Author's Note:
Man yall are really zelous for the some action, and trust me, i get it, but do not fret, there will be some action within the next chapter or two, and from there onward ill move it along a bit faster, i just really like worldbuilding/flesshing out characters and relationships but i get how that can be a drag to read through so ill move it along at a bit of a quicker pace from now on.
Hope y'all enjoy and do forget to comment and ask questions, concerns, or ideas, or really anything, I enjoy seeing y'all's comments and feedback!
P.S, I decided to do a double release to appease you all lol.
[The Twins, The Green Fork, The Second to last day of the 12th Moon, 298 AC]
The river ran black beneath the Twins.
Dorren saw it first through Shadow's eyes, long before the horns of the North sounded their final approach and the banners of House Stark and the various northern houses rose in full beneath the grey sky, long before the army halted in its slow, grinding advance and the word passed down the lines that they had arrived.
From afar, the crossing might have seemed almost unremarkable, two stone keeps facing one another across the Green Fork, bound together by the long, arched bridge that spanned the waters between them, but there was nothing unremarkable in the way it held itself now, nor in the tension that clung to it like frost.
The towers watched.
That was the first thought that came to him, unbidden and unwelcome alike.
Shadow moved low through the reeds along the riverbank, silent as breath, his dark form slipping between patches of winter-dead grass and muddy ground, his blue eyes fixed upon the stone above, and through him Dorren saw it all with a clarity that made his jaw tighten.
Too many men.
That was the second thing.
Not the usual watch one might expect at a crossing of such importance, not the lazy shifting of guards who had stood their posts too long and expected no trouble, but ranks, ordered, alert, and very much awake.
Crossbows rested not idle but ready, cranked and set, their steel limbs catching what little light the day offered, and along the parapets, men stood shoulder to shoulder in places where one man would have sufficed, their cloaks pulled tight but their grips firm upon haft and hilt alike.
There were barrels, too.
Positioned carefully along the walls, near the gatehouse, near the murder holes.
Oil, most likely.
Dorren felt Shadow's unease ripple through him, not fear, never fear, but a low, constant wariness that made the wolf's muscles coil beneath his skin and his hackles rise just enough to catch the wind.
This was no lord preparing to receive allies.
This was a lord preparing to hold a gate.
By the time Dorren returned fully to himself, the Northern host had come to a halt.
The great mass of it stretched behind them in long, ordered lines, banners snapping sharply in the cold wind, horses stamping and snorting as men shifted in their saddles or stood at ease beside their pikes, their breath rising in pale clouds that drifted and vanished into the air.
And before them, across the dark waters of the Green Fork, the Twins loomed.
Silent.
Watching.
No horns of welcome sounded from the towers.
No gates opened in greeting.
Only the wind moved, and the distant creak of leather and steel.
Dorren sat astride his horse beside Robb and Jon, Shadow pacing restlessly at his side, and he could feel the tension spreading through the ranks like a slow, creeping frost, subtle but undeniable.
"They've seen us," Robb said quietly, his gaze fixed upon the bridge.
Jon snorted softly. "Hard not to, given the size of our host, just over 35,000 altogether, I'd wager."
"That's not what I meant."
Jon did not answer that, though his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the walls.
Dorren did not speak at all.
He did not need to.
He could still feel it, lingering at the edge of his thoughts, the echo of Shadow's unease.
"They're ready," he said at last, his voice low enough that only the two of them heard. "More than they should be."
Robb glanced at him. "Ready for what?"
Dorren did not answer immediately, his gaze drifting once more to the towers, to the men upon them, to the stillness that hung there like a held breath.
"For something," he said finally. "Not to welcome in friends, that's evident now."
Jon's eyes flicked toward him, thoughtful.
"They're waiting," Jon said.
Dorren nodded once.
"Aye."
The camp formed quickly, as it always did, the North moving with a practiced efficiency that had been honed over weeks of marching and drilling alike, tents rising in ordered rows, fires kindled low against the wind, lines of supply wagons drawn into place with care.
Baggage trains were already supplied and routes mapped out, the genius of House Manderly, aided by the White Harbor Starks and their logistics, was at work.
But even as the familiar rhythm of encampment settled over them, the silence from the Twins remained.
No riders came.
No banners dipped.
No gates opened.
"They're watching us like we're a storm on the horizon," Rodrik muttered, reining in beside them, his gaze dark as he studied the walls. "And they don't know whether to brace for it… or run from it."
"They won't run," Robb said.
"No," Jon agreed. "They won't."
Dorren said nothing, though his hand drifted unconsciously to rest against Shadow's head as the wolf brushed past him, restless still.
They were being measured.
Weighed.
Not welcomed.
It was some time before the gates moved.
Not wide, not with any show of ceremony or confidence, but slowly, cautiously, the heavy timbers creaking as they opened just enough to admit a small party of riders, no more than a dozen, who emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse and rode out across the short stretch of ground between fortress and host.
Dorren watched them closely.
At their head rode an older man, his posture straight despite his years, his face lined but not weak, his eyes sharp as they swept across the assembled North.
Ser Stevron Frey.
Behind him came others, younger, harder men, their expressions ranging from guarded to openly disdainful.
Dorren recognized one of them from the rumors.
Black Walder.
He sat his horse like a man who had never learned patience, his gaze lingering too long on the Northern banners, his mouth twisted in something that was not quite a smile.
There were others as well, Frey kin by the look of them, rough-faced, poorly concealed in their opinions, their eyes flicking from man to man as though counting worth in coin rather than steel.
"They don't look pleased to see us," Robb murmured.
"They're not," Dorren said.
Word spread quickly, and soon Alaric rode forth to meet them, flanked by his more martial-minded bannermen, Karstark, Umber, Bolton, and others of rank and standing, their presence alone enough to shift the air, to draw attention, to remind all who watched that this was no mere gathering of petty lords, but the strength of the North made flesh.
Catelyn Stark rode with them, much to the disagreement of Lord Eddard, who had stayed back to help organize the camp, much to his chagrin as well.
Dorren had not expected that.
She held herself straight in the saddle, her cloak drawn tight against the cold, her expression composed but intent, and there was something in the set of her jaw that spoke not of hesitation, but of resolve.
"My father is his liege," she had said when the matter was raised, her voice firm. "Walder Frey has bent the knee to House Tully for decades. He will remember that."
No one had argued.
But Dorren, watching her now, could not help but wonder whether Lord Walder Frey remembered anything at all that did not serve his interests.
The two parties met in a clearing, beneath the watchful eyes of thousands.
Ser Stevron inclined his head, not deeply, but with a measure of respect that seemed genuine enough.
"Lord Stark," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the cold air, "you honor the Twins with your presence."
Alaric regarded him for a moment before responding, his expression calm, unreadable.
"We honor no walls that bar our path without cause," he said, his tone even. "Yet we have come to speak, not to quarrel."
A flicker of something passed through Stevron's eyes at that, quickly masked.
"Then let us speak," he said. "My lord father bids you, and your honored bannermen, entry into the Twins, so that we may discuss the matter of crossing in proper comfort."
Dorren felt it then.
Not in the words themselves.
In what was missing.
He glanced at Jon.
Jon was already looking at him.
"Did you notice?" Dorren murmured.
"I did."
No bread.
No salt.
No guest rights.
The realization settled like a stone in his gut.
Robb frowned slightly. "What?"
Dorren did not take his eyes from the Freys.
"He invites them in," he said quietly. "But he offers nothing."
Jon's jaw tightened.
"That's no welcome," he said.
"No," Dorren agreed. "It is not."
The reaction among the lords was not long in coming.
Greatjon Umber snorted loudly, his voice carrying without care for subtlety.
"You invite wolves into your hall without bread or salt?" he called out, his grin sharp as a blade. "That's poor manners, Frey. Or poor sense."
A few of the Frey men shifted at that, Black Walder's sneer deepening.
Stevron, to his credit, did not rise to it.
"My lord father offers hospitality," he said evenly. "The details may be discussed within."
Roose Bolton spoke then, his voice soft, almost mild. The man had been more agreeable as of late, almost seemingly washing himself of all notions of strain following the death of his bastard years back.
"Or avoided," he said. "Careful, Lord Frey is."
Karstark's expression darkened. "It's an insult."
"It's caution," Bolton replied lightly. "Or perhaps fear."
"Of what?" Karstark demanded.
Bolton's pale eyes flicked toward the Northern host behind them.
"Of us."
Through it all, Alaric remained still.
Watching.
Measuring.
Dorren could not read his thoughts, but he could see the calculation in his gaze, the quiet weighing of risk and necessity.
"We will hear Lord Frey's words," Alaric said at last.
His half-brother's tone had sounded as cold as ice, almost as if it had come from a stone statue, and yet, none of the Freys seemed to be bothered by it, a sense of false confidence no doubt abounded.
Stevron inclined his head once more. "Then you are welcome within."
Still no bread, and still no salt.
Dorren felt Shadow shift beside him, a low, almost inaudible growl rumbling in the wolf's throat as the Freys turned their horses back toward the gate.
He did not like this.
None of it.
"They're ready for something," he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.
"For us?" Robb asked.
Dorren shook his head slowly.
"Who's to say, but all I know is I don't like it."
As the chosen party prepared to ride forward, Dorren found himself stepping closer, his voice low but firm as he spoke.
"Brother," he said, drawing Alaric's attention.
Those grey eyes settled on him, sharp and knowing.
"Something isn't right," Dorren said. "They're not afraid. It's almost as if they're… waiting."
Alaric held his gaze for a long moment.
Then, quietly–
"I know."
That should have reassured him.
It did not.
Catelyn moved forward then, her horse stepping into line beside the others.
"I will go," she said, her voice steady. "My father is Lord Frey's liege. He will remember his oaths when he sees me."
No one denied her that.
Not even Alaric.
The gates of the Twins creaked open once more, just enough to admit them.
No more, no less.
Dorren watched as Alaric rode forward, Karstark, Umber, and Bolton at his side, Catelyn among them, their cloaks snapping in the wind as they passed beneath the looming shadow of the gatehouse.
Black Walder lingered a moment longer than the rest, his gaze sliding over the Northern host, over Dorren, over the wolves, his smile thin and sharp as he turned away.
Shadow growled.
It was low, not in anger, but wary of danger, it would seem.
The gates began to close.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The heavy timbers groaned as they swung inward, the iron fittings scraping softly against stone.
Dorren did not move.
He watched and listened for anything out of the ordinary.
The sounds of the gate echoed longer than they should have.
No bread.
No salt.
And the gates were closing, with their lord and his brother on the other side of it.
He did not like it one bit.