefields shaped and lost by rash men twice my age with half their wisdom. If these two keep their heads and continue thinking clearly, they'll outshine most of the great lords I've had the misfortune to advise."
Ned Stark, quiet as ever in his contemplation, watched the exchange with eyes as grey as the dusk settling over the camp outside. *Children they may be in years,* he thought with a mixture of wonder and growing certainty, *yet gods help me, they see the world and its workings too clearly for comfort. What manner of adults will they become if they continue on this path?*
The conversation continued to flow like a river around familiar stones, touching upon river crossings, lodging arrangements, and the sharp-eyed curiosity they could expect from Lord Frey and his numerous offspring. Catelyn proved particularly knowledgeable about the protocol expected at the Twins, having dealt with Frey representatives during her years as Lady of Winterfell.
"The key," she explained, smoothing her skirts with practiced ease, "is to remember that Lord Walder sees slights where none are intended and courtesy where none is meant. Every gesture will be analyzed, every word weighed. He's spent decades nursing grievances against houses that barely remember his existence."
"Exhausting way to live," Elia murmured, shifting Aegon to her other arm as the baby made small, contented sounds. "To spend so much energy cataloguing every perceived insult rather than building something worthwhile."
"But profitable," Ashara pointed out with cynical wisdom. "His bridge has made House Frey rich beyond most lords' dreams, and his wounded pride ensures he squeezes every copper from those who must cross. A man who feels perpetually undervalued tends to overvalue his services."
"Speaking of services," Rhaenys interjected, looking up from her increasingly elaborate bridge construction, "exactly how many Freys are there now? I've heard the numbers vary wildly depending on who's counting."
Brynden snorted. "Too damned many to keep track of. Old Walder's been busy as a rabbit for nigh on sixty years. Sons, daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, bastards acknowledged and otherwise... Last I heard it was approaching three dozen, but that was before his latest wife whelped again."
"Three dozen?" Cregan looked up from his blocks with something approaching architectural interest. "That's more children than most keeps have rooms. Where does he house them all?"
"The Twins are larger than they appear from outside," Catelyn explained. "The eastern tower houses the family proper, while the western tower accommodates guests and overflow. Still, I imagine mealtimes are... crowded affairs."
"And loud," Jaime added with feeling. "I had the misfortune to attend a Frey wedding once. The noise was incredible—like being trapped in a dovecote during a thunderstorm, if the doves could complain about their inheritance prospects."
"Ser Jaime," Rhaenys said with exaggerated patience, "that's not very diplomatic."
"Diplomacy is overrated," he replied cheerfully. "Honesty is much more entertaining, if considerably more dangerous."
"Dangerous is right," Arthur said dryly. "Especially when dealing with a lord who remembers every slight, real or imagined, for decades. We'll need to walk carefully tomorrow."
The fire in the brazier had sunk lower as they talked, casting longer shadows that danced across the tent walls like living things. Outside, the sounds of the camp were settling into the rhythms of evening—distant laughter, the soft nickering of horses, the measured tread of sentries making their rounds.
"What time do we break camp?" Ned asked, ever practical in his planning.
"Dawn," Arthur replied. "We should reach the Twins by midday if the roads stay decent. Early arrival shows proper respect without suggesting we're overeager."
"And gives us the full afternoon to conclude our business and be on our way," Catelyn added approvingly. "No need to linger longer than courtesy demands."
"Assuming Lord Walder doesn't decide to extend his hospitality," Ashara murmured with a wicked smile. "He's been known to keep interesting guests longer than they planned to stay."
"He wouldn't dare," Elia said quietly, but her voice carried steel beneath the silk. "Not with this company, and not with the protection we travel under."
"Still," Ned said thoughtfully, "we should be prepared for... complications. Lord Frey is not known for making anything simple when complexity might serve his purposes better."
Rhaenys, who had been listening with the focused attention of a scholar, suddenly brightened. "Oh! I nearly forgot. I've been working on something that might be useful." She reached into a small satchel beside her and withdrew a folded piece of parchment covered in neat lines and careful lettering.
"What's this then?" Brynden asked, accepting the paper with curious eyes.
"A gift list," Rhaenys announced proudly. "Small tokens of respect for Lord Frey and his family. Nothing expensive or elaborate—we don't want to seem like we're trying too hard—but thoughtful enough to show proper courtesy. Books for the scholarly ones, practical items for those who might appreciate utility, and a few things that acknowledge their interests without being presumptuous."
The adults passed the list around, their expressions growing increasingly impressed as they read.
"This is... remarkably thorough," Catelyn said, studying the careful notations. "You've listed names, ages, known interests, and appropriate gifts for nearly two dozen people. How did you compile this?"
"Research," Rhaenys replied matter-of-factly. "I asked questions, listened to stories, consulted the records we brought from Winterfell. It wasn't difficult once I started paying attention to the details everyone mentions but doesn't think are important."
"The cost analysis is particularly impressive," Elia noted, reading over Catelyn's shoulder. "You've calculated the total expense and even suggested alternatives if certain items aren't available."
"Efficiency is important," Cregan rumbled approvingly, finally looking up from his blocks. "Waste is the enemy of good planning. Every resource should serve multiple purposes when possible."
Jaime shook his head in amazement. "I take it back about the secret septons. You're clearly spies. Very small, very clever spies who've infiltrated our party to make the rest of us look like stumbling fools."
"If we were spies," Rhaenys pointed out with impeccable logic, "would we really be so obvious about our competence? Good spies blend in. We're far too noticeable."
"She has a point," Arthur acknowledged with a slight smile. "Subtlety was never their strongest trait."
The conversation continued to meander through practical concerns and gentle teasing as the evening wore on. Baby Aegon dozed fitfully in his mother's arms, occasionally making small sounds that drew fond smiles from everyone present. The torches burned lower, and outside the tent the camp settled into the quiet rhythms of night.
When at last the talk began to wind down naturally, Catelyn glanced toward her husband with the comfortable understanding of long marriage. Ned was listening with his characteristic gravity as Rhaenys outlined her thoughts on "optimal resource allocation for traveling parties" while Cregan provided solemn commentary on the structural requirements of temporary bridges.
*Tomorrow, the Twins,* she thought, watching the interplay of personalities around the circle. *And Lord Frey's calculating gaze upon us all. Let him sneer if he wishes. Let him question and probe and scheme. We will show him a household bound in truth and mutual respect, if not in conventional expectations.*
She watched with quiet amusement as Rhaenys, in a moment of eight-year-old impatience, reached over to smack Cregan's hand for misplacing a block in their architectural project. The boy—stoic as ancient stone—simply examined the correction with serious consideration, nodded once in acknowledgment of her superior aesthetic judgment, and rebuilt the section without the slightest sign of offense.
*Yes,* Catelyn thought with growing certainty, *let Lord Frey try to understand what he sees in us tomorrow. It should prove most entertaining indeed.*
As if summoned by her thoughts, a gust of wind rattled the tent ropes and sent the torches flickering, casting wild shadows across the walls before settling back to their steady burn. Outside, a night bird called once, sharp and clear, before silence reclaimed the darkness.
The evening council by the Kingsroad was drawing to its natural close, but the bonds forged in firelight and honest conversation would endure far longer than the night itself.
—
# The Twins, Western Tower
*That same evening*
The dying light of dusk painted the twin towers of House Frey in shades of copper and shadow, the great stone bridge between them spanning the Green Fork like some ancient giant's stride frozen in time. From the highest window of the western tower, the Crossing appeared deceptively peaceful—merchant barges clustered against the stone piers below, cookfires flickering to life in the bustling river town that had grown fat on generations of toll-taking, the ancient stones themselves glowing amber in the last rays of sun.
But peace at the Twins was always temporary, fragile as morning mist and twice as likely to burn away at the first touch of ambition or spite.
Lord Walder Frey sat hunched in his great chair like some malevolent toad, his age-spotted hands folded over the carved arms with the calculated patience of a spider that had been spinning webs for nearly nine decades. His rheumy eyes held the sharp cunning that had made House Frey rich beyond most lords' dreams, though they had never quite managed to buy him the respect he craved above all other treasures.
The years had not been kind to the Late Lord Frey—his back was bent, his voice had grown thin and querulous, and his legendary temper had sharpened to a blade that cut everyone within reach. Yet his mind remained as calculating as ever, perhaps more so now that time itself had become his enemy.
"My lord father," came the measured voice of Ser Walder Rivers, called Black Walder for both his dark hair and darker disposition. He entered the solar with the fluid stride of a man who had learned early that survival in this house depended on reading moods as accurately as weather signs. His bastard birth had taught him caution, but his competence had earned him a place as his father's most trusted scout and spy. "The riders have returned from the Kingsroad. The Northern host approaches as our ravens indicated, but..." He paused, weighing his words like a merchant counting coppers. "The composition is... unexpected."
Lord Walder's rheumy eyes sharpened with interest, though his voice remained the familiar wheeze of extreme age mixed with eternal dissatisfaction. "Unexpected how, boy? Either they march with strength enough to matter or they don't. Either they carry coin enough to pay proper tolls or they think their precious wolf banner makes them exempt from honest commerce."
Black Walder moved closer to his father's chair, his voice dropping to the confidential tone reserved for intelligence that might prove valuable—or dangerous. "They march with strength, certainly. Perhaps two thousand men, well-armed and disciplined, moving in formation that speaks of recent battle experience. But more interesting than their numbers is their composition, father. This is no simple homecoming of Northern lords eager for their own hearths."
The old lord leaned forward with the predatory interest of a carrion bird spotting fresh meat, his clawed fingers drumming against the chair arms with impatient rhythm. "Stop dancing around the point like some Dornish whore and speak plainly. What makes this host so fascinating that you think it worth my attention?"
"Princess Elia Martell," Black Walder said simply, watching his father's face carefully for reaction. "And her children. Traveling under Northern protection in considerable comfort, with the Sword of the Morning himself riding as their guardian. The Kingslayer accompanies them as well, though he wears no gold cloak now—he's sworn himself to their service instead."
For a moment, the only sound in the solar was the whisper of wind through the high windows and the distant murmur of the river far below. Lord Walder's expression had gone perfectly still, though his eyes glittered with the kind of sharp calculation that had made him simultaneously wealthy and despised.
"Targaryen whelps," he said at last, his voice carrying the particular satisfaction of a man who had just discovered an unexpected source of leverage. "Under Stark protection, you say? That's... interesting. Raises all manner of questions about loyalties and arrangements that our new king might find... illuminating."
Black Walder nodded grimly. "The official story, according to our sources, is that they're wards of the Crown, placed under Northern guardianship for their protection and education. All very proper and documented, with royal writs and official appointments. But the reality..." He shrugged eloquently. "Reality rarely matches the pretty stories lords tell each other."
"Reality," Lord Walder wheezed with something approaching glee, "is that Robert Baratheon wants every Targaryen dead or disappeared, and here come the Starks parading the dragon prince's family through the realm like honored guests. Either they're fools who don't understand the game they're playing, or they're traitors who understand it all too well."
The old lord struggled to his feet with considerable effort, his bent frame supported by a walking stick carved with the twin towers of his house. Despite his age and infirmity, his mind clearly raced ahead to possibilities and profits with the speed that had built his fortune.
"Summon my sons," he commanded, his voice gaining strength from excitement and calculation. "All of them who matter—Stevron, Ryman, Lothar. And send word to the kitchens. We'll be hosting a feast tomorrow, a proper celebration of Northern hospitality." His smile was sharp as a blade and twice as unpleasant. "After all, it would be... discourteous... not to welcome such distinguished guests with all the ceremony they deserve."
Black Walder's own smile was no warmer than his father's. "And if Lord Stark proves... unreceptive... to discussing the interesting composition of his traveling party?"
"Then we ensure the information reaches more appreciative ears," Lord Walder replied with the casual tone of a man discussing the weather rather than potential treason. "King Robert has been known to reward loyal subjects who bring him useful intelligence about threats to his reign. Even when those threats wear friendly faces and carry proper documentation."
The dying light outside the windows had faded to deep purple, and the first stars were beginning to appear above the ancient bridge that had made House Frey's fortune. Tomorrow would bring the Northern host to their gates, and with them opportunities for profit that might finally buy the Late Lord Frey the recognition he had craved for nine long decades.
Whether those opportunities came through cooperation or betrayal mattered little to a man who had learned long ago that survival and success were more valuable than honor or loyalty.
The game was about to begin anew, and Lord Walder Frey intended to win it—whatever the cost to lords who thought themselves above the humble business of toll-taking.
---
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