In the Twins, Walder Frey, the Lord of the Crossing and the head of House Frey, endured the excruciating pain of his gout as he thodically reviewed the latest intelligence reports delivered to his table. He scrutinized each piece of information with care, determined to prevent House Frey from faltering amidst the tides of major events. This vigilance was his thod of ensuring survival and relevance in an ever-changing world.
After reading the intelligence report from King's Landing, he exhaled a faint sigh of relief and turned to the next report from Riverrun. However, the relentless pain coursing through his body made it difficult to focus.
Leaning back in his chair, he gestured for his granddaughter, standing quietly nearby, to approach. Without hesitation, he reached beneath her shirt and kneaded her chest. The sensation against his palm seed to reinvigorate his spirit and dulled the pain plaguing his body.
He could not recall her na—one of his countless granddaughters, perhaps the daughter of a son or grandson. It mattered little. The many granddaughters and great-granddaughters surrounding him were tokens sent by his “dutiful sons,” so of whom had even offered their wives to curry favor. He relished the indulgence and hoped to savor the mont for as long as possible. His gaze swept over his sons and grandsons in the room, calculating. They might quarrel among themselves, but any hint of ambition toward the seat he occupied would not be tolerated. Walder prided himself on being the guardian of “loyalty” within the family.
When the pain had eased sowhat, he dismissed his granddaughter with a wave of his hand and turned his attention back to the docunts. He picked up the intelligence report he had set aside. This particular report, sent from Riverrun, relayed updates on Hoster Tully.
It stated that Hoster, having recently regained consciousness, was mobilizing the Riverlands' allied forces in Riverrun. Command of these troops was being entrusted to Blackfish Brynden Tully, who would lead them south to support King Robert’s siege of the Iron Islands.
“Has the old fool lost his wits?” Walder muttered, his irritation palpable. He flung the report to the ground. “Now that we’ve shifted all our n to the Westerlands, does he expect us to ignore the Ironborn lingering outside Seagard, ready to head south?”
Stevron Frey, Walder's heir, was present in the study, assisting with the workload. Though white-haired and visibly older than his father, Stevron moved quickly to retrieve the discarded docunt. He read it and remarked, “Among the combined forces of the Riverlands, both House Frey and House Blackwood of Raventree Hall are notably absent. Perhaps Lord Tully intends for the Blackwoods and us to hold off the Ironborn advancing south from Seagard, effectively trapping them there?”
Walder’s expression darkened as Stevron’s suggestion struck a nerve. He sifted through a pile of unopened docunts until he located a particular missive from Riverrun. Walder had ignored it initially, assuming it to be yet another summons to muster troops for the southern campaign—hardly worth his imdiate attention. Now, it seed, he had been mistaken.
Breaking the seal, Walder read the contents carefully. His face grew grim, confirming Stevron's suspicion. The letter was indeed an order from Riverrun, instructing House Frey to guard the Crossing at the Twins and block the Ironborn from crossing the Green Fork toward Seagard. The language of the command was pointed, bordering on accusatory. Should the Ironborn manage to breach the Green Fork, it would be deed an act of treachery against the Iron Throne.
The ssage was clear: House Frey could no longer afford to sit back and wait for the dust to settle, as had been their custom. This ti, Riverrun was forcing them to act decisively. Their calculated neutrality was no longer an option.
“Damn old man, how co he didn’t freeze to death in that ice storm?” Old Walder muttered under his breath, his irritation as much a habit as a reaction to any news he deed inconvenient.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. The door opened, and Walder Frey Jr., known as Black Walder, strode in, a raven’s letter in hand. “Grandfather, great-grandfather, there is news from Moat Cailin,” he announced, his tone carrying a hint of urgency.
“Moat Cailin?” Old Walder’s eyebrows raised slightly before his expression twisted into disdain. “Has Victarion Greyjoy learned to write surrender letters like his nephew?”
Stevron, standing nearby, took the letter from his son and read it carefully. “Father, this wasn’t written by Victarion,” he said after a mont. “It’s from Eddard Stark, Lord of the North.”
Old Walder blinked, montarily caught off guard. “A letter from the Lord of the North? From Moat Cailin? Does that an the North has already retaken it?”
Stevron nodded, his eyes scanning the text further. “Yes, Moat Cailin has indeed been retaken, but not by the army of the North. It was reclaid by the army of the Chosen One, Lynd.”
“The Chosen One Lynd?” Old Walder repeated, his brow furrowed as he searched his mory. “Isn’t he the Chosen Warrior of the Faith of the Seven?”
“Yes, Father,” Stevron confird, passing the letter to him. Then, as if recalling sothing else, he added, “Earlier, King’s Landing sent a proclamation across the realm. It ntioned that His Grace Robert had appointed Lynd Tarran, this so-called Chosen One, as the commander-in-chief of the campaign against bandits throughout the Seven Kingdoms.”
Old Walder skimd the letter as Stevron spoke, paying close attention to the account of the recovery of Moat Cailin. Though the letter gave little detail beyond the bare facts, Walder’s experienced eye could discern the significance of what had happened. One detail stood out above all: the combat effectiveness of Lynd’s forces.
In less than a day, they had retaken Moat Cailin and annihilated over 3,000 Ironborn defenders. Walder was struck by the sheer efficiency of the feat.
He rembered his own visit to Moat Cailin in his youth, a place he knew to be almost impossible to conquer by conventional ans. Its defenses weren’t remarkable due to high walls or intricate fortifications, but because of its unique geography. The castle was surrounded by treacherous swamps, with only one narrow causeway leading to its gates. Any army attempting an assault would find itself trapped on this precarious path, unable to form a proper front.
The swamps, teeming with lizard-lions and other carnivorous creatures, were as much a detAeront as the castle’s defenders. Blood spilled in battle would draw these beasts in droves, turning the area into a deadly mire. For decades, it was said that even a small force stationed in Moat Cailin could hold off armies many tis its size without significant losses. The Ironborn’s initial success in seizing the stronghold had seed improbable enough, but now, to hear that Lynd’s forces had reclaid it so swiftly?
Old Walder couldn’t help but wonder how the Chosen One had managed it. How many lives had Lynd sacrificed to achieve this?
“How many troops did that Chosen One, Lynd, lead to attack Moat Cailin?” Old Walder muttered to himself, his face a mixture of doubt and curiosity.
Black Walder suddenly spoke up. “It should be just over 2,000, but less than 3,000.”
“How do you know there are only 2,000?” Stevron asked, his tone filled with suspicion.
“A while ago, soone reported seeing an army of over 2,000 n marching north along the Kingsroad,” Black Walder replied. “The banner they carried showed a red sword on a red field. I believe it was the Chosen One’s army.”
“Only 2,000? How did they manage that?” Both Old Walder and Stevron looked astonished.
As the group reeled in disbelief at this feat, Stevron's eldest son, Ryman Frey, appeared at the gate, his expression panicked. Without hesitation, he hurried inside and addressed his father and grandfather. “Father, Grandfather, there’s an army outside the castle!”
“The Ironborn have already mobilized?” Old Walder's face turned pale, his voice deep and grim.
“No, not from the south. They’re from the north,” Ryman clarified quickly, realizing the misunderstanding. “It’s a cavalry army, about 5,000 strong. Their banners are unfamiliar—they don’t look like those of the Riverlands’ nobility.”
“What do their banners look like?” Stevron asked in a low voice.
“One banner is covered in silver caltrops,” Ryman described hastily. “Another depicts a giant, and the third shows a long sword on a red field, with so strange symbol on the hilt.”
“The silver caltrops belong to House Footly of Tumbleton,” Stevron explained, recognizing the crests instantly.
“Lady Nyria Footly, the current head of that house, is a close ally of the Chosen One, Lynd. The giant banner belongs to House Umber of the North. And the red sword on a field of red—that’s the banner of the Chosen One himself.”
“How could he have arrived so quickly?” Old Walder’s expression darkened, his voice laced with unease. “The letter was only just delivered, and here he is already.” He mulled over the situation briefly, then pressed his hand firmly against the table, rising to his feet. Beckoning for his granddaughter to assist him, he gripped his walking stick with his other hand. “Let’s go. We’ll et this Chosen One.”
Outside the northern castle gate of the Twins, Lynd’s army stood in a precise and orderly formation. Jon approached the gate, announcing their identity and demanding that the Twins open their gates to let the army pass.
The gatekeeper, however, refused. “I lack the authority to make such a decision,” he said apologetically. “I will send word to the main castle to inform Lord Walder Frey and let him decide.”
Jon bristled at the gatekeeper’s response, his temper flaring. He was about to chastise the Freys for their rudeness, but Lynd stopped him. “Tell them this,” Lynd instructed calmly but firmly. “If the House of Frey does not open the gates of the Twins before nightfall to allow my army to pass, I will declare them in rebellion against the Iron Throne in my capacity as commander of the king’s forces tasked with suppressing banditry across the Seven Kingdoms.”
The gatekeeper, visibly shaken by the threat, sent several more ssengers to the main castle. The sun was already sinking in the west, the sky turning crimson as the evening approached.
Just as the last sliver of daylight faded, the gates of the Twins creaked open. Old Walder Frey erged, flanked by his son, grandson, and great-grandson. Together, they approached Lynd.
Before Walder could say anything, Lynd, seated high on his horse, addressed him directly. “Lord Walder, are you still loyal to the Iron Throne?”
Walder straightened slightly and replied, “Of course. House Frey has always been loyal to the Iron Throne and has never wavered.”
Lynd wasted no ti. “In that case, I am now passing through the Twins to head to Seagard to quell a rebellion. I need you to provide a cavalry unit of 3,000 n.”
For a brief mont, displeasure flickered across Old Walder's face, but he quickly masked it. “It takes ti to raise an army,” he said with asured calm.
Lynd didn’t allow any room for delay or rebuttal. “Sorry, my lord, but I don’t have ti to spare. Your army must be ready when I pass through the Twins. Understand?”
Overwheld by Lynd’s commanding presence, Old Walder struggled to maintain composure. His hand gripped his granddaughter’s arm tightly, as if anchoring himself against Lynd’s intense gaze and unyielding tone. Forcing stability into his voice, he replied, “Understood. I will prepare the supporting army imdiately.”
Lynd nodded curtly and gave a wave of his hand. “Enter the city.”
At his command, the army began its march into the Twins. As Lynd’s horse moved past the gathered Freys, those nearby noticed sothing unnerving—a beast lurking in the shadows beneath Lynd’s steed. Its piercing vertical pupils watched the Freys intently, sending shivers down their spines and making the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end.
Once Lynd and his army had passed and disappeared into the Twins, Old Walder finally relaxed. His rigid posture softened, and he let go of his granddaughter’s arm. Her hand, bruised and discolored from his iron grip, trembled slightly. Yet, despite the pain, she bit her lip and held back her tears, knowing better than to complain.
“Stevron,” Old Walder said sharply, as though regaining control of the situation, “you must imdiately organize 3,000 cavalry to accompany Lynd Tarran south and assist in suppressing the rebellion. Do exactly as he says, no excuses.”
He turned to Black Walder next. “You must investigate whether our family has ever crossed this Chosen One. Why is he targeting us in this way?”
“Targeting us?” Several of the Freys looked puzzled, unsure of what he ant.
Old Walder rolled his eyes at their confusion. “He’s aiming to destroy House Frey—that much is clear. If we hadn’t acted swiftly, he’d have branded us traitors on the spot. No one targets a noble house without a reason. We must have wronged him in the past. Find out what it was, or we’ll never be safe with soone like him watching over us.”
While Old Walder scolded his sons and grandsons, Nyria rode up beside Lynd. Her brow furrowed as she looked at him, curiosity plain in her eyes. “Do you have a grudge against House Frey?” she asked.
Lynd shook his head calmly. “No. Why do you ask?”
“I just got the impression that you were looking for an excuse to destroy them,” she said, her voice tinged with bewildernt.
Lynd paused, her words catching him off guard. “Did I? Is it that obvious?” A flicker of amusent crossed his face before he chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. I don’t have any grudges against House Frey. I simply don’t like him. I wanted to teach him a lesson, but he managed to avoid it. I doubt I’ll have the chance again for a long while, so I’ll let it go. For now.”
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