Bridges and Bargains

The corridors of the Twins were alive with movement, a chaotic flurry of armoured men, servants, and messengers hurrying through the stone halls. Boots clattered against the cold floors, hushed voices rose in urgency, and the scent of roasted meats and damp river air lingered in the air.

Stevron Frey moved through the castle with a measured pace, his wrinkled hands clasped tightly behind his back, his aged but sharp eyes sweeping over the disorder around him. There was tension in every corner, an underlying unease in the way the Frey soldiers adjusted their gear, in the way the servants whispered amongst themselves as they passed.

The Frey army had returned to the Twins.

Five thousand men, recalled from their stations across the Riverlands and positioned within the fortress and its surrounding lands.

Stevron knew what it meant. Their moment was coming.

House Frey had always thrived by being patient, by choosing its moments wisely, by ensuring that when war came, it came to others first. That was how they had endured, how they had grown in power despite being sneered at by the greater houses of Westeros.

The Lannisters had invaded the Riverlands.

The Starks were marching south.

Soon, the Freys would find themselves at the centre of the storm.

If they played it right, they would prosper.

If they miscalculated…

Stevron pushed those thoughts aside as he reached the doors to the Great Hall. He did not hesitate, pushing them open with both hands, stepping inside with the confidence of a man who had served as his father's most capable son for decades.

The stench of meat, stale wine, and sweat was thick in the hall, the air humid with the heat of burning braziers hit him instantly as he looked out across the room.

At the head of the table sat Walder Frey.

Stevron bowed his head in respect before lowering himself into the seat beside his father. A servant moved swiftly, placing a trencher of meat before him, but he hardly spared it a glance. His appetite had long since dulled in his old age, though he knew better than to refuse a meal when dining with Walder Frey.

He took a measured bite before speaking. "Perwyn suggested we station a thousand men north of the Twins and keep the remaining four thousand to the south," he said casually, watching as his father tore into a thick slice of mutton, grease dripping from his fingers. "He believes it would provide a defensive measure should the Starks come upon us with ill intentions."

Walder snorted, spitting out a fleck of meat as he waved a gnarled, liver-spotted hand in dismissal. "Foolish boy," he muttered, not even looking up from his meal. "There's no need to split our forces. All five thousand stay south."

Stevron had expected that answer. He had known even before he spoke that his father would scoff at the idea, but it had been worth mentioning. Perwyn's suggestion was not without merit, but Walder Frey was a man who would not be persuaded unless he convinced himself.

So Stevron let it go, focusing instead on the task at hand. He swallowed another bite and dabbed his mouth with a cloth before shifting the conversation. "We received new reports from the Riverlands and the North," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Ser Edmure's force was shattered. The Kingslayer is besieging Riverrun as we speak."

Walder paused mid-bite, his pale blue eyes narrowing slightly.

"Go on," he muttered.

Stevron nodded. "Lord Mallister and Lord Bracken are gathering the scattered remnants of Edmure's army, trying to rally enough strength to liberate Riverrun, but whether they succeed is another matter entirely." He took a slow sip of watered wine before continuing. "Meanwhile, Tywin has taken Harrenhal."

Walder's lips twisted into something that might have been a smirk. "Harrenhal, eh? A cursed place, but well-positioned. So the boy Stark will have to be mindful."

Stevron inclined his head. "Speaking of the boy…Robb Stark is marching south with twelve thousand men. There's another five thousand gathered at Moat Cailin. Reports vary, but we estimate he has somewhere between eighteen to twenty thousand men in total."

Walder leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the table. His expression was unreadable, but Stevron knew what was happening behind those calculating eyes. House Frey had always thrived on playing both sides, on positioning themselves where they could profit the most.

Now, with two great armies about to collide, they had a decision to make.

Walder tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, the slow rhythm filling the silence between them. His pale, calculating eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, his lips pursed as he chewed on the thoughts Stevron had placed before him.

Then, he snorted.

"Send a message to Tywin," he said abruptly. "See what the Lannisters are willing to offer to keep the Starks north of the Green Fork."

Stevron did not react immediately, but he had known this was coming. His father was predictable in that way. House Frey did not gamble blindly—they positioned themselves where they could gain the most.

"If the boy Stark wants to reach his allies in the Riverlands," Walder continued, scratching at his thin, sagging neck, "he'll need to cross the Green Fork. And the only way to do that safely is through us."

Stevron nodded slowly. "Blackwood, Bracken, Mallister, the Tullys—they're all gathered around Riverrun. That's where he needs to be."

Walder grinned, though it was more a baring of teeth than an expression of amusement. "Aye, and to get there, he'll need our bridges. That gives us an advantage in negotiations."

Stevron leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "It also means we'll get more from the Starks than the Lannisters."

Walder's expression did not change, but there was a flicker in his watery blue eyes, something that almost resembled agreement. He did not contradict Stevron, nor did he argue the point. Instead, he waved a bony hand dismissively. "Aye, but I still want to know what the Lannisters will offer to keep the Starks from crossing."

Stevron exhaled through his nose. His father was shrewd, but he was never one to dismiss an opportunity, no matter how unlikely it was to benefit them.

"If we bar Robb Stark from crossing," Stevron said carefully, "he'll have two choices—besiege the Twins or march east toward the Red Fork and face Tywin head-on. Neither option benefits him. If he lays siege to us, he wastes valuable time while Riverrun burns."

Walder tilted his head, smacking his lips thoughtfully. "And if he marches east?"

"If he loses to Tywin, the war ends quickly," Stevron admitted. "But if he wins…"

Walder let out a sharp bark of laughter. "He won't."

Stevron did not argue.

Walder shifted in his seat, his thin, liver-spotted fingers curling into a loose fist as he continued, "Neither Tywin nor the boy will walk away unscathed, but only one of them has an extra fifteen thousand men sitting in the Riverlands, ready to reinforce him."

Stevron nodded once, understanding what Walder was implying.

Tywin had Jaime's host. Robb had nothing.

If Robb Stark marched east and won, he would be too weakened to defend what he had taken. The war would drag on, and the Lannisters would have time to regroup, reinforce, and retaliate.

Either way, House Frey would still have the advantage.

"I'll have the message sent to Lord Tywin," Stevron said, rising to his feet.

Walder nodded, leaning back into his chair with a satisfied smirk.