RUYAN
Catelyn Stark had relayed the terms without flourish: four daughters as ladies-in-waiting, two fosterings, Olyvar to remain as squire, Arya to wed once freed—and the boldest demand, their future heir promised to a Frey.
Around her, the lords erupted.
"The gods-damned nerve!" the Greatjon thundered. "Demanding the heir to Winterfell before the child's even conceived!"
"Walder Frey sits in his towers while we bleed," Karstark spat, "yet demands the North's future?"
Ruyan remained still. Imperial composure was not posture. It was control.
"So he presumes to dictate the heir to the North's future," she said, her voice soft but cutting. "A Stark with imperial dragon blood."
Silence fell.
She let it stretch. Let them feel the weight of it.
"We will renegotiate. Since it is my future son being bartered, I will handle this."
She turned to Robb—not because she needed permission, but because they needed to see it given.
"The Yitish way," she said. "Do you consent?"
Robb held her gaze. "You have my consent."
The next day, they returned to the Twins. Ruyan studied the towers — well-positioned, well-manned, but lacking the elegance of Yi Ti's fortresses.
Bread and salt had already been presented by a sour-faced servant. She let her gaze pass over the offering without acknowledgment.
"Princess," Catelyn whispered, alarmed. "The guest right—"
Ruyan stilled her with the smallest shake of her head. Not an oversight. Strategy.
Catelyn's face shifted — confusion giving way to slow recognition. Good. She was beginning to understand the language between gestures, the diplomacy of refusal.
A Frey guard stepped forward, hand out. "Your weapons."
Roose surrendered his blade without fuss. His men followed, laying down steel in silence.
Ruyan did not move.
She slipped the ironbone fan from her sleeve and opened it with a soft snap. Black lacquer and silver filigree spread like wings across her palm. She fanned herself once — slow, deliberate.
The guard said nothing. Thought it decoration, no doubt.
That suited her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Roose watching.
Not startled. Assessing.
She tilted her head slightly. Met his eyes. No smile. No signal.
Only confirmation.
He looked away first.
Walder made them wait. A deliberate slight, no doubt — the sort of petty power play a man like him believed would unsettle foreign nobility.
But Ruyan had counted on the delay. It provided opportunity.
Lihua had entered with them, dressed as a maid, head bowed like any other attendant. While the party stood idle in the receiving hall, she drifted near the walls — quiet, invisible. One by one, she incapacitated the guards — pressure points struck beneath collars, breath stilled before alarm could rise. When the inner doors finally creaked open and the Freys called them forward, Lihua was already gone. No one noticed. But Ruyan knew. Lihua would be in position by the time the old lord opened his mouth.
They were led into the great hall — cavernous and cold, empty but for guards lining the walls like a gauntlet. The long trestle tables were set but unoccupied, as though the feast had been called for ghosts. The high table loomed above them, vacant.
And so they waited. Minutes passed, long enough for silence to settle like dust. It was not just discourtesy — it was theatre.
Then, finally, the doors opposite opened.
Walder Frey entered like a king, flanked by his spawn. Sons, grandsons, and bastard-bred creatures poured in behind him, each marked by that weaselish tilt of the mouth, that pale-eyed smirk. He moved slowly, not because he was infirm, but because he wished to be watched. Each step toward the dais was a reminder: this was his hall, his court, and all present would attend him on his terms.
He reached the high table at last, eyes gleaming — sharp as broken glass in a dying fire — and sank into his seat like it was a throne built from old grudges and unpaid debts.
Ruyan assessed him carefully as they approached. In Yi Ti, such a lord would never have risen so high—or survived so long—with such naked ambition. The empire would have either elevated him through merit or eliminated him as a threat. Here in Westeros, mediocrity coupled with strategic marriage and stubborn longevity could create remarkable power.
"So," Lord Walder began, voice reedy with age but sharp with cunning, "the Young Wolf sends his foreign wife to beg passage. Thought I'd be more amenable to a pretty face, did he?" His eyes raked over her with deliberate insolence. "Too exotic for my taste."
Ruyan felt Catelyn stiffen beside her, affronted on her behalf. The woman still didn't understand that insults only had power if one accepted them. Instead, Ruyan maintained her imperial composure, her face a perfect mask of diplomatic attentiveness.
"Lord Frey," she replied, her voice melodious yet carrying, "we come seeking passage across the Green Fork. My husband fights to free his grandfather from the Lannister siege—thus the need for Lord Tully's bannermen to aid his cause."
Walder's laugh was dry and rattling. "And that's my concern now, is it? Because the boy rides for Riverrun, I'm meant to open my gates and damn the Lannisters? He fights his war — I hold my bridge."
"It is your feudal duty to answer your liege lord's call," Catelyn interjected firmly. "My father—"
"Your father," Walder snapped, "has ignored this hall for twenty years. No visits, no courtesies. And now I'm meant to spill Frey blood because he remembers I'm sworn to him? Where was duty then, Lady Stark?"
Ruyan observed the exchange silently. In Yi Ti, imperial authority flowed without question. Yet here, perceived slights festered across generations like rot beneath a stone. Fascinating, if inefficient. The hierarchies were clear, yet obedience remained conditional—held ransom to personal grievance. She had studied this Westerosi peculiarity extensively during her preparation for Winterfell.
She decided to shift the discussion to tangible matters.
"What terms would you consider appropriate for granting us passage?" she asked, moving directly to business.
A gleam entered Walder's eyes—the look of a man who believed he held the superior position in a negotiation. "Marriage alliances," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Your future children—the heir to Winterfell, and his sister, the pretty one—will marry Freys. And I want Northern girls in your household."
So predictable. The man thought small, even in his greed.
"Sansa is betrothed to Domeric Bolton," Ruyan replied coolly. "Arya is promised to the king." The latter wasn't entirely accurate anymore—not with Ned Stark imprisoned—but Lord Frey didn't need to know that.
"Don't fool me," Walder snapped. "That royal match won't happen. Once she's freed, she marries my Elmar."
Ruyan's posture shifted slightly—not submission, but focus. Like a falcon spotting prey.
"I see. You seek to secure your house's future through blood ties to House Stark."
"And to your eastern empire," Walder added, revealing more of his ambition. "Don't think we haven't heard. Yi Tish settlements sprouting across the North. Trade routes. Foreign investments. I want House Frey to share in the spoils."
Several heartbeats passed. Ruyan said nothing, her eyes studying him like a chessboard. She let the silence grow heavy, uncomfortable. It was a technique she had learned from her father—in the gap between words, lesser men often revealed their weaknesses.
When she finally spoke, the steel in her voice made the entire hall lean closer.
"Lord Frey, here is my counter-offer: two daughters for my household, two fosterings, and the squire. Favorable terms for trade routes."
She paused—not asking permission, simply allowing him to listen.
"As for the marriage? You get nothing."
Walder's face darkened. "Then you won't cross my bridge. Go back to your husband and tell him his foreign bride couldn't secure passage. Maybe he'll regret choosing you."
The insult landed like a stone against a mountain—ineffectual, almost pitiful. Catelyn moved to speak—a mother's instinct to defend—but Ruyan's hand lifted, stopping her without a word.
"Lord Frey," she said quietly, "let us speak plainly. The Tullys have not yet declared for any side on this war. That is why we need this crossing—to free Riverrun and secure their banner. By blocking us, you impede your liege lord's summons. In Westeros, I believe that's called treason."
The word fell like a blade into still water.
She saw Stevron, Walder's eldest son, shift uneasily behind his father's chair. Her eyes noted the movement, cataloged it, filed it away as useful.
"Treason?" Walder sputtered. "You dare—"
"I state facts," Ruyan replied, her tone unchanged. "But let's set aside law and speak of consequence."
She stepped forward, slow and measured—until Walder saw it: the poise, the power. Not youth. Not foreignness. Dynasty.
"If you deny us, the Lannisters might win. Lord Stark might die. These are possible outcomes. But there is one certainty and that Yitish promises is carried out even after death."
She paused, her eyes never leaving his.
"In less than two years, a new bridge will be built—by Yi Tish engineers, for trade. That is my first promise."
She glanced sideways, confirming what she already knew: Lihua was no longer at her post. The absence would be meaningless to most in the room, but to Ruyan, it was confirmation that everything was proceeding as planned.
"My second promise depends on your answer."
She tilted her head slightly, a gesture that in the imperial court would have made ministers tremble.
"Your house has lasted six hundred years. Mine has ruled for twelve thousand. Between us, Lord Frey... which do you think will last another year?"
From the corner of her eye, she saw Catelyn inhale sharply. Even Roose Bolton's pale eyes narrowed with what might have been appreciation. Good. Let them learn what imperial diplomacy truly meant.
Walder's face twisted—rage, calculation, restraint cycling across his features in rapid succession.
"Are you threatening me in my own hall?"
"I'm offering perspective," Ruyan said, her voice gentle as running water. "Imperial friendship is valuable. The alternative... less so."
He leaned forward. "You still need my bridge. And your empire is a thousand leagues away."
And then she said it, her tone as casual as if commenting on the weather:
"And yet I'm here, sent by my father. Our reach is already here." She paused, letting her next words fall like winter frost. "I didn't take bread and salt, Lord Frey. I do hope you understand what that means."
Silence descended, heavy and charged.
Then Walder exploded. He shouted for his guards, spittle flying from his lips.
Nothing moved.
All along the hall's walls and corners, guards stood frozen—unmoving, eyes wide with something that looked like fear... or confusion.
Ruyan felt Catelyn pale beside her, the woman's breath catching. Even Roose stepped forward slightly, a hand on his belt—not to draw, but to anchor himself.
Walder shouted again. Still silence.
Ruyan's voice sliced through it. "They'll move after an hour or so."
"What sorcery is this?!" Walder demanded.
"Not sorcery, but Yitish martial arts." She inclined her head knowing it will inflame the old man.
"Fulfil your oaths and obligations to the Tullys. Accept my terms. And I will... retract my promise."
The words hung in the air—precise, measured, final.
Walder Frey said nothing. But Stevron stepped forward—and bowed.
Father and son whispered urgently, and Walder's eyes darted upward. Catelyn followed his gaze and gasped. Ruyan didn't need to look to know what they saw: Lihua, positioned directly above Walder Frey, silent as a shadow, deadly as winter itself.
Exactly as planned.
Walder's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he spoke.
"Three sons in Winterfell. You take four of my daughters and pay their dowries. Olyvar stays. And those trade terms."
"And your men?" Ruyan asked, her voice clinical. "I hear you have... six thousand. I understand you'll need to retain a few for security."
"You'll have four thousand," Walder almost hissed.
Ruyan inclined her head, the slightest acknowledgment of his concession.
She let the silence stretch just long enough to make Walder shift uncomfortably in his seat.
Then she added, voice calm but cutting:
"You asked for a marriage into House Stark. That is not yours to claim. But there is another path."
She let her gaze sweep across the assembled Freys, marking each face, noting reactions.
"My household is not ornamental. It is noble-blooded—tied to ancient lines in Yi Ti, some older than your own. For a year now, they've integrated quietly into the North. You've seen it. Trade, ports, advisors in courts. This will not stop."
"A marriage into my household secures your name in that future. You won't need to beg for place when the shape of the North changes."
She met Walder's eyes directly.
"I suggest you choose your daughter well. It was good dealing with you, Lord Frey."
She turned then, calling out softly, "Lihua."
Her guard descended from the rafters with the silent grace of falling snow, landing directly before Walder Frey without so much as disturbing the rushes on the floor.
The old lord flinched visibly.
As Ruyan and her party turned to leave, two Frey guards flanking the doors staggered. One dropped to his knees, retching violently onto the stone. The other collapsed with a gasp, limbs twitching as the delayed pressure release hit.
Gasps echoed in the hall.
No one moved to help them.
Ruyan didn't look back.
They passed the outer gates in silence, the wind off the river biting through wool and bone.
Roose spoke, low enough that only those closest would catch it. "You said you'd retract your promise."
A beat. Then:
"But you made two."
Ruyan said nothing.
Beside her, Catelyn turned sharply. She didn't speak, but the glance she gave was different now — measured, wary, aware.
Roose said nothing more. He adjusted his gloves, and walked on.
Ruyan kept her gaze ahead. One had understood. Now, perhaps, another.
That would suffice.