The great hall of Riverrun had grown uncomfortably quiet. The candles flickered in the draft, casting wavering shadows on stone columns and worn banners. The lords seated around the long tables shifted restlessly, their eyes darting between King Robert Baratheon and the ancient, sharp-eyed old man lounging smugly at the head of the table—Walder Frey.
Robert could feel every eye in the hall on him. As King, he was expected to break stalemates, to silence squabbling lords with thunder, to solve impossible problems with brute force or royal authority. Yet here he stood, confronted with a very real and immediate crisis: the army marching under his banner lacked supplies, and the kingdom's coffers were already strained thin. Even a king could not conjure grain out of thin air.
And the situation was Robert's own fault as well. Before leaving King's Landing, he had refused to strip the capital of more grain, knowing the swollen population already teetered on the edge of hunger. Nor could he bleed the North any further; Eddard had already warned him bluntly about the approaching winter. The North could not feed both itself and a royal host.
But Renly's Stormlander forces were far from home, marching across the width of the kingdom. Bringing more supplies from Storm's End would take weeks, perhaps months, and the soldiers would not march on empty stomachs. They were not goats, he thought grimly—they would not graze on grass through half the realm.
Which left only one option: source the supplies locally.
And when it came to local wealth… there was only one family whose coffers overflowed, whose storehouses were bursting with grain despite the turmoil of war—the Freys.
Robert did not even need to turn his head to feel the shift in the room. Every lord present, from proud knights of the Vale to grim bannermen of the North, slowly turned toward Walder Frey.
Marquis Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing. Elder than most could guess, sly as a fox, prolific as a rabbit, and richer than any man had a right to be—with fertile lands along all three forks of the Trident and the tolls of the Twins filling his purse daily. His people boasted openly that even winter came late to the Twins, so heavily did gold weigh down their granaries.
If anyone could supply the royal host, it was Walder Frey.
Yet the old man seemed oblivious—or pretended to be. He reclined in his high-backed chair as if the concerns of kings were no more than a distant breeze. His watery eyes remained half-lidded, while he swirled a cup of summer-red wine from Dorne, sniffing its sweet aroma with unhurried pleasure. He sipped slowly, savoring it.
Robert's jaw clenched. The Frey's indifference scraped against his temper like a rasp on raw flesh. But anger would help nothing—he needed cooperation, not another quarrel.
Robert forced a smile, though it looked more like a grimace.
"Lord Frey," he said, lifting his own cup and stepping toward the old man, "I believe we require your assistance."
Walder Frey blinked up at him, all innocence. "Your Majesty, it is my highest honour to host you. The Frey family is humbled that so many noble lords grace my humble hall."
His tone was polite, his words generous—yet everyone heard the deliberate evasion.
Robert's eyelid twitched. Seven hells, this old goat…
Before Robert's temper could fully ignite, Eddard Stark stepped quickly forward, placing a steadying hand on the king's forearm, gently lowering the cup Robert had been half-raising in irritation.
Eddard turned toward Walder Frey with the calm, composed courtesy of a lord who knew too well how to navigate stubborn tempers.
"Marquis Walder," he said with a polite nod, "we are grateful for your hospitality. Truly. But the matter we must discuss is urgent. My men and I have marched far, and our supply lines are stretched thin. Without a reasonable plan to secure provisions, we cannot continue the campaign."
The hall held its breath. Finally, Frey set down his cup and leaned forward, his thin lips curling with amusement. His voice carried the faint tremor of age, yet was clear enough to betray cunning sharper than any sword.
"So that is what this is about," he chuckled softly. "Here I was, wondering if my wines had displeased His Majesty."
He folded his arms atop the table and sighed dramatically.
"Duke Eddard Stark, surely you understand that the Frey family's wealth has been greatly exaggerated. Our lands are modest. Our expenses—ah, with so many sons, daughters, and grandchildren—are a constant burden. The tolls from the bridge only barely sustain us."
The lie was so brazen several lords nearly choked.
Even Eddard's patience flickered. He exhaled slowly. "Marquis, we—"
But Robert slammed a hand onto the table with a resounding crack that echoed through the hall.
"Enough, Frey!" he barked. "We both know you're not half as poor as you pretend to be. So let's skip this dance. Say what you want. Name your price. You want something—I can smell it from across the realm."
The old man did not flinch. Instead, a sly smile crept across his wrinkled face.
"My liege lord," Frey said calmly, "is not the King. It is Duke Hoster Tully of Riverrun."
It was not treason, yet it was close enough to sting.
Robert's nostrils flared, but Walder Frey continued smoothly.
"Of course," he went on, swirling his wine again, "as Protector of the Realm, Your Majesty deserves our loyalty. And naturally, the Frey house shall do its duty when the Iron Throne commands."
His eyes gleamed with mock admiration.
"My sons would be honoured to serve your cause."
Robert felt veins throbbing at his temples. The man was too slippery to grasp, too cunning to threaten. You could no more bully Walder Frey than you could bully a snake—it would simply coil tighter and sink its fangs deeper later.
But then Frey paused, setting his cup aside. His gaze shifted from the king to Eddard Stark, and in that moment everyone felt the shift. A quiet, deliberate reveal.
"Lord Eddard," the old man said lightly, "I hear your eldest boy has come of age."
The hall froze. Every lord straightened in their seat.
Robb Stark.
The heir to Winterfell.
Eddard's expression tightened, though he remained composed.
Walder Frey continued, voice smooth and falsely casual. "And yet I have heard no whisper of an engagement for young Robb. No arrangements with any prominent house."
Silence thickened like fog.
There it was.
The dagger hidden in the old man's sleeve.
For years, Walder Frey had obsessed over tying his brood to a great house, yet his family name carried neither glory nor honour. Noble families hesitated to ally with him; after all, he was infamous for breaking oaths, ignoring summons, and fathering children like a man planting seeds in every patch of fertile soil.
But a marriage into House Stark—that was something he had long dreamed of but never dared hope for.
And now he saw opportunity.
Blatant, shameless opportunity.
Even the dimmest squire could see his intentions: he would give supplies, yes—but in exchange, he wanted one of Eddard Stark's children. He wanted the Starks bound to House Frey with iron chains of marriage.
As Eddard's bannermen turned to him for guidance, Robert's scowl deepened.
Because Walder's words held a barbed mockery—one aimed directly at the king.
Once, Robert himself had tried to secure a marriage alliance between his children and Ned's—pairing Joffrey with Sansa or Myrcella with Robb. But now the entire realm whispered the truth: Cersei's children were not Baratheons at all. Jon Arryn had died seeking that truth, Stannis had exposed it, and Robert's heart had broken beneath the weight of it.
Now Joffrey and Myrcella remained in Winterfell under polite but undeniable confinement.
And Walder Frey dared to hint at it. To mock it.
Robert's jaw tightened so hard it could have cracked stone.
Eddard inhaled slowly, mind racing. He understood exactly what Frey implied. Agreeing would secure the needed supplies—but at the cost of binding the honor of House Stark to a man he mistrusted deeply. Refusing, however, placed thousands of soldiers in jeopardy.
Walder Frey waited patiently, savoring the tension.
The old man had sprung his trap.
And the hall braced for Eddard Stark's reply…
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