Late 288 AC
Returning to the Twins was always a sobering experience. The victory at the Widow's Mill felt distant as soon as the grey walls of the crossing loomed overhead. But this time, Rykker carried a heavy chest of coin—the advance from the Maidenpool guild—and a signed treaty.
He didn't go to his small room in the servant's quarters. He went straight to Lothar.
Lothar was in the Great Hall, watching servants scrub the floor. When Rykker placed the chest on the table and opened it, the glint of gold caught the torchlight.
"The dispute is settled," Rykker said, his voice echoing slightly in the empty hall. "Blackwood and Bracken are satisfied. And here is the first year's projected revenue for House Frey."
Lothar limped over, running a hand through the coins."You sold the rights?"
"I'm an administrator, not a brick-maker," Rykker said. "The guild takes the risk. We take the rent."
Lothar closed the chest with a satisfying thud. "Father is in a foul mood today. His eighth wife is sick. But gold is the best medicine for him."
They walked together up to the Lord's solar. The climb was slow, matching Lothar's gait. Rykker felt his heart rate increase. This was it.
Lord Walder Frey sat in his chair, looking more like a vulture than ever. He was picking his teeth with a splinter of bone. When Lothar presented the chest and explained the deal, Walder didn't smile. He just grunted.
"Smart," Walder wheezed. "Trick the fools into paying us for their own dirt."
He looked at Rykker. "You did this? The bastard?"
"I did, my lord," Rykker said, bowing low.
Lothar says you want a name," Walder said, his eyes narrowing. "Says you think you're too good for 'Rivers.'"
"I think I can serve House Frey better if I am not dismissed by other lords as a natural son," Rykker said carefully. "The Ironborn are stirring, my lord. When the call to banners comes, you will need men who can command respect in the camps. A Frey can speak for you. A Rivers can only listen."
Walder stared at him for a long, uncomfortable minute.
"Legitimization costs. The King has to sign it. Robert Baratheon doesn't care about bastards, he makes enough of them himself. But Jon Arryn... Arryn likes order."
Walder leaned forward. "I'll write the letter to the Hand. But you don't get it for free. You brought me gold today. Good. But a name binds you to me. You are mine, boy. Body and soul. If I tell you to jump off the bridge, you jump. If I tell you to marry a pig, you bed it."
"I understand, Grandfather," Rykker said, using the familial title for the first time.
Walder cackled."Don't get comfortable. Until the King signs it, you're still mud."
He waved a hand."Get out. Leave the gold."
Rykker left the solar, his legs feeling slightly weak. He hadn't won yet, but the pieces were moving.
He walked out onto the battlements, the cold river wind hitting his face. Below, the Green Fork churned, dark and relentless.
He looked west, toward the Sunset Sea.
The Greyjoy Rebellion was coming. And Rykker Frey—he tested the name in his mind—would be ready for it.