As the Targaryen family's summer retreat, Summerhall was not built to the same defensive standard as the Red Keep or Riverrun. Instead of massive walls and battlements, it boasted towering columns, arched colonnades linking courtyards with fountains—an exquisite and graceful palace in the truest sense. Prince Rhaegar, who oversaw its reconstruction, had even made adjustments to the original blueprints: the royal guest suites were arranged almost intimately close to the prince's own quarters. Since Aerys had publicly declared that he would no longer leave the Red Keep, Rhaegar's intention was obvious—at the time, he had planned to spend every future summer here, at the side of his beloved younger brother.
Yet when the first long summer arrived, no royal procession bearing the red-and-black three-headed dragon banners ever came down the Kingsroad.
In stark contrast to the lively bustle of the newly completed Summerhall stood the ruins of the old palace at the end of the Boneway. The former garden ponds lay waterlogged and untended, thick with silt, transformed into a paradise for frogs. Lush climbing vines had long since swallowed the broken walls of the main hall. Amid the sea of green, Viserys—silver-haired, dressed in white—pushed aside the creepers, revealing the pale marble foundation beneath. He gazed at it in silence, trying to capture even the faintest trace of his brother's presence from long ago.
About ten years earlier, the young Crown Prince had loved to bring his silver-stringed harp here, leaving King's Landing behind. It was said that he would spend entire nights in silent contemplation among the ruins, sighing in sorrow. Night dew would dampen his robes, scenting his silver hair with the fragrance of the forest. Brother… brother must have once sat right here too, thinking, grieving, understanding. The music he plucked at random could make even the hardest of hearts weep. Back then, his brother had been so melancholy—
"…It was me. I could make my brother happy."
Viserys murmured softly. The image of the young Rhaegar wandering the ruins shifted. He smiled and walked toward him, more handsome and mature than ever."My Viserys," he said, reaching out his hand. "Would you like to hear me play?"
"I want to—more than anything. Brother…"
Later, his brother abandoned the ruins and preferred instead to play beneath the heart tree in the Red Keep's godswood, the melodies no longer steeped solely in sorrow. Viserys loved best to rest his head upon his brother's knee, letting those long, strong fingers slowly stroke his hair and face. Tilting his head up, he would see stars gathered in his brother's eyes.
The prince sniffed, then collapsed limply onto the thick, wild sprawl of green sage, staring wide-eyed at the sky above. Brother is on Dragonstone now… can he see the same sky?
In the end, Viserys never sent the letter inviting his brother to Summerhall to escape the heat. He missed him terribly—but he was afraid. Afraid that the newly wedded Crown Princess, Lyanna, would come as well. Of course she would.
I can't write the word "husband and wife" on that invitation. And I'd have to arrange the royal suite for my brother and Lyanna to stay together? I've already made one great mistake—a colossal mistake—how could I possibly endure it again? Let Lyanna sleep with my brother in my palace, in the room across from mine? Am I supposed to listen to her cries of pleasure?
I'd rather set everything on fire—burn every mistake to ashes.
Viserys knew his own dark desires all too well. He even suspected that if his brother truly came, he might do exactly as he had once joked to Tyrion—become a shameless Naerys, sneaking into his brother's bedchamber at night… Would my brother kiss me? Would I become his secret lover? He despised the thought, yet covered his face and let out a miserable laugh—because he wanted to do it. Truly wanted to.
He realized that his moral restraints had completely collapsed. He laughed bitterly. Why shouldn't it be allowed? Who could stop him? The Targaryens married their own blood anyway. His brother loved him—had always loved him!
The Faith can go to hell. If they dared judge the royal house, he would wipe them out with wildfire and send them all to the afterlife in one stroke! Viserys seethed at imaginary enemies—Would the Faith dare to put me on trial, strip me, shave my head? I'd march an army straight through the Great Sept of Baelor—
Maegor should have ridden his dragon and slaughtered the Faith to the last! Hang every septon and septa! Then who would dare oppose the Targaryens? Oh, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms? Fine. Wait until I crush them all, reclaim every shred of power. Then let's see who dares gossip about my brother and me—
"Your Highness!"
The shout from an attendant shattered his fevered fantasies. When Viserys emerged from the ruins, he was once again the young and capable Targaryen prince—handsome, elegant, perfectly composed. His aide carefully brushed the bits of grass from his white linen shirt, presented his silk outer cloak, and brought his horse forward.
"Your Highness, the men you sent to Dragonstone have returned. They've brought back gifts from the Crown Prince and his wife."
At the word wife, Viserys's expression remained calm. After a long pause, he merely said, "Oh," swung into the saddle, and galloped off down the Boneway—only to veer suddenly aside, not even bothering to look at what gifts his brother had sent, riding straight back toward the palace instead.
Summerhall frequently hosted proper social banquets, and many nobles from near and far considered an invitation from Prince Viserys a great honor. With a particular purpose in mind, Viserys even sent a raven all the way to the distant Twins.
Lord Walder Frey most desired an elevation of his family's status. Delighted that the prince he had once hosted had not forgotten them, he responded with great sincerity, dispatching his eldest son and heir, Stevron, to travel thousands of leagues south to attend high noble society.
He instructed his son to be unfailingly polite and to display the family's wealth—only then might the unmarried sons and daughters of House Frey gain good opportunities.
Walder's grey-eyed, weasel-faced eldest son was in truth a gentle and upright man, yet he was not well liked by certain old noble houses who prided themselves on ancient lineage. To them, the Freys were nothing more than upstarts. No matter how fine his clothes or how proper his manners, they treated him with little courtesy.
"Hey, your Frey family has been charging bridge tolls for hundreds of years. Your most famous ancestor must be that one nicknamed the Fool, right? What was his real name—Forrest? During Queen Rhaenyra's royal progress, he fell in love at first sight and had the gall to propose! Talk about knowing your place!"
"Hahahaha! And then he died fighting for Rhaenyra. The nickname fits."
They spoke so casually of his forebear that Stevron felt deeply humiliated. He knew better than to lose his temper, and forced a smile, about to say this only proved his ancestor's loyalty—
When suddenly, the prince's cold voice cut in."…What did you just say?"
The Stormlander, Lord Errol, met the prince's violet eyes and immediately began to stammer. "Y-Your Highness—"
"I heard you. You said that Lord Frey died fighting for Queen Rhaenyra, and that made him a fool?" Viserys stared at him. "Is that so?!"
Errol dared not deny it. "But, Your Highness—"
"The king on the Iron Throne today—my father—is descended from Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon," Viserys said calmly. "Do you think that fighting for the rightful throne of the king's ancestors makes a man a fool? Would you like my father to hear what you just said?"
The nobles who had laughed along instantly backed away, leaving a ridiculous empty circle around Lord Errol."He's going to be burned alive," someone whispered.
Terrified, Errol dropped to one knee. "Prince Viserys! Please forgive me! I never meant to mock a knight who fought for the king's ancestors!"
Viserys pointed at Stevron. "You're an utter idiot. Now apologize to him—to House Frey—formally. And if I ever hear such words again, you can take a trip to King's Landing and explain to the king in person why you apparently support the Greens."
The accusation was crushing. With no choice, Lord Errol bent before Stevron and apologized to House Frey for insulting their ancestor, offering his armor and horses as compensation.
Viserys then publicly praised Lord Forrest Frey's loyalty."To remain faithful to the woman he loved, even after being rejected—to die for her—his character is far more worthy of the title kingmaker than Criston Cole ever was."
The nobles echoed his words like trained birds.
Viserys turned to Stevron with a slight smile. "If the men and women of House Frey all possess such loyal qualities… you have several unmarried sisters, don't you? Perhaps I can help arrange a good match."
Oh! Your Highness! Stevron was overwhelmed with gratitude.
As expected, when Stevron returned home, old Lord Walder learned every detail of what had transpired at Summerhall.
"Excellent. At the very least, the prince can make one Frey daughter a countess. I'll prepare enormous dowries—gold and silver enough to blind them."
Crippled by gout, the old lord sat in the dim great hall, gazing at the slanting sun beyond the Twins—the river of his family's wealth glittered just as brightly. For generations, the Freys had been scorned by ancient houses as upstarts, denied equal respect. He had exhausted every scheme to marry his second son into a great house like the Lannisters… Now Prince Viserys showed no prejudice over birth and upheld justice for the Freys. His attitude stirred dreams in the old man's heart. He regretted not having taken another beautiful wife earlier, not having more suitably aged daughters—
It wasn't impossible, was it?
Perhaps House Frey might one day marry into the royal family. The next generation. Just wait for the next generation. Prince Viserys's next generation…
Wrapped in a blanket, the old lord reclined comfortably as his sixth wife poured him a bowl of hot cabbage-and-mutton stew. He told her not to disturb him. As his thoughts drifted, his eyelids grew heavy—
In his dream, the Green Fork roared beneath the Twins. Ravens scattered in panic, bringing news of war and chaos. Rebellion? Robert Baratheon of the Stormlands? Jon Arryn of the Vale?
What should our family do?
What a foolish question. Walder Frey realized this was a once-in-a-thousand-years opportunity.
The Riverlands, Stormlands, North, and Vale were united—the core of the usurpers—but within each lay lords still loyal to the crown. Walder decided at once: they would be royalists! Find Prince Viserys at once! Offer him a daughter as wife!
In the midst of crisis, the prince readily agreed. And so House Frey firmly held the crossings. Sons and grandsons led tens of thousands of troops into the royal army—they took Riverrun, attacked from both sides, and cut off reinforcements. Even though Crown Prince Rhaegar fell at the Ruby Ford, the king's forces in King's Landing ultimately prevailed.
Walder's wish was fulfilled. His daughter would become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Invited to the Red Keep, he came to witness the supreme glory earned by Frey loyalty—the peak of his life—
But why had the silver-haired Targaryen king suddenly become a strange red-haired boy? He wore a crown too, calling himself the King in the North.
Frowning in confusion, Walder heard him break the betrothal and take another bride. Walder sneered when he saw who the boy's mother was—Catelyn Tully, the eldest daughter of House Tully. She had aged badly after marrying into the North. Ungrateful northerners.
Catelyn proposed compensation—Edmure would marry a Frey daughter.
Walder showed no reaction on the surface, but his drooping grey eyes brimmed with mockery. The Tully lord had rejected his proposals countless times. Enough! Enough of these people! His daughter could have been queen!
He did not forget to seek out King Viserys—only to hear that he had fled to Essos. Walder believed that when he returned, he would honor their pact. He selected a capable grandson and sent him across the sea to swear loyalty to the king and await restoration.
As for these northern brutes, Walder coldly arranged to trample their so-called guest right at the replacement wedding. Slaughter them all—Robb, Catelyn, and the troops they brought with them.
Enough of these hypocrites. Direwolves? More like white-eyed wolves. Sew a wolf's head onto Robb's corpse and put it on display—white-eyed wolf.
After the massacre, Walder pondered the world from the great hall of the Twins. Something felt wrong. Hadn't the royal army won? Why, then, had the king in King's Landing become Robert—and then his son Joffrey? Something was terribly off—
Then a long-faced girl appeared, claiming that the North never forgets. She killed him, flayed his face, poisoned his entire family—blood poured from his throat as Walder coughed and roared—
His eyes flew open.
The sun had not yet set beyond the Twins. The river still shimmered brilliantly. The blanket had slipped from his knees; the stew on the table still steamed.
Just a dream…
Outside the hall, a black raven beat its wings and flew off coldly.
"House Tully… House Stark… Robb… Arya…" Walder Frey muttered the names of those he had known in his dream, sinking into deeper thought.