The Lord of the Twins
4th moon, 279 AC.
The chamber smelled of old wood and pipe smoke, and of Walder Frey himself—a sour, musky stink of age and ambition. Sunlight slanted in through the high, narrow windows of the solar, gilding the dust motes in gold and warming the heavy wool curtains, though the Lord of the Crossing still grumbled of the cold.
He was wrapped in layers of fur and silk, hunched in his great carved chair like a spider in its web, his legs tucked beneath a patchwork of blankets, his spotted hands gnarled and twitching on the carved arms. Two of his younger sons stood nearby—Petyr and Ser Hostyn, waiting in silence, like hounds hoping for scraps.
The scribe entered with haste, parchment in hand, head bowed so low his nose nearly touched his boots. "A raven, my lord. From Riverrun."
"About bloody time," Walder rasped, waving a trembling hand. "Read it. Loudly, boy, my ears are no sharper than your wits."
The scribe cleared his throat and unfurled the scroll with ceremonial slowness. Walder clicked his tongue, impatient. "If it's another bloody refusal, I'll have Hoster's cod strung from the towers. Read!"
"To Lord Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing," the boy began, "from Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident—"
"Yes, yes, we know who the fuck he is," Walder snapped. "Get to the meat of it."
The scribe did as he was bid. The letter was formal and cautious, filled with all the pleasantries and polite flatteries of a seasoned courtier, but the message was plain enough: Lord Hoster Tully invited Lord Frey and his sons to Riverrun for a feast to discuss the possibility of a match between Lady Catelyn Tully and one of House Frey's noble sons.
For a moment there was only the creak of Walder's chair as he shifted, and the rustle of parchment.
Then came the laugh—a wheezing, phlegmy burst that shook his shoulders and made his sons glance at each other in confusion. "Ha!" Walder barked. "The trout's finally come to his senses. Seven hells, it only took him and his father forty years and a thousand poor matches to realize that we're the strongest house in the bloody Riverlands."
"Lord Hoster must be—"
"Dying," Walder interrupted. "Or desperate. Or both. But never mind that. Let's not waste the gods' good folly." He clutched the edge of the chair and heaved himself forward, blinking watery eyes. "Catelyn, is it? The eldest. Has to be what—thirteen? fourteen? Ah, she's ripe for a wedding bed." He cackled. "Though past it, if you ask me."
Petyr Frey coughed delicately. "Lady Catelyn is... well regarded, father."
"She's a trout, Petyr. A trout. Highborn, aye, but slippery and bony. And now they offer her up, after squandering their prettier girls on Vances and Brackens and Blackwoods for decades. Pah!" He smacked his lips, delighted. "Still, the fish is biting. And that's what matters."
The scribe offered the scroll, but Walder waved it away. "I've no need to read it. I can smell Tully's pride steaming off the parchment. He'll dress it up with honor and alliance, but what he wants is Frey blood tied to his own. That old fool wants sons-in-law, and I'll give him a hundred to choose from."
He slammed a bony hand on the arm of his chair. "Summon them! All of them! Every son and bastard worth the seed that sired them. Walder, Stevron, Emmon, Jared, Luceon, even the girls can come along if they're not with child again. I want a Frey in every hallway and bedchamber in Riverrun."
"Do you mean... all of them?" Ser Hostyn asked, wide-eyed.
"All," Lord Walder snapped. "Every strutting cock and babe in swaddling. If one trout's enough to bait, we may as well cast fifty hooks. Let Catelyn choose, aye, but let her choose among an army. Hoster won't know which way to piss."
"But—"
"No guards. Not many, at least," Walder interrupted. "There's no need. What's he going to do, murder us all under his own roof? No, we go like wedding guests. Courteous, clean-shaven, polite as septons. Sixty Freys in silk and smiles, and not a blade drawn unless drawn upon."
He leaned back, smug. "The best defense is confusion. They won't know which of us is which. The Blackfish'll be scowling from the walls, but he won't dare strike with so many of us under one roof."
Petyr swallowed. "And if... this is some trick?"
Walder Frey turned his head slowly, fixing his son with watery, cunning eyes. "Then the Riverlands will drown in blood. But it won't be our blood alone, boy. If Hoster Tully is mad enough to bait a trap with a betrothal, he'd best hope it snaps shut fast. Either way he won't attack us in his home the trout has too much respect for the laws of gods and men."
There was silence in the chamber for a moment—thick and wary.
Then Walder leaned forward again. "Go. Send the ravens. Ready the horses. I want us on the road within the week. And fetch me my good cloak. The blue one with the silver clasp. If I'm to be courted, I'd best look the part."
The Twins emptied like a wound.
In less than a week, wagons rolled out of the muddy courtyards, piled with trunks and chests, capes and boots and bedpans. Horses were saddled by squires scarcely older than the youngest Frey sons. Lords and serjeants shouted orders, mothers scolded children, and the wide muddy causeway leading out of the Crossing became a snake of Frey banners and proud, quarrelsome riders.
They traveled not as an army but as a wedding party, though there were more spears than songs.
At their head rode old Lord Walder in a high-wheeled carriage drawn by six dappled horses. The curtains were blue and silver, embroidered with the twin towers of his house, but the cloth flapped in the wind, and the wheels groaned on the rough road. Inside, the old man dozed and muttered, waking only to piss or spit or demand his sons ride closer where he could see them.
Beside the carriage rode Stevron, the eldest son and heir, grey-bearded and slow-eyed, as mild and forgettable as a half-cooked meal. Behind him came Emmon, rotund and sweating through his silks; Jared and Luceon and Olyvar and Petyr and Perwyn; bastards like Black Walder and Lothar, and grandsons by the dozen, most in matching cloaks and smug expressions. It was a parade of Freys—a clot of silver and grey and swaggering pride.
They passed through Hammerford and took the road south, skirts of the Red Fork gleaming at times beneath the pale spring sun. The river smelled of melt and mud, the land of the season's waking.
Walder fretted the whole way. Not over ambush or insult—he had no fear of Hoster Tully's honor—but over which of his many sons would snatch the trout. "He'll try to pawn her off on Stevron," he muttered to Luceon, "but the boy can hardly lift his cock, let alone breed heirs. No, we'll want one of the younger ones. Olyvar's pretty. Too pretty, perhaps. Girls like that. But Petyr's got more teeth in his head."
At night, he demanded lists. "Rank them. By age, wit, health. Who's best spoken? Who's bedded a maid? And I don't want any fumblers, gods help me. If she's ripe, I want her breeding before winter."
None dared say aloud that Lady Catelyn Tully might have a say in the matter.
Riverrun's towers came into view at dusk on the fourth day, the last light gilding the ramparts with fire. The red walls rose at the fork of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, strong and proud as ever. Frey narrowed his eyes as he stared at them, chewing his lip.
"Still the same old fishpond," he muttered. "Think they've swept the halls in our honor?"
They were met at the gates by Tully men in silver and blue, courteous but cold. Walder noted the number of guards, the polished helms, the quiet readiness of Riverrun. No jesters at the gate. No songs.
The hall was brighter.
The hall of Riverrun blazed with torchlight and fire, the long stone room filled with music, the scent of roasted meats, and the quiet hum of nobility on edge. The banners of the great houses of the Trident hung above the feasting tables—Piper's dancing maiden, Whent's black bat, Darry's black plowman, Vance's black dragon and golden eyes, and the golden Crown of House Mudd, sat beside the silver eagle of Mallister and beside the red-and-blue trout of Tully.
It had the look of a feast for a wedding, but the air was not quite so merry.
Lord Walder Frey entered with all the pomp he could muster, hobbling on his gnarled cane, propped by one of his bastard sons—Petyr or Perwyn, no one could tell them apart save their mother. Behind him spilled his offspring like a flood. Freys of every age and size crowded into the hall: Stevron and Emmon, Jared and Luceon, Lame Lothar and Black Walder, Olyvar with his fox-bright hair, and Walder Rivers with his hard smile and mismatched armor. There were babes in arms and squires still scrubbing the smell of horse from their hands. The sheer number of them set a murmur running through the Riverlords already gathered.
"I count fifty Freys and twice as many noses," whispered Ser Marq Piper to his neighbor, raising a cup.
"A pity none of them brought manners," Ser Hugo Vance replied beneath his breath.
Still, the Tully men greeted them with stiff courtesy. The Lady Catelyn stood beside her father in a gown of river-blue silk, her auburn hair woven with trout-shaped combs of silver. Her smile was dutiful. Her eyes, wary.
"Lord Frey," Hoster Tully said, voice rich and heavy with formality. "You honor us with your presence."
"And about bloody time you remembered you had bannermen," Walder rasped back. He offered a twisted smile. "But never say Walder Frey holds a grudge. I'm here now, and I've brought my best for the choosing." He swept an arm behind him, gesturing to the host of his sons and grandsons, all straightened and beaming like prize cocks at a tourney.
Catelyn Tully curtsied. "You flatter me, my lord."
"No, no. You do that yourself," the old man said, and smacked his lips wetly. "You'll find no shortage of strong Frey seed tonight, my lady. Just say the word."
The pleasantries exhausted, they took their places. Walder Frey and his eldest sons were given seats of honor near the high table, though not upon it. That privilege was reserved for Lord Hoster, his daughter, and his brother Ser Brynden—grim and silent in black mail, as always.
The feast began. Servants in Tully livery brought forth course after course: honeyed quail and roast boar, bowls of leeks and lentils, river trout crusted with lemon and herbs, thick brown bread, sweet wine from the Arbor, and a strong barley beer from the Darry lands. Walder Frey ate like a man half his age, cursing the softness of the crust, praising the trout, and pausing often to complain about his bowels.
The hall was filled with talk and laughter—but the wrong kind. The Freys shouted across tables, bragging and boasting. Black Walder challenged Ser Hugo Vance to a drinking contest and won, then demanded another. One of the younger Frey boys tried to flirt with a Whent girl and was met with cold silence. Even the musicians seemed unsure of the mood, their tunes alternately too merry or too grim.
Walder watched them all from his chair, his eyes quick behind their rheumy lids. He sipped wine and studied the Riverlords, measuring their silences and side glances.
"So many banners for a wedding," he muttered to Emmon. "You'd think they were planning a war."
At the high table, Hoster Tully played the lordly host well enough—he raised his cup at every toast, smiled at every compliment, asked after the health of Frey lands and praised the strength of their line. But there was a stiffness to him, and now and then he turned to his daughter or brother and whispered something with no jest in it.
Ser Brynden, ever the Blackfish, said little and drank less. He watched the Freys with the same stare he used in the practice yard. When Lothar Frey laughed too loudly, Brynden's gaze caught and held him until the man looked away.
Midway through the feast, Walder Frey leaned toward Stevron and said, "The trout has teeth tonight."
His son grunted. "I do not like it."
"You're not meant to," Walder snapped. "You're meant to marry it."
But no offer came. No cup passed from father to father. No names were spoken. Only food, music, and smiles that grew thinner by the hour.
When the final course was cleared and sweetwine passed, Lord Hoster Tully stood. He leaned on his cane, old and proud and worn.
"My lords," he said, raising his voice above the fading strings of the musicians. "I thank you all for joining me in Riverrun on this most… hopeful occasion."
Hopeful. Walder Frey narrowed his eyes.
"We are gathered here to celebrate bonds—those old and new. I ask that none of you leave this hall tonight. We have more to discuss."
There was a pause. A silence.
Then came the sound of steel on stone.
Guards moved from the corners. The doors groaned shut and were barred from the inside. Men in Tully colors stood at every archway, hands on sword hilts.
Walder Frey went very still.
"Hoster?" he said.
But the old trout did not smile.
Instead, Ser Brynden stepped forward and said, "This is no wedding feast. This is a reckoning."
And so the feast ended not with a toast, but with the rattle of chains and the quiet drawing of blades.
They stripped the feasting tables bare before the Freys could so much as rise from their seats.
The servants returned with no platters, no jugs of wine, no sweetmeats. Instead came men-at-arms in Tully colors, armored in riveted mail and stiff leather, their swords already drawn and their faces grim with duty. Shields slung on backs, polearms braced in hands, they fanned out across the hall like the turning of a tide.
"Sit," Ser Brynden said, his voice like iron dragged over stone. "None of you will leave until my lord brother has spoken."