The Twins, the fortress that spans the Green Fork of the Trident, is made up of two nearly identical castles joined by an arched bridge, forever steeped in the river's damp mist.
Inside the main castle's dining hall, the hearth burned fiercely.
A long table was laid with food that was not especially refined, but plentiful. Greasy onion pies filled the air with a heavy aroma, and the centerpiece was a goose roasted to a deep golden brown, its belly stuffed with apples and spices.
Lord Walder Frey was slowly carving the goose with fingers as bony and claw-like as a bird's. He was very old, his skin shriveled like dried parchment, small eyes sunk deep into their sockets and gleaming with calculation.
Seated further down the table was his great-grandson, Black Walder. His expression was dark as he chewed mechanically, clearly preoccupied.
Beside the table stood a brown-haired maid, head bowed and eyes lowered, holding a silver jug as she poured wine for the two masters.
At last, Black Walder could hold back no longer. He set down his knife and broke the silence.
"Great-grandfather, the news is confirmed. The Easterner's army is marching north along the Kingsroad. They'll reach The Twins before long."
Old Frey did not answer at once. He worked at a mouthful of goose, his cloudy gaze fixed on his plate.
"And?" he said.
"And?" Black Walder raised his voice, disbelief creeping in. "He has tens of thousands of men. He commands several dragons. What do we have to stop that? Stone walls are no sturdier than dry hay before dragonfire. We should send messengers at once, offer up the keys to our gates and our loyalty. Surrender is our only choice."
Old Frey finally looked up, fixing Black Walder with those unsettling eyes. The corners of his mouth drooped into a deeply displeased scowl.
"Surrender?"
He let out a sharp, shrill laugh. "Surrender to the man who married the Stark she-wolf? Black Walder, has the mud of the Green Fork clogged your brain? Have you forgotten what we did to that northern wolf pup and his mother, right here at this table, in this very hall? Do you think Eddard Stark's daughter will speak kindly of us? That the Easterner will forgive us? Keep dreaming."
His agitation mounted as he spoke. He snatched the linen handkerchief the maid offered at just the right moment and scrubbed at his greasy mouth and beard with a trembling hand.
Black Walder sighed, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "I haven't forgotten. But I've also heard another report. Roslin isn't dead. She's carrying Edmure Tully's child, and that King of the East has promised the inheritance of the Riverlands to the child in her womb. She's your daughter, with Frey blood in her veins. For her sake, for the sake of that future ruler of the Riverlands, maybe we could—"
Old Frey cut him off abruptly. A sharp glint flashed in his small eyes as he gave a cold laugh.
"Roslin's child? I truly overestimated you. Have you never considered this? Edmure and Roslin vanished that very night. Roslin ended up in the Easterner's hands, and then she turned up pregnant. That child… hmph. I'd wager nine times out of ten it's the blood of that Eastern bastard. He's just found himself a convenient excuse to seize the Riverlands openly."
Black Walder stared at him in shock, his mouth hanging open, his wine goblet nearly slipping from his hand.
"But… how could that be? Doesn't he fear the Riverlands nobles turning against him? Doesn't he fear the stain of infamy?"
"Resentment? Infamy?"
Old Frey let out a hoarse, rasping chuckle, as though he'd heard the greatest joke in the world. "How many dragons does he have, again? And beyond dragons, he commands tens of thousands of hardened troops. His strength is more terrifying than Aegon the Conqueror's ever was. He's taken more queens than 'King-in-Name-Only' Aegon IV ever had paramours. Who would dare complain? Whose resentment could stand up to a single blast of dragonfire?"
Black Walder froze, then a flicker of wild excitement crossed his face.
"Great-grandfather, if… if that's true, then Roslin is carrying the king's blood. Wouldn't House Frey become the true rulers of the Riverlands in the future?"
"Shut up, you idiot!"
Old Frey barked the words. "You're dreaming. That Easterner is ruthless. Does he look like the sort who would leave a great house like ours intact, just to cause trouble for his son's rule later? If he truly meant to spare us, he would have sent letters long ago, offered reassurances and promises. Instead, he brings his armies right up to us, without a word. He's come to settle accounts. He's come to wipe the name Frey from the Riverlands entirely."
The color drained from Black Walder's face. At last, his fingers failed him, and the wine cup slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the table.
"Great-grandfather, you mean we… we…"
"Quick!"
Old Frey lurched to his feet, the sudden movement setting off a violent fit of coughing. A maid rushed forward to pat his back, only to be shoved aside roughly.
"Go, gather every member of the house at once. Take only the most valuable golden dragons and jewels. Before dawn tomorrow, we must sail down the Green Fork into the Trident, follow the current to Maidenpool, then find a ship to Essos. Go, now!"
Black Walder did not dare say another word. He bowed in a panic and almost stumbled as he rushed out of the dining hall.
Only Old Frey's ragged breathing remained.
He collapsed back into his chair, his dark, hostile gaze sweeping over the empty yet lavish hall. This place had borne witness to House Frey's so-called glory and its vile deeds. Had it all come to this? Had it become the tomb of Old Frey himself?
At that moment, the brown-haired maid approached again without a sound, carrying a freshly poured cup of wine. Her voice was gentle and obedient.
"Master, please have some wine to steady your nerves."
Old Frey lifted his eyelids, his gaze settling on her.
She was not strikingly beautiful, but she was young, full-bodied, and in the dim light she carried a certain allure.
He stretched out his withered hand, not to take the cup, but to grab the maid's firm hips, squeezing hard. A nauseating smile crept across his face.
"Girl… heh. It's my last night in The Twins. Serve your master well. After this, you'll never have such a fine chance to serve Lord Frey again…"
He imagined indulging himself one last time before fleeing.
The maid's body seemed to stiffen for a brief instant, but her expression did not change. She even showed a faint, compliant smile.
She set the wine cup down. Her voice remained soft, yet an icy chill seeped through it.
"Yes, my lord. After tonight… there truly will never be another such opportunity."
Old Frey had no time to grasp the meaning of her words before a cold flash of light cut through the air.
The maid moved like lightning. From beneath her plain apron, she drew a narrow, razor-sharp dagger and drove it with perfect precision into Old Frey's wrinkled neck.
"Guh…"
His eyes flew wide open, filled with pure terror and disbelief.
He tried to scream, but only a thin, hissing sound escaped his throat.
Warm blood sprayed out, soaking his luxurious robes and splattering across the maid's cold, expressionless face.
He clawed uselessly at his neck as his body convulsed violently, then slid from the chair and crashed onto the cold stone floor. His small eyes remained frozen in shock even in death.
The maid looked down at the corpse without emotion. With a quick motion of her hand beneath her chin, she peeled away her face, revealing a long, horse-like visage.
It was Arya.
She had survived the destruction of the House of Black and White, endured countless hardships to return to Westeros, and infiltrated The Twins for this very moment.
She did not linger.
She swiftly erased the traces left behind, then poured a colorless, odorless, lethal powder into the Dornish wine in the kitchen.
After that, she became Walder Frey.
Straightening her robes, she adopted his unsteady gait and made her way toward the noisy great hall.