When the Blackfish heard the old knight's words, he immediately said to Robb, "This is very dangerous. Once we enter the castle, we'll be at his mercy. He could lock you up, or kill you and send your head to Tywin—it all depends on his mood."
Theon Greyjoy also felt this was inappropriate, but he didn't say anything. In matters like this, it was enough to follow Robb's orders.
Robb, however, felt indifferent. Most of the time, he fought alone. Forget the small Twins— even the magnificent capital city, he could cut straight through it alone with a single sword.
He might not be able to kill all four thousand guards inside the Twins, but if he wanted to leave the Twins, no one could stop him.
Robb nodded to the elderly knight. "Lead the way."
Admiration shone in the old knight's eyes. "As you command, my lord."
On the way into the city, Robb struck up a conversation with the old knight. "I haven't asked your name yet. You call Lord Frey your father?"
The old knight replied politely, "Stevron Frey, my lord. I'm merely an insignificant knight under my father's command. I have more than twenty younger brothers. As for whether my father has any other bastards, sons or daughters, I'm not sure."
Robb exclaimed, "Lord Frey is truly vigorous despite his age. If you count his grandsons and great-grandsons, he could probably put together an army. By the way, do you have a son?"
Stevron Frey forced a bitter smile. "My grandson was born five years ago."
A look of regret appeared on Robb's face. "I've heard you're the eldest son of Earl Frey. That's truly rare—where else in the world do you find an heir who's waited over sixty years?"
Stevron Frey's expression changed slightly, as if Robb had struck a sore spot. He fell silent.
Not long after, Robb met Lord Walder Frey in the reception hall of the Twins.
Ninety years old this year, he looked like a shriveled pink weasel. His head was long bald and mottled with age spots. Because of gout, he couldn't even stand without support. A sixteen-year-old girl—pale and frail—walked beside his litter as he was carried in.
The reception hall was packed with members of House Frey—sons, grandsons, bastards, and even some rather old great-grandsons—no fewer than fifty people in total.
A pear tree pressing down on begonia blossoms, an old line of poetry surfaced in Robb's mind.
The old man was placed upon the lord's seat and eyed Robb up and down suspiciously. "So you're Robb Stark. You look much younger than I expected—heh, just a brat. Still, you've got guts. I thought someone as noble as you wouldn't bother coming to see an old man like me."
"Father," Sir Stevron said reproachfully, "have you forgotten? Lord Robb came at your invitation."
"Did I ask you?" Walder snapped. "I'm not dead yet, so you're not Lord Frey. Do I look like a corpse? I don't need you lecturing me."
"Father, this isn't how you treat a guest," said another, younger son.
"Even my bastards are lecturing me now?" Lord Walder's face darkened. "You should all die. I'll say whatever I please. I've hosted three kings in my lifetime—queens not even worth mentioning. Do you think I need you to teach me 'proper hospitality'? The first time I planted my seed in your mother, she was still herding sheep!"
His sons were scolded until their faces turned red. None of them dared speak again.
Robb answered honestly, "I didn't expect you to be such a sharp-tongued, spiteful old man. If I had known, I wouldn't have come to see you."
The old weasel flew into a rage. "What did you say?! A brat whose hair hasn't even finished growing—do you think this is Winterfell, surrounded by idiots playing at being lords with you? If I want, I can have your throat slit at any time, you—"
Before Lord Frey could finish his tirade, his words cut off abruptly. His face flushed red, terror flashing across it.
Robb looked at him with interest. "Go on. Why did you stop?"
As he spoke, Robb raised the dagger in his hand slightly. The cold metal pressed even closer against Lord Frey's neck, and a thin red line of blood appeared across his skin.
None of Lord Frey's descendants saw how Robb appeared at his side. They only felt their vision blur—Robb vanished, then instantly reappeared.
Hound's Step, a combat technique for rapidly closing the distance to an enemy.
Lord Frey's sons stood up nervously and drew their swords, pointing them at Robb, terrified of provoking him.
The old man was scared out of his wits. Ignoring the wound on his neck, he screamed, "You damned pigs, put your swords down! Can't you see I'm being held hostage?!"
Robb watched their performance with amusement. "Your sons and grandsons seem eager for you to die by my hand. Looks like we need a private talk."
The old weasel shouted at the top of his lungs, "What are you all staring at? Get out! And you too, you stinking woman—out, out, out!"
His sons, grandsons, daughters, bastards, grandsons-in-law, and granddaughters-in-law filed out of the hall one after another. Robb clearly saw a few of them hesitate, as if debating whether to rush forward—though it was hard to say whether the first person their swords wanted to kill was him, or this old bastard.
Once everyone had left, Lord Frey immediately begged for mercy. "Noble Lord Robb, your father has been imprisoned. Sooner or later, you'll be the Warden of the North, a lofty duke. Trading your life for mine—a lowly marquis—is the most unprofitable deal you could ever make."
Robb burst out laughing, withdrew the dagger from Lord Frey's neck, then reached out, grabbed him, and tossed him onto the floor. "I preferred you when you were arrogant and unruly."
Lord Frey was thrown into a daze. Lying on the ground, he struggled to lift his head and saw Robb brazenly sitting on his lord's seat. He wondered whether he should take this chance to run out, summon the guards, and have this damn bastard killed.
But when he glanced at his own legs—struggling even to stand—he silently abandoned the idea.
He couldn't be sure he'd die after the other man.
"You can't kill me. Murdering a noble without cause—no one will continue to follow you. Do you want to become the second Mad King?" Lord Frey said as he painfully climbed to his feet. "And no matter what you want, once you kill me, my sons—though they desperately want me dead—will still kill you all the same!"
Lord Frey was right. This was the aristocratic rule of the game on the continent of Westeros.
Robb looked at him, trembling as if he was about to piss himself, and said with a smile, "I didn't plan to kill you. I just came to discuss some terms. Your mouth was too filthy, so I gave you a little lesson."
Hearing that his life was spared, Lord Frey immediately glared at Robb with venomous eyes.
...
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"Game of Thrones: Dragon Prince"
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"Game of Thrones The Glory of a Knight"
(End Chapter)