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Game of Thrones: The Sword King
Game of Thrones: From Deserter to Power
Game of Thrones: King of Harrenhal— Garth Greenhand Stat Panel
The Twins were positively brimming with joy.
The twin towers spanning the Green Fork had been scrubbed clean inside and out. Marquis Walder Frey—no, Duke Walder Frey now—was so delighted that he even rewarded every guard with a silver stag and every serving maid with a new ribbon.
For six hundred years, the Freys had waited, and now they finally tasted what it was like to be a Duke. From now on, they no longer needed to pay taxes to Riverrun, nor answer Riverrun's call to arms. They would answer directly to the Iron Throne!
They had leaped to become a family close to the King. Stannis had indicated that the future City Watch would absorb a large number of Freys, and even a seat on the Small Council wasn't out of reach.
The taste of power was like a rich, full-bodied wine, bringing a long-absent flush to the ninety-year-old Walder's face.
In his study, the incense couldn't quite mask the old man's musty scent. Rhaegar Frey stood with his hands at his sides, reporting the final news from King's Landing.
"...In short, His Grace has granted the marriage. Jon Snow is to be betrothed to Lady Margaery Tyrell."
"Tyrell..." Old Walder rubbed his withered fingers over his newly engraved ducal sigil, his cloudy eyes betraying neither joy nor anger.
"I can still remember the first time that brat came to the Twins, sitting behind Robb. It feels like it was just this morning. I was ready to marry him off to any random bastard daughter—thirty years old, forty, widowed, fat, ugly. If he dared refuse, heh heh..." Old Walder stared into space, as if transported back to the day Robb led his army south.
"That brat climbed too fast. In the blink of an eye, he's sitting on equal footing with me." Thinking of this, Old Walder felt the new seal in his hand suddenly lost its appeal.
Clatter. He tossed the seal onto the table. It rolled halfway across the surface before coming to a stop.
Old Walder looked at the seal, then eventually picked it up again. He paused, his tone as flat as if discussing tomorrow's weather: "What about Roslin? Does she know?"
"She should... she received the letter a few days ago." Rhaegar Frey's voice lowered. He'd heard that Roslin had barely left her room lately, and the food sent to her often came back untouched. Having been through life himself, he could guess what was going on.
"Call her here." Old Walder's command was simple and direct.
When Roslin entered, she looked like a leaf blown in by the autumn wind.
She had lost a lot of weight; her once well-fitted dress now hung loosely on her frame. Her eyelids were slightly swollen, but she still managed a curtsy, calling out softly, "Father. Brother."
Rhaegar Frey, seeing his sister who was nearly forty years his junior and whom he had watched grow up, felt a pang of sympathy. Even Old Walder was surprisingly gentle: "Received that brat's letter?"
Roslin pressed her lips together tightly, as if that could hold back the sob rising in her throat. She nodded vigorously, her small chin trembling.
Normally, such behavior would be considered incredibly rude, but right now, neither Rhaegar nor Old Walder scolded her for it.
"He said... he is very sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Tears finally rolled down her cheeks in silence.
She immediately wiped them away with the back of her hand, as if crying were a breach of etiquette.
Old Walder looked at her, like he was assessing the remaining value of an object. After a long while, he sighed. There wasn't much warmth in it; it was more the sigh of a decision made after weighing the pros and cons.
"Child," he used a rare term of endearment, yet it sent a chill down Roslin's spine. "How has the family treated you?"
Roslin was stunned and answered subconsciously, "...The Twins gave me life and raised me."
"Then, now the family needs you to make a... small sacrifice." Old Walder's tone was as if he were asking her to give up a dessert.
"You are my most beautiful daughter. I originally intended to marry you to Robb, but that fellow didn't keep his word. I also promised to marry you to Jon, and I think he was willing. It would have been a beautiful match, but alas, the gods did not favor House Frey."
Roslin lowered her head. She understood the logic Old Walder was laying out, so her head drooped even lower.
"As for the Florents? They would only see it as an insult. Other families? They wouldn't dare ask, nor would they think you worthy. The Tullys are even more out of the question." Old Walder's analysis was cold and precise. "Marrying you off to some distant land benefits the family not at all, especially at a time like this."
Rhaegar kept his head down, not daring to look at his sister. His lips moved, but he swallowed his words in the end.
In this house, Old Walder's will was law. More importantly, at the Twins, the one thing Old Walder had in abundance was sons. If Rhaegar wanted to become the Lord of the Crossing or secure greater benefits for himself, he needed to please the old man.
"Then... what should I do?" Roslin's voice trembled with despair, but mixed with a tiny sliver of hope. She looked at Old Walder. Although her instincts told her this cold father wouldn't offer any warmth, he was, after all, her only direct blood relative aside from her siblings.
Old Walder leaned forward, lowered his voice, and spoke the decision he had made long ago: "Follow him."
Roslin jerked her head up, her eyes filled with confusion.
"Be his mistress." Old Walder spat out the words calmly, as if saying, "The weather is nice today."
The study fell deathly silent. Roslin could hear her own heartbeat clearly. She felt frozen, even her tears stopping on her cheeks.
"He is about to become the Warden of the West. Maybe he can't take Casterly Rock, but the boy is undefeated so far; taking half the Westerlands won't be a problem. With all those gold and silver mines in the West, if you follow him, you will at least enjoy wealth and luxury, living in the warm South instead of wasting away in the cold Twins." Old Walder painted a "beautiful" future for her. "If you can bear him a child... that child will have the blood of Stark and Frey. Even a bastard might be granted lands in the future. This is a thousand times better than marrying some country knight."
Old Walder packaged the cruelest arrangement in the most pragmatic terms.
"Is this... an order, Father?" Roslin's voice was light as a feather.
"This is for the family, and it is the best path for you." Old Walder didn't answer directly, but the meaning was self-evident.
At this point, Rhaegar Frey spoke up again: "Little sister, you don't need to be so pessimistic. Jon's conquest of the West will make him our future ally, and House Frey will send troops to help. Besides, the Twins are located between Winterfell and Riverrun; we are indispensable allies to both Stannis and Jon. Although you won't have the status of a legal wife, your treatment won't be much less than Margaery's. And you know men—looking at the same face all day gets boring. If you aren't around all the time, he'll think of you more." Rhaegar tried to comfort her, approaching from a relatively gentler emotional angle compared to Old Walder's cold calculation of interests.
Listening to her brother's "comfort," Roslin stood motionless. She didn't cry, didn't scream, didn't argue. She just kept her head down, staring at the tiny embroidery on her skirt, letting humiliation, secret joy, bitterness, and a myriad of other emotions tear at her heart.
After what felt like a century, she finally raised her head. Her face was expressionless, like a delicate porcelain doll.
"I understand, Father," she said softly, her tone heartbreakingly docile. "I will... try to get close to him, to please him."
She even curtsied slightly, executing a perfect bow. "If there is nothing else, I will take my leave."
Asking to leave was her last, tiny act of defiance.
Old Walder didn't find fault with it and nodded slightly.
Roslin turned and walked out of the study, step by step. Her back was straight, but it exuded a dead silence.
Back in the cold, empty corridor, she had to lean against the stone wall to steady herself. The immense sense of humiliation and powerlessness washed over her like a tide. She felt no anger, only deep exhaustion and resignation.
He won dignity and status with his sword, she thought blankly. Roslin wasn't stupid. When they first met, she knew exactly why Old Walder had placed her—the most beautiful girl in House Frey—alongside her other sisters.
Back then, she was just following Old Walder's orders; she didn't think there was any possibility between her and Jon.
No one could have imagined that in just over half a year, a bastard who could be manipulated by anyone would leap to become a Duke! It was like a fairy tale.
The song Jon had sung to her back then still felt fitting, only now their positions were reversed.
Now, she was the one who had to face the gap between them.