The Twins did not smell of damp stone or river water as the bards claimed. They smelled of mold, unwashed bodies, and the lingering resentment of a thousand slights.
Rykker Rivers sat perched on a wooden beam in the rafters of the eastern castle's great hall, legs dangling over the feast below. At ten namedays, he was small for his age, wiry and nondescript—traits that served him well in a family that devoured attention like starving dogs. Below him, the Frey brood squabbled over roast capon and watered wine. He counted three arguments, two subtle insults regarding dowries, and one instance of Black Walder stealing a drumstick from a cousin's plate.
To anyone else, this was just a chaotic family dinner. To Rykker, it was a map of a sinking ship.
He closed his eyes, momentarily blocking out the cacophony. In another life, he had been someone else—an engineer, a student of history, a man who died too young on a road made of asphalt, not cobblestone. That life was fading, like a dream upon waking, but the knowledge remained. He knew the Red Wedding. He knew the War of the Five Kings. He knew that Winter was coming. And most terrifyingly, he knew that being a Frey—especially a bastard Frey—was a death sentence waiting to be signed.
"Boy!" A sharp whisper snapped him back to the present.
Rykker looked down to see old Maester Melwys squinting up at him from the shadows near the servants' entrance. The maester beckoned with a gnarled finger. Rykker sighed, slipping from the beam and shimmying down a tapestry depicting the crossing's construction. He landed silently, a skill learned from avoiding his half-brothers' casual cruelty
"You're late," Melwys hissed, handing him a stack of parchments. "Lord Walder wants the grain counts from the northern tenant farms checked. He trusts no one else to do the math without skimming off the top."
"He trusts no one, full stop," Rykker corrected quietly, taking the papers. "And he only uses me because I don't have the standing to steal enough to matter."
"He uses you because you can read and count better than men three times your age," Melwys grumbled, shuffling away. "Don't get caught. Stevron's sons are in a foul mood."
Rykker tucked the scrolls under his tunic. This was his weapon. Not a sword—he was decent enough in the yard, but barely average compared to Hosteen or Black Walder—but utility. In the two years since Robert's Rebellion ended, Rykker had made himself indispensable for the drudgery no trueborn lordling wanted. He was the invisible accountant, the bastard who knew where every copper groat was buried.
He navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the Twins, avoiding the main thoroughfares. House Frey was a hive of ambition. With Lord Walder aging but refusing to die, the heir, Stevron, was patient, but his sons and grandsons were restless. The infighting was already beginning.
As he rounded a corner toward the library tower, a heavy boot slammed into the wall inches from his nose. Rykker froze.
"Look what crawled out of the woodwork," sneered a voice. It was Walder Frey, known as 'Big Walder,' though at this age he was merely 'Larger-than-Rykker Walder.' Beside him stood two other cousins, their faces flushed with wine.
"Just running errands for the Maester," Rykker said, keeping his eyes lowered. Eye contact was a challenge; looking away was submission. Submission was survival.
"Errands," the cousin mocked, shoving Rykker against the rough stone. The parchment crinkled under his tunic. "You think because Grandfather lets you hold a quill, you're better than us? You're just a stain, Rivers. A river rat."
Rykker felt the familiar flare of anger, the modern ego clashing with the medieval reality. He could calculate the structural weakness of the bridge they stood on, but he couldn't stop a beating.
"I know what I am," Rykker said evenly. "And I know that Lord Walder is waiting for these papers. If I don't deliver them, he'll ask why. Do you want me to tell him who stopped me?"
The threat hung in the air. Lord Walder's temper was legendary, and he cared little for family affection. He cared about his money and his pride. Delaying his business was an offense against both.
Big Walder sneered, but he stepped back. "Run along, rat. One day the old man won't be here to need his counting boy."
Rykker slipped past them, his heart hammering against his ribs. That's the point, he thought as he hurried into the darkness of the stairwell. One day the old man will be gone. And by then, I need to be the one holding the keys to the cage.
He reached the sanctuary of the library and lit a single tallow candle. Spreading the grain reports out, he didn't just check the math. He began to copy the names of the farmers, the yields, and the discrepancies. Information was the only currency that mattered in the Game, and Rykker Rivers was just starting to fill his purse.