Stevron nodded quickly, eager to get out of the tent. "Yes. We cannot just give you the bridge or our soldiers. We must take this to our father. We will give him your message and get his instructions."
"Go then," Alaric said. He did not stand up. He did not offer them wine or a handshake.
Stevron and Lothar turned around without another word. They walked quickly out of the tent, the heavy canvas flap falling shut behind them.
When the sound of their boots faded into the noise of the camp, Alaric let out a quiet breath.
...
Stevron and Lothar got on their horses. They rode away from the command tent, moving slowly through the massive Northern camp.
The camp was loud. Soldiers sharpened swords, horses stomped in the mud, and fires crackled everywhere.
Stevron held his reins tight. He looked left and right at the endless rows of gray tents. "Did you see the banners, Lothar?"
Lothar nodded. He did not have his fake smile anymore. "I saw them. The Umber giant, the Karstark sun, the Bolton flayed man. Every major Northern house answered the call."
Stevron looked toward the tree line. The smoke from the campfires went on for miles. "How many men do you think he brought?"
Lothar looked at the heavy crowds of foot soldiers and riders. He did the math in his head. "Look how far the tents go. There should be at least twenty thousand soldiers here. Easily."
Stevron swallowed hard. He thought about the quiet tent they just left. "And what about his guards? The ones in the red and black armor standing in the corners."
Lothar's face turned pale as he thought about the tall guards. He kept his voice low so the Northern soldiers walking past them would not hear.
"I have never seen men like that," Lothar said. "They must be seven feet tall. Everyone talks about the Mountain in the South, Gregor Clegane. But Alaric had two men just as big standing right inside his tent."
Stevron nodded quickly. "Did you see the thickness of that red and black armor? A normal sword would probably just snap right off it."
"And the size of their weapons," Lothar added. "If it comes to a fight, how many of our soldiers would it take to bring just one of them down? Twenty? Fifty?"
...
Hundreds of miles away, in King's Landing, Queen Cersei sat in a cushioned chair inside her private room. She held a gold cup of wine. Grand Maester Pycelle stood in front of her, his old hands shaking a little as he held his robes.
"Did a raven come from Winterfell?" Cersei asked. She took a slow sip of her wine. "Did Robb Stark answer the letter? Is he coming to pledge loyalty to Joffrey?"
Pycelle shook his head. "No, Your Grace. No birds have arrived from the North. It has been weeks. We have heard absolutely nothing."
Cersei frowned. She set her cup down on the table with a hard clack. "Nothing? Not even a word? what about the ward, Alaric?"
"Total silence, Your Grace," Pycelle said.
Cersei tapped her long fingers against the arm of her chair. She looked toward the heavy wooden door of her room. "Tell the Kingsguard to watch the Stark girl closely," she ordered.
"Lady Sansa?" Pycelle asked, looking confused. "She has been very obedient. She mostly stays in her room and cries."
"I do not care what she does in her room," Cersei said, her voice dropping perfectly flat. "Just keep Joffrey away from her. Do not let the King go near that girl without my strict permission."
Pycelle blinked. "Are you worried she will hurt him, Your Grace? She is just a scared child."
Cersei narrowed her eyes.
"I do not know what it is," Cersei muttered, staring at the wall. "She acts like a frightened little girl, but when I look closely at her... I get a very dangerous feeling. Something is wrong with that girl. Just do as I say and keep my son away from her."
"As you command, Your Grace," Pycelle said. He bowed low and slowly walked out of the room.
Pycelle stopped near the heavy wooden door. He turned back around and cleared his throat.
"There is one more thing, Your Grace," he said. His voice was shaking more now.
Cersei narrowed her eyes. "What is it?"
"Our spies in the North," Pycelle said quietly. "They have stopped sending messages."
Cersei stopped tapping her fingers. Her grip tightened on the armrest of her chair. "All of them?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Pycelle said, bowing his head. "Total silence. We do not know what is going on up there. We are completely blind."
Cersei stood up. She walked over to the window and looked down at the city. The quiet was not an accident. Robb Stark was just a boy. He did not know how to catch spies and lock down an entire kingdom. Someone else was doing this.
"Leave me, Pycelle," Cersei said, keeping her back to him. "I will write a letter to my father. Let Lord Tywin deal with this."
...
Inside the solar of the Eastern Twin,
Lord Walder Frey sat slumped in his high-backed chair. He looked like a dying vulture, his skin hanging loose off his neck. He watched his sons, Stevron and Lothar, pace back and forth across the rug.
"A ward?" Walder croaked. He let out a sharp, nasty laugh. "You let yourself get bullied by a dog of starks?? My own sons, shaking because a nameless bastard sat in a big chair?"
"Father, it isn't just the boy," Stevron said. He kept glancing at the door as if someone were listening. "The camp goes on for miles. The Umber giant, the Karstark sun... every banner in the North is out there. Lothar counted. There are nearly twenty thousand of them."
Walder slammed his bony hand on the table, making the wine splash.
"Twenty thousand men?" Walder mimicked Stevron's voice in a high-pitched whine. "Oh, no! Twenty thousand Northmen! Whatever shall we do?"
Walder spat on the floor. "You fools. They're on the wrong side of the water. Do you think the Starks have been paying us for six hundred years because they like my face? They pay because they can't swim."
He pointed a shaking, crooked finger at the window.
"The river is deep, the current is fast, and that bridge is narrow," Walder hissed. "Even if he had a hundred thousand men, they can't fly. To attack, he has to send his men across a bottleneck where my archers can pick them off like sitting ducks. He can't use twenty thousand men on a bridge only wide enough for ten."
Walder leaned forward, his eyes bright with a mean light.
"If he tries to force his way in, it will take him months. My larders are full, and my walls are high," Walder sneered. "While he's wasting time dying on my bridge, I'll just send a raven to Tywin Lannister. I'll make a better deal with the lions and let them smash the Northmen while they're stuck in my mud. It's that simple."
The room went silent for a moment. Lothar, always the quickest to play the sycophant, decided it was time to move. He knew the old man didn't have many years left; staying in his good graces was the only way to survive the coming succession.
"Father, such intelligence..." Lothar said, his fake smile returning as he bowed his head. "This is why you are the Lord of the Crossing.."