The next day dawned grey and chill, a damp cold that gnawed through cloaks and clung to bones like a curse from the old gods themselves. It was the sort of weather that made steel feel heavier in a man's grip and turned even the gentlest soul meaner than a cornered wolf. By the time the northern host reached the confluence of the Green Fork, the sun had already slouched westward like a beaten dog, staining the sky in bruised shades of purple and ash that spoke of storms to come.
The Twins rose before them like a pair of ancient sentinels: two squat, homely towers squatting on either bank of the river, bound together by the thick stone span of the bridge that had made House Frey rich beyond their deserving. They looked less like keeps than like watchful gargoyles, their arrow slits glinting like narrowed eyes that had seen too much treachery and learned to trust nothing that walked on two legs.
Pennants stirred above in the bitter wind, the twin towers of House Frey snapping and crackling like old bones. They were frayed and weathered, more rag than banner, as if the house itself had grown too parsimonious to mend its own pride or perhaps too bitter to care what the world thought of their threadbare dignity.
"Gods' blood," rumbled the Greatjon, his massive frame swaying easy in his saddle as he surveyed the fortress before them. His voice carried the rough music of the northern mountains, all gravel and granite. "Look at those banners, would you? I've seen better cloth wrapped around a fishmonger's catch. Do the Freys spend so little on their pride they can't afford proper silk?"
Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish himself, snorted from his position beside Ned Stark. His weathered face, carved by years of war and wisdom, twisted into something resembling a smile but sharper. "Pride costs coin, Greatjon, and Walder Frey counts every copper like it's his last breath. He'd sooner see his banners turn to dust than spend a groat on appearances."
Ned Stark rode at the column's head, his grey eyes taking in every detail of the fortress with the methodical patience that had served House Stark for generations. His face, lean and austere, showed nothing of his thoughts, but those who knew him well could read the tension in the set of his shoulders. Beside him, young Cregan sat his shaggy pony with a composure that seemed impossible for his tender years, dark hair stirring in the wind, violet eyes bright with an intelligence that made grown men shift uncomfortably when they met his gaze.
"Uncle," the boy said, his voice carrying despite its youth, each word precisely chosen, "the positioning is strategic. Control the crossing, control the Riverlands' heart. Militarily sound, if uninspired."
Arthur Dayne, resplendent even in the grey light, his white cloak pristine despite days of travel, turned those pale, calculating eyes toward his young charge. "Aye. But strategy without honor is merely cunning. And cunning men often find themselves outmaneuvered by those who think beyond the next move."
The column slowed as they approached, horses tossing their heads and snorting white breath into the cold air, leather creaking in the rhythm of a funeral march. The sound of fifteen hundred men and their mounts created a low rumble that seemed to make the very stones of the Twins vibrate. A horn bleated from the eastern tower, sharp and thin as a reed pipe played by a dying man, its note hanging in the still air like a challenge.
"Here they come," Brynden muttered, his hand drifting unconsciously to his sword hilt. "Like vultures drawn to carrion."
Soon a knot of riders clattered forth from the gatehouse, banners streaming in the wind, their horses' hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones. At their head rode Black Walder Frey, and even at a distance, his nature was written plain across his features.
He was lean as a whip, too lean, the sort of man who looked as though he had been bred on vinegar and spite rather than mother's milk and honey. His hair hung lank and dark about his narrow face like funeral shrouds, his mouth fixed in a smirk that seemed less an expression than a permanent scar left by too many cruel thoughts. Black eyes, flat as river stones and twice as cold, flicked from banner to banner with a disdain he made no effort to hide.
"My lord of Winterfell," he called out as he drew rein before them, his voice carrying in the still air, smooth as oil poured over rusted iron. There was mockery in every syllable, wrapped in a courtesy so thin it fooled no one. "And good sers of the North. My lord father bids you welcome to the Crossing. He commands me to escort you to him, that matters of passage and hospitality might be... discussed."
The word 'hospitality' dripped from his tongue like poison from an asp's fang.
Before Ned could respond, the Greatjon's booming laugh cracked across the meadow like thunder, causing several of the Frey horses to shy. "Hospitality, he says! I have seen kinder welcomes from starving dogs with a bone in their jaws and twice the meat on them!"
Black Walder's smirk deepened, but his eyes narrowed to slits. "Lord Umber, is it not? Your reputation precedes you. They say you can drink three men under the table and still have wit enough to find your way to a privy."
"Aye, and wit enough to know when I'm being pissed on by a whelp who thinks he's clever," the Greatjon shot back, his massive hand resting easy on his sword pommel. "Shall we test which reputation holds truer, boy?"
"Enough." Ned's voice cut through the brewing confrontation like a blade through silk, quiet but carrying absolute authority. He urged his horse forward a step, fixing Black Walder with those grey eyes that had stared down kings and lived to tell of it. "We come in peace, seeking passage. Nothing more, nothing less."
Cregan, straight-backed on his shaggy little pony, leaned close to his uncle's stirrup. His voice pitched low but clear enough for the men nearby to hear carried the gravity of someone far beyond his years. "Uncle, is that man truly a Frey? He appears... diminished from what the histories describe."
Ned's weathered hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the boy's shoulder. "He is, nephew."
The child frowned, dark brows drawing together in a brooding scowl so reminiscent of his uncle that Brynden couldn't suppress a snort of amusement. "He looks more like a crow that fell in a river and learned to speak," Cregan declared, with the absolute solemnity of a maester pronouncing judgment on matters of life and death.
Even Arthur Dayne's pale eyes flickered with something that might have been amusement, though his face remained as impassive as a statue carved from ice. The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
Black Walder's smirk transformed into something uglier, his gaze sharpening as if to carve the insult into memory for future repayment. When he spoke, his voice dripped with false courtesy wrapped around a core of malice. "The young wolf has teeth, I see. How... refreshing. My lord father will be most interested to make his acquaintance."
"No doubt he will," Brynden said dryly, his voice carrying decades of dealing with Frey duplicity. "Walder's always had an eye for fresh meat to pick over."
"Lead on, then," Ned said, his voice cool as the mists rising off the Green Fork. He gave the boy's arm a small squeeze that spoke of both affection and warning. "We will not keep Lord Frey waiting. Courtesy demands promptness."
The younger Frey wheeled his horse at once, too quick, too eager, his cloak snapping about him like the wings of a carrion bird taking flight. "As you command, my lord. Though I should mention—my lord father's patience, much like his years, grows shorter with each passing season."
"Not short enough, if you ask me," Brynden muttered, this time loud enough for several of the Frey escort to hear. His mouth twisted in something that was not quite a smile but promised unpleasant consequences for anyone who took offense.
"What say you, Ser Arthur?" the Greatjon boomed, clearly enjoying the tension crackling between the two parties. "Think old Walder's patience will outlast his bladder? Man his age, sitting on that throne of his..."
Arthur's response came in that cool, measured tone that somehow managed to be more intimidating than any shout. "I've found that men who speak overmuch of their patience rarely possess any worth the name. True patience, like true strength, needs no announcement."
Black Walder's jaw tensed visibly, his black eyes narrowing, but Arthur's cold stare swept across the Frey party as though he were measuring distances for killing strokes, calculating angles and weaknesses with the methodical precision of a master swordsman. The weight of that pale gaze seemed to settle on each Frey man-at-arms in turn, and more than one shifted uncomfortably in their saddles.
The Greatjon broke the taut silence with another booming laugh that rolled across the mossy stones like distant thunder. "Then bring us to him, pup, before the cold seeps so deep into these old bones that I piss icicles! Though I warrant that might improve the taste of whatever swill your cellars are serving these days."
Ned said nothing to the banter, his face remaining as readable as stone weathered by centuries of northern storms, but he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment and guided Cregan forward with a steady, protective hand at his elbow. The boy went proudly, chin lifted in unconscious mimicry of his uncle's bearing, though his dark eyes darted everywhere, drinking in details of the courtyard, the men, the strategic weaknesses with an intensity that made several of the watching Freys uncomfortable.
A small company broke from the northern host to accompany them: the Lord of Winterfell with his nephew and heir, Ser Arthur gleaming white and watchful as a winter ghost, Brynden Blackfish with his habitual glower that promised violence to anyone foolish enough to test him, and the Greatjon grinning wolfishly, as if he smelled sport in the offing and found the prospect delicious.
The rest of the northern army reined in along the meadow by the river's edge, campfires already sparking to life, canvas rising in uneven rows under the looming shadow of the towers. Men moved warily, glancing up often at the arrow slits above, for Frey eyes peered down from every window and parapet like hungry ravens waiting for carrion.
The gatehouse swallowed them with the finality of a tomb, hooves echoing like drumbeats in a funeral cavern. The sound bounced off stone walls slick with moisture and age, creating an almost musical rhythm that spoke of countless armies that had passed this way before. Within the courtyard, the air hung thick and damp, heavy with the stench of moss, horses, and something else—something that might have been fear or might have been anticipation, depending on one's disposition.
Servants scurried about their business with heads down and shoulders hunched, the very picture of people who had learned not to attract attention. Meanwhile, Frey men-at-arms leaned against the walls with studied casualness, their looks bold, curious, and more than a little insolent, like dogs testing to see how far they could push before their master called them to heel.
Black Walder slid from his horse with feline grace, every movement calculated for effect. He gestured toward the tower hall with a flourish that managed to be both courtly and mocking. "My lord father awaits in his solar. Best not tarry—his patience, like his years, is short, and shorter still when kept waiting by those who should know better."
"Not short enough," Brynden rasped again, this time loud enough to carry across the courtyard and draw sharp looks from the Frey guards. His weathered face twisted in something that was definitely not a smile. "Though I suppose we can hope."
The Frey's jaw tensed like a bowstring drawn too tight, his black eyes narrowing to points of malice, but Arthur's cold stare swept the yard as though he were measuring distances for a killing stroke, his hand resting easy on Dawn's pommel. The sight of that legendary blade, even sheathed, seemed to drain the boldness from the Frey men-at-arms like wine from a punctured skin.
The Greatjon broke the tension with another booming laugh that rolled across the mossy stones and seemed to shake dust from the rafters. "Then bring us to him, pup, before the cold seeps so deep I forget my manners and start breaking things! Your courtyard's prettier than I expected, but I'd hate to redecorate it with Frey blood before supper!"
Ned said nothing to the exchange, his face remaining unreadable as windswept stone, but he inclined his head slightly toward Black Walder—a gesture that managed to be both courteous and dismissive—and guided Cregan forward with that steady, protective hand. The boy walked proudly beside his uncle, chin lifted in unconscious defiance, though his violet eyes continued their methodical cataloging of every detail: guard positions, weapon placements, escape routes, weaknesses. It was a habit that would have seemed impossible in one so young, yet there it was, plain for those who knew how to look.
Together they crossed the courtyard toward the hall of the Twins, where Lord Walder Frey waited like a spider crouched at the center of a web woven from spite, avarice, and the patient malice of decades.
---
The hall of the eastern tower reeked of rushes gone sour with age and neglect, mingled with smoke from logs too green to burn properly. The air hung thick and choking, heavy with the weight of years and the accumulated bitterness of a house that had grown rich on other men's necessity while nursing grievances like precious wines.
The rafters above sagged under their own weight and the burden of cobwebs that hung like grey funeral shrouds, trembling in the drafts that crept through gaps in the ancient stonework. Faded hangings drooped along the walls like the remnants of better days, threadbare scenes of Freys long since returned to dust, their painted eyes watching the living with what seemed like hungry contempt, as if death had not satisfied their appetites.
At the far end of the hall, beneath a beam carved with the twin towers of his house—a carving that had once been fine work but was now cracked and stained with age—Lord Walder Frey sprawled upon his high seat like some ancient spider rotting in its own web. Time had gnawed him down to little more than bone and skin stretched over a frame that seemed too frail to contain such malice, but his presence filled the chamber like a foul stench fills a charnel house.
His lips trembled when he spoke, pale and bloodless as earthworms, his hands quivered when he gripped the carved arms of his chair with fingers like gnarled twigs, yet his eyes remained sharp as broken glass, darting hither and yon with the perpetual mistrust of a rat that has known too many traps and learned to suspect every shadow.
Around him stood a half-dozen of his brood, sons and grandsons clad in polished mail that gleamed more from oil and nervous labor than from any honest battle. They kept their shoulders stiff and their mouths pinched tight, each one the very image of Frey pride: brittle as autumn leaves and twice as likely to crumble at the first real test.
"So," Walder croaked, his voice cracked and thin as parchment left too long in the sun, yet carrying clearly through the fetid air. "The young Lord of Winterfell honors my hall at last. Cregan Stark, is it? Taller than I expected, aye, and broader in the shoulder. Strong bones, good breeding shows. I can see the wolf in you, boy, plain as day. Welcome, welcome to the Crossing. My gates stand wide for such an honored guest."
The words dripped honey, but the honey was poisoned with decades of accumulated spite.
Cregan Stark, dark-haired and solemn-eyed, sat straight-backed upon the chair that had been hastily brought for him, placed deliberately to the side and slightly behind his uncle's position. Not yet two years named Lord of Winterfell, yet already bearing himself with the poise and dignity of one thrice his age, he inclined his head gravely. When his voice came, it was deeper than his years should have allowed, each word measured and precise as if weighed on a merchant's scales.
"I thank you for your courtesy, Lord Frey. The Crossing is well-positioned, strategically sound. Your bridge serves the realm well, and your towers stand as testament to your house's industry."
Even in courtesy, there was something in the boy's tone that made several of the Frey sons shift uncomfortably. It was not quite condescension, not quite dismissal, but something that suggested he saw more than he was saying and judged more than he revealed.
The old man's mouth worked like he was chewing on something unpleasant, twitching into what passed for a smile but showed too many yellow teeth, like a skull's grin. "Well guarded, well built, aye, well said, my lord. Took coin to raise these stones, coin and sweat and honest Frey blood. More coin still it takes to keep them stout against flood and storm and the occasional fool who thinks to force a crossing. A thousand men-at-arms, all sworn to me and mine, all needing to be fed and housed and armed. Horses to stable, weapons to maintain, walls to repair. A heavy burden for an old man, eh? One eased by the courtesy and... generosity of travelers who understand the value of safe passage."
The hint was about as subtle as a war hammer to the skull.
Ser Brynden Tully, the black fish upon his surcoat seeming to writhe in the flickering torchlight, shifted where he stood like a man preparing to draw steel. His weathered face hardened into something that could have been carved from the stones of Riverrun itself. When he spoke, his voice cut through the hall's stale air like a whetstone scraping against iron.
"Name your toll plain and be done with it, Walder. Spare us your mummer's play and your crocodile tears. You've set your price a hundred times before, and every man here knows it to the copper. Stop dancing around like a virgin at her first feast and speak your piece."
The old weasel only smacked his lips with obvious relish, savoring the moment like a man tasting fine wine. His watery eyes glittered with malicious pleasure. "Ah, the Blackfish speaks! Still swimming against the current, I see. Still sharp of tongue and quick to bite. But for peddlers and sellswords, aye, the price stays the same as always. For lords, though? For the Lord of Winterfell himself, with all the North at his back? Courtesy must be... greater. Respect shown in kind, as befits the dignity of such a guest. Double the usual toll will suffice, I think. Quite reasonable, all considered."
He paused, letting that sink in before continuing with the air of a man delivering a master stroke.
"And perhaps... perhaps stronger ties might be forged as well, eh? A young wolf needs friends in this world, needs allies, needs... kin. I've daughters still unwed, granddaughters too—pretty girls with healthy wombs and good breeding. A match here, a match there, and the North bound to the Crossing with bridges of blood as well as stone. Think of it—Stark and Frey united! What a dynasty that would make!"
His voice grew stronger, more excited, as if he were truly warming to his theme rather than simply reciting a speech he'd clearly rehearsed.
The Greatjon's laugh cracked across the hall like thunder splitting the sky, so loud and sudden that several of the Frey guards jumped and reached for their weapons before catching themselves. "Pretty girls, he says! Hah! You've got more daughters and granddaughters than a rabbit's got kits, Frey! Tie every wolf in the North to your brood and soon the Dreadfort would be the only hall free of squawking Frey hens pecking at the corn!"
Even Arthur Dayne's pale lips twitched at that, though when he spoke, his voice was steel drawn bare and glittering in the torchlight. "The young Lord of Winterfell is already betrothed, my lord. By decree of King Robert Baratheon himself. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen is his promised bride, a match blessed by the Iron Throne. No other proposal may be entertained where the Crown has already spoken its will."
The words fell into the hall like stones dropped into still water, creating ripples of shock and dismay among the Frey brood. A silence sharp as a sword's edge settled over them all, broken only by the crackle of the poor fire and the whisper of wind through the ancient stones.
Walder's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping on dry land, his eyes bulging as he processed what he'd just heard. For a moment, the mask slipped completely, revealing the naked avarice and fury beneath. When he finally found his voice again, it came out as a wheezing laugh, false as a wooden coin and twice as worthless.
"A Targaryen princess! Oh, that's... that's quite the match, quite the match indeed! Who would dare gainsay our good King Robert in such matters? Certainly not I! No offense meant, none at all. I was merely... merely exploring possibilities, as any good lord must do for his house and blood."
But his eyes remained fixed on Cregan with a hunger that spoke of calculations being furiously revised, of new schemes already taking shape in that ancient, spider-clever mind.
Ser Brynden stepped forward then, his cloak swirling about him like the wings of some great bird of prey, his grey eyes as hard as the stones of his castle's foundations. "Courtesy you shall have, Walder—no more, and certainly no less. The toll as it has always been, coin counted fair and square. No doubled prices, no crooked contracts, no Frey tricks or clever wordplay. Take the gold that's owed and hold your tongue, or by the old gods and the new, we'll find a ford upstream and leave your precious towers as empty as your promises."
The threat hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
The old lord clawed at the arms of his seat with those gnarled fingers, his eyes bright with impotent rage, yet when Brynden's stare met his—hard as the Red Fork in the depths of winter—it was Walder who looked away first. He muttered something under his breath, sour as spoiled milk and twice as unpleasant.
"Standard toll then, standard toll and no more discussion. Standard rate for standard travelers, and may you enjoy my bridge's hospitality."
But even in apparent defeat, there was something in his tone that suggested the conversation was far from over.
"That's more like it!" the Greatjon boomed, his massive frame shaking with mirth. "Though I'll confess, I was half hoping you'd refuse, you old spider. Would have been a pleasure to see how fast a Frey can run when chased toward his own moat! Might have been worth the price of admission!"
Arthur Dayne remained motionless as carved ice, those pale eyes watchful and calculating, while Ned Stark inclined his head in a curt nod that managed to be both courteous and dismissive. When he moved to guide his nephew to rise, the boy looked small beneath the dancing shadows cast by the guttering torches, his frame still narrow with youth, his cloak hanging long about his shoulders.
Yet when the firelight caught his eyes, those unusual violet orbs seemed to burn with some inner fire, some quiet gravity that made even grown men along the benches shift uncomfortably, as though they felt the weight of winter itself settling upon their shoulders like a burial shroud.
"My lord of the Crossing," Cregan said, his voice carrying that same solemn weight that seemed impossible for his years, each word precisely chosen and delivered with the gravity of a royal pronouncement. "I thank you for your hall's welcome, and for your bridge's long service to the realm. House Frey has maintained this crossing for generations, and that service is... noted."
There was something in that word 'noted' that made Black Walder's smirk falter, something that suggested accounts were being kept in ledgers that extended far beyond mere gold and silver.
Brynden Tully's grey brows lifted almost imperceptibly, and the faintest snort of what might have been amusement escaped him. The Greatjon's grin grew even wider, if such a thing were possible, but he held his tongue for once, sensing that something more significant was happening than the usual dance of courtesy and insult.
The boy had stepped forward then, ignoring Ned's suddenly tightening hand upon his arm, moving with a confidence that seemed to fill the hall despite his small stature.
"Custom and courtesy demand that I take your hand before I pass beneath your gate, my lord," Cregan declared, his young voice carrying clearly through the stale air. "A lord's word is sealed with flesh and blood, not merely with coin. This my uncle taught me, and his father before him."
A ripple went through the assembled Freys like wind through wheat. One of the younger sons muttered something to his brother, another tittered nervously, and Black Walder's mouth curled into its habitual sneer of contempt. But the old spider upon his throne blinked in genuine surprise, caught completely off guard by the boy's boldness.
His lips smacked wetly as he processed this unexpected development. "Hnh. Stark words, aye. Bold words from one still young enough to be in swaddling clothes. But... very well, very well. Come then, young wolf. Let us seal this bargain properly."
He leaned forward with a wheeze that spoke of lungs long since rotted with age and spite, his claw-like hand trembling as it stretched forth like a branch reaching from a dying tree. Veins stood out dark against his waxy skin, and his fingers shook with palsy.
Ned's fingers pressed firmer against his nephew's shoulder, a silent warning. "Enough," he murmured, low enough for Cregan's ear alone but carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Courtesy has been given and received. We'll pay the toll and be gone from this place."
But the boy slipped free of his uncle's restraining hand with an ease that spoke of long practice, his face as solemn as carved stone. Without hesitation, without any sign of the revulsion that any sane person should feel, he reached out and took the Frey's withered hand in his own small, strong grip.
The hall seemed to hold its breath. Even the torches flickered less, as if the very air had grown thick with anticipation. Flesh met flesh: the young wolf and the ancient spider, the living and the nearly dead, honor and spite made manifest.
A smile twitched across Walder's withered lips, half triumph and half mockery, the expression of a man who believed he had just gained some small advantage in the endless game of houses.
None but Cregan felt the faint shiver that passed between them at the moment of contact. None but the boy saw the torchlight catch strangely in his own eyes, a flicker of something that was neither entirely natural nor entirely explicable. Beneath the skin, beneath the flesh and bone, older things stirred—memories that belonged to another life, another world, another name. The awareness of Harry Potter, a wizard who had known betrayal dressed in courtesy, who had seen treachery wrapped in smiles, who had dealt with spiders and snakes and creatures far more dangerous than Walder Frey.
The curse slid forth like a whisper on winter wind, subtle as frost forming on glass, patient as time itself. Not for this night, nor the next, nor even the year to come, but for a slow, inexorable ruin that would rot the old man from the marrow outward, eating away at him like some terrible cancer of the soul.
When the boy finally released Walder's hand, his own fingers tingled faintly, as if he had touched something far colder than human flesh should ever be.
Lord Walder chuckled then, a sound like dried leaves scraping against stone, wheezy and smug and utterly self-satisfied. "Hnh. A Stark pup with teeth already, and sharp ones too. I'll remember this moment, boy. The day young Cregan Stark graced my hall with his... presence. See that you remember it as well."
"I will remember," Cregan replied, his voice quiet as falling snow but somehow cutting as the sharpest frost. "I remember everything, my lord. Everything."
There was something in those words, some promise or threat or simple statement of fact, that made more than one Frey shift uncomfortably in their places.
Ned Stark stepped forward then, his cloak sweeping about him like the wings of some great bird, every line of his tall frame radiating the cold restraint that had made him legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms. "We thank you for your courtesy, Lord Frey. The toll will be paid in good silver, as it has ever been. And with that, the North will trouble your bridge no longer than necessary."
Walder licked his lips with a tongue like a dried slug, those watery eyes darting from nephew to uncle as if trying to parse some hidden meaning from their words and bearing. "Aye, aye. Go then, go and be welcome to it. Cross swift and pay fair coin, and may your journey's end bring you... all that you deserve."
"Fair coin and honest passage," Brynden rasped, stepping forward with his weathered face set like granite, "Take the toll, count it thrice if it pleases you, then choke on it for all I care."
"Mind your tongue, Tully," Black Walder hissed, his pale face sharp with offense and barely contained malice. "You're guests in this hall, not conquerors."
"Mind yours first, whelp," Brynden shot back without missing a beat, his hand drifting toward his sword hilt with practiced ease, "before I decide to tear it out by the root and feed it to the fish in your moat."
The Greatjon's booming laugh broke across the hall like a clap of thunder, scattering the growing tension like a hammer shattering glass. "Ha! The boy's shamed the lot of you Freys with a handful of words and not yet grown to man's height! If this is the measure of Winterfell's wolf, well... may the gods preserve and keep you all, Walder. You'll need their protection and more besides to weather what's coming."
Arthur Dayne had said little throughout the entire exchange, but his pale eyes had missed nothing, cataloguing every face, every weapon, every possible threat with the methodical precision of a master killer. Now he spoke, his voice carrying the cold finality of winter itself.
"We are finished here. The hour grows late, and we have leagues yet to travel before we rest."
It was not a request.
Ned inclined his head in curt farewell, his hand returning to his nephew's shoulder with obvious protectiveness. Together, the small party turned toward the great doors, their boots echoing against the damp stone as they prepared to leave this place of shadows and spite behind.
The Greatjon's laughter rolled with them as they went, Brynden muttered what sounded like extremely creative curses under his breath, Arthur's watchful silence pressed close around them like a shield, and young Cregan walked quiet as snowfall, his violet gaze dark and thoughtful upon the hall they were leaving behind.
Upon his high seat, Lord Walder Frey sagged back into his carved throne, his mouth twitching into that yellowed grin of satisfaction. Smug in his bargain, pleased with his small victory, the ancient spider fancied himself master of his bridge and his brood, secure in his web of stone and spite.
He did not see the shadow that had been planted within him during that moment of contact, quiet and patient as winter itself, already beginning its slow, inexorable work. He could not know that the child who had clasped his hand carried within him the memories and knowledge of another world entirely, where magic was real and justice, however long delayed, always found its way to those who deserved it.
The curse would work slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. A slight weakness in the limbs, a tremor in the hands, a cloudiness in the eyes that had nothing to do with age. Then would come the forgetfulness, the confusion, the slow dissolution of the very traits that had made Walder Frey so feared and despised. His cunning would fail him, his memory would betray him, and his body would follow his mind into the darkness that awaited all men, but sooner and more completely than nature intended.
It was not quite justice, perhaps, but it was a beginning. And sometimes, beginnings were enough.
As the northern party made their way back across the courtyard toward their waiting army, none of them noticed the way the shadows seemed to linger a little longer in the corners of the Twins, or how the very stones seemed to whisper secrets to those who knew how to listen.
Winter was coming to the Crossing, and it would arrive wearing a child's face and carrying memories of treachery that demanded payment in full.
---
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