The hall gradually emptied until only two men remained: Ser Marq Piper, heir to House Piper, and the ancient, sharp-eyed Lord Walder Frey.
Walder leaned back in his carved chair, his thin fingers drumming against the armrest. His watery eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and contempt.
"They are all waiting for me to die," he croaked. "Stevron has been waiting for forty years. Forty! But I am determined to disappoint him. Why should I hurry off to heaven just so he can sit in my seat?"
Ser Marq forced a polite smile. "I sincerely hope you live to be a hundred, my lord."
Walder's mouth twisted into a grin. "Oh, that would infuriate them, wouldn't it? Now then—let us speak of this matter of troops. You said you brought something for me?"
"Yes, my lord." Ser Marq drew a folded parchment from inside his doublet. "A personal letter from Lord Hoster Tully. He requests that House Frey send troops to relieve Riverrun."
"Ah, the lament of poor old Hoster." Walder snatched the letter eagerly and broke the seal. The silver trout of House Tully shimmered faintly in the candlelight.
He read aloud in a mocking tone. "'Lord Walder, if you remember your sacred oath, send aid at once.'"
Walder let out a wheezing laugh and folded the parchment.
"Send troops? Hoster begging me—now that is a sight I never expected. But sending men is not so simple. The Kingslayer camps outside Riverrun with ten thousand men. Am I to march my few thousand into a slaughter?"
"Absolutely not!" Ser Marq snapped. "Stark will send troops. The Vale will send troops. But you are the most powerful lord left in the Riverlands. You must act first!"
"Calm yourself, Ser," Walder replied lazily. "Stark is rotting in the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep for treason. Hoster is bedridden and near death. Edmure is in chains. And you expect me to risk everything?"
"You swore allegiance to Lord Hoster."
"I also swore allegiance to the king," Walder countered smoothly. "And King Joffrey sits the Iron Throne. That makes Riverrun's defenders rebels, does it not? Why should I aid traitors? Perhaps I should join Lord Tywin instead."
"Then why don't you?" Ser Marq challenged.
Walder snorted.
"Tywin Lannister. Golden lion, warden of the west, hand of the king. Hah. I suppose he farts like any other man after a heavy meal. What makes him so grand? He has two sons: one Kingslayer and one twisted little imp. I have nineteen and a half sons. If two die, I barely notice."
He cackled.
"But if Tywin wants my help, he can bloody well ask."
Walder leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"Besides, the realm trembles. Three storms gather. Robert's brothers make claims. There's even that blacksmith's bastard across the Narrow Sea. Everyone covets the Iron Throne. Why should I wager early?"
Ser Marq's jaw tightened. "My lord, I am not speaking of thrones. I speak for Riverrun. For House Tully."
"I have men," Walder said idly. "But Riverrun has not fallen. They can endure a while longer."
"Not long enough!"
"Young men are so impatient." Walder gestured toward a side chamber. "See my wife? Sixteen years old. Soft as spring grass. Why should I leave such comforts for chaos and blood?"
Ser Marq understood then. Frey would not send a single soldier—not yet.
Walder's voice grew sharper.
"Hoster insulted me. He did not attend my wedding. Nor the one before. They call me Walder the Late. The whole Riverlands laughs."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming.
"I once proposed that Edmure marry one of my daughters. A fine girl. But Hoster refused me with sweet words and false smiles."
Walder's tone hardened further.
"And Lysa Tully. A year ago in King's Landing, I proposed fostering arrangements between our houses. Lord Arryn refused. That was her doing. They all look down on House Frey."
Ser Marq struggled to contain his frustration.
"My lord, if you will not aid us, then I request leave. I must ride north."
"Leave?" Walder smiled thinly. "The roads are dangerous. The Twins are safer. Stay. Feast. Perhaps wed one of my daughters."
Ser Marq's blood ran cold. He realized he was not merely a guest—he was a hostage.
"You will regret delay," he warned.
"I regret nothing," Walder replied. "I act only when the outcome is certain."
The bells rang, signaling the feast's continuation. Freys flooded back into the hall, and Ser Marq was swept along into the banquet.
The Bluebeard Mercenaries had ingratiated themselves easily. Rough men, loud and hungry, they fit well among Frey's sprawling brood.
Ser Marq was seated at the high table beside Walder. His own men were scattered throughout the hall, isolated and leaderless.
Below, the mercenaries drank freely.
By nightfall, the Twins seemed peaceful. Laughter faded. Wine dulled vigilance. Riverrun's peril felt distant.
Sentinels stood at the River Gate Tower, but the air held no tension. The war had not reached these walls.
Bluebeard, holding a bottle of pear brandy, approached two gate guards.
"Care for a drink?" he asked in broken Westerosi. "Tyroshi pear brandy."
The guards hesitated, then accepted.
"You're the mercenaries from today?" one asked.
"Aye. Selling our swords. But we must eat first."
They laughed quietly.
"Are we marching soon?" Bluebeard asked.
"Haven't heard such orders," the guard replied. "Lord Frey waits."
Bluebeard listened carefully, gathering names and roles. Hosdton commanded the West Keep. Danyel oversaw the East. A bastard held the tower. The heir was elderly and uninspired.
Valuable information.
They waited until the Hour of the Wolf—the darkest, most exhausted hour before dawn.
Shift changes weakened vigilance.
In secret, a Piper knight slipped into Bluebeard's quarters.
"The drawbridge," Bluebeard whispered. "We open it first. The Lord's forces will attack the main bridge."
"And Ser Marq?"
"He must trust us."
Outside, on the Green Fork, Seaguard's boats glided silently through the black water.
Jason Mallister stood at the prow like a hunting falcon.
"The river runs deep," he murmured. "Board swiftly when we near the bridge. The West Keep will open the way."
This was Seaguard's gamble. Frey's rise had long threatened Mallister interests.
In the forest west of the Twins, five small catapults were positioned. Oil barrels and stones lay ready.
Ser Patrik oversaw them. This battle would humble House Frey.
Meanwhile, Gendry rode at the head of a formidable force: five hundred Gold Cloak household knights, two thousand Crab Claw cavalry, one thousand Vale riders, and five hundred Seaguard cavalry.
Their horses were muffled. Armor gleamed faintly in moonlight.
Inside the Twins, Bluebeard's men donned grey robes stolen that day. It was enough to pass in darkness.
"Now," Bluebeard whispered.
They rushed the outer gate.
"What are you doing?" the drawbridge commander demanded.
Bluebeard smiled—and drove a dagger into his throat before the man could shout.
"Enemy—" The cry died beneath steel.
Crossbows twanged. Guards fell.
Then—
Boom.
A flare shot skyward, bathing the Twins in sudden light.
Chains groaned.
The great drawbridge slammed down with a thunderous crash.
Across the river, Jason Mallister raised his sword.
"Charge!"
Boats surged forward.
From the forest, catapults fired. Flaming oil arced into the night, crashing against timber and stone.
Within the walls, confusion erupted. Bells rang. Freys stumbled from sleep.
Gendry spurred his horse.
"Forward!"
Cavalry thundered across the bridge as the gates buckled.
Firelight reflected in the river below, twin castles mirrored in chaos.
House Frey, so confident in delay and cunning, had misjudged the storm.
And now the storm had come in the night.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)