Beyond the Twins

The air inside the Great Hall of the Twins was thick with the smell of roasted meat and stale ale, though neither did much to mask the musty dampness that clung to the old stones. The torches lining the walls flickered, their light casting long shadows over the wooden beams above.

Seated at the head of the long feasting table, a chair slightly elevated above the others, was Walder Frey, a goblet of wine in his gnarled hand and a satisfied smirk tugging at the edges of his thin lips. His fingers, wrinkled and veined, tapped against the armrest in a slow, methodical rhythm as he listened to his eldest son, Stevron Frey, deliver his report.

The hall was quieter than usual, though the murmur of men moving about the keep and the occasional distant shout from the courtyard filtered in. The Freys were restless, waiting, watching. Their five thousand men, stationed south of the Green Fork, were itching for orders.

Stevron stood before his father, his posture stiff, his aged face still carrying remnants of the uncertainty that had settled over him when he first received the news. His hands were clasped behind his back, a habit he had developed in his youth when standing before his father, a way to hide his nervous fidgeting.

"The Stark boy has moved," he said finally, his voice measured but carrying the weight of something unspoken.

Walder Frey let out a sharp, rasping chuckle, his thin lips stretching in amusement as he leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing with wicked delight. "That didn't take long," he muttered, more to himself than to Stevron. He took a slow sip of wine, licking the excess from his lips before setting the goblet down on the table beside him. "So the pup has finally committed to battle. And where, pray tell, is he throwing his green boys to the slaughter?"

Stevron hesitated for only a breath before answering. "South. Toward the Kingsroad."

Walder's grin widened. "Ahhh." He nodded, clearly pleased. "So he means to throw himself at the Old Lion, does he? Bah! That fool of a boy thinks he can outfight Tywin Lannister on an open battlefield?" Walder shook his head, chuckling once more. "It's almost pitiful. By the time they reach the Ruby Ford, Tywin will already have his men dug in, waiting for him. And when the dust settles, the Starks will be dead in the dirt, the Riverlands will crumble, and we'll be left to pick at the bones."

Stevron, however, did not share his father's amusement. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. Something didn't sit right with the movements of the Stark. It all seemed too easy. Certainly Robb Stark was young and clearly reckless and foolish, but to this degree? It didn't seem possible for the lords of the North to simply be content to follow such reckless decisions so easily.

"Perhaps," he admitted carefully. "But five thousand men the boy brought to our gates have not moved."

Walder's smirk faltered ever so slightly. His pale blue eyes, still sharp despite his frail body, flickered with intrigue. "No?"

Stevron shook his head. "They remain encamped outside our walls."

Walder's amusement was swiftly replaced by suspicion. He leaned forward now, his bony fingers steepling under his chin. "And what, then, do you suppose the boy Stark is playing at? Is he planning to lay siege to the Twins with that number?"

Stevron took a measured breath, organizing his thoughts before speaking. "There are a few possibilities," he began. "It's possible he left those men here to prevent us from joining the Lannisters. If we were to march along the Kingsroad with our force, we could strike at his rear while Tywin crushes him from the front. If nothing else, he may believe that keeping us pinned here ensures we don't interfere in his war."

Walder hummed, considering this. It was a reasonable assumption, yet something still felt didn't add up. "And what do you think?"

Stevron hesitated for only a moment before answering, "I don't know, Father. There's something…off about this."

Walder scoffed. "Hah! You're overthinking it, boy. The pup has just ensured his own downfall. That's what he's done. Splitting his army? Leaving five thousand to sit on their arses while he rides to meet Tywin bloody Lannister?" He spat onto the stone floor, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "It's a wonder the Northerners haven't just turned on him already."

Stevron wasn't so sure of that himself either.

Walder waved a hand dismissively. "No matter. He'll die soon enough. And when he does, we'll make our move." He drummed his fingers against the table in thought before turning his attention back to his son. "Send another letter to Tywin. I want to know what he'll offer to us now to prevent the pup from returning to the North with his tail tucked between his leg."

Stevron nodded, though he knew what the response would be. Tywin Lannister was not a man who paid for things that he could simply take, and if he crushed Robb Stark at the Ruby Ford, the Freys' cooperation would become less valuable.

Even so, he bowed his head, replying simply, "As you command, Father."

Walder smirked again, reaching once more for his goblet of wine. As he took another sip, he muttered, almost to himself, "Let the wolf drown in the river."

Stevron turned on his heel and left the hall. Yet despite his father's confidence, an uneasy feeling remained in his gut.

-X-

The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle by the time Robb Stark and his riders approached the campfires of the Seagard host. The once-heavy downpour had turned the dirt roads into slick, treacherous paths of mud, and the smell of damp earth clung to the air, thick and heavy. Grey Wind padded silently at Robb's side, his massive paws pressing into the wet ground, his silver eyes scanning the flickering lights ahead with keen intelligence.

As they rode closer, the banner of House Mallister, a silver eagle on a field of purple, became visible among the many northern banners that now mingled with them. Ser Patrek Mallister, heir to Seagard, sat astride a fine black courser at the forefront of the assembled men. His armour, still damp from the storm, gleamed faintly in the firelight, and the eagle of his house was embroidered proudly on his purple cloak. His gaze was sharp and assessing as he took in Robb and his party.

As Robb swung down from his horse, Patrek dismounted as well, stepping forward with an air of eager formality. His face was youthful, perhaps only a year or two older than Robb, but his eyes carried a weariness that spoke of months of desperate fighting and dwindling hope.

"My lord," Patrek greeted, his voice carrying the crisp, disciplined tone of a seasoned soldier. He clasped Robb's forearm in a firm grip, a gesture of respect between warriors. "Your arrival is well met. The Riverlands have long awaited aid from the North."

Robb returned the grip with equal firmness, his expression resolute. "You've held on longer than anyone had a right to expect," he said sincerely. "You and your father have fought hard against the Lannisters. The Riverlands owe you a debt."

Patrek gave a short, grim nod. "The Riverlands might not be able to hang on much longer," he admitted, the exhaustion bleeding into his tone. "Our forces are scattered, Riverrun is besieged, and Lord Bracken and my father have been forced into hiding. We've done what we can, but if relief does not come soon…"

His words trailed off, but the meaning was clear.

The Riverlands was on the brink.

Robb nodded sombrely, his expression grave as he turned to Greatjon Umber and Wylis Manderly, who had ridden at his side. "Start getting the men ready to move," Robb ordered. "We march at first light."

Both men nodded without hesitation. Greatjon, ever eager for battle, let out a booming chuckle as he called for his riders, his enthusiasm barely restrained. Wylis, though quieter in demeanor, inclined his head sharply before striding away to see to his men.

Turning back to Patrek, Robb asked, "Are the men of Seagard ready to depart?"

Patrek nodded. "They're waiting on my word."

"Good," Robb said, his mind already moving to the next step. "I need you to take a handful of men prepare to ride out and meet your father."

Patrek raised a brow in mild surprise. "You're sending me ahead?"

Robb nodded. "You'll be joined by Theon Greyjoy."

At the mention of Theon, the air between them changed.

Theon, who had been lingering behind Robb, stepped forward, his usual smirk flickering for only the briefest moment. Tension settled between him and Patrek, unspoken but impossible to ignore. There had been bad blood between the houses for generations, Seagard on the forefront of defending the Riverlands against Ironborn raids.

Yet the bad blood had deepened following the Greyjoy rebellion a few years ago where Jason Mallister has personally slain the eldest son of Balon Greyjoy, Rodrick. Though Theon did not remember his brother, the tension was not solely shared by House Mallister.

There was bad blood on both sides.

Patrek's jaw tightened, but his discipline held firm. "My lord," he said carefully, glancing at Theon before looking back at Robb.

Robb didn't hesitate. He knew what Patrek was thinking—why send a Greyjoy to negotiate with Riverlords who had fought against his kind? But Robb had his reasons. "Theon is the one I trust most," Robb said plainly, his voice unwavering. "And the one I trust to represent me."

For a brief second, Theon looked startled—as if Robb's words had caught him off guard. But then, the smirk returned, though this time there was something genuine beneath it. He rolled his shoulders back, lifting his chin. "I'll make sure Lord Mallister and Lord Bracken are waiting for you," Theon said, his usual cocky tone still present, but there was an edge of seriousness in his words now. "You have my word."

Robb met Theon's gaze, holding it for a long moment before clasping his shoulder in a firm grip. No words were spoken, but the gesture said enough.

Patrek, meanwhile, studied Theon for a moment before nodding stiffly. He didn't like it, but he was a soldier first. He would do as commanded.

As the conversation shifted, Robb turned to Brynden Blackfish, who had remained silent up until now, watching the exchanges with a keen eye. "I need you to take a group of riders," Robb instructed him, "and make sure our movements stay hidden. We cannot afford for news of this to reach the Freys or the Lannisters before we make our move."

Brynden gave a small, approving smirk. "You're learning, boy."

Robb smirked faintly in return. "I have good teachers."

Brynden nodded and without another word, turned on his heel and strode off into the darkness, already calling for his men.

The camp around them was coming alive now, men moving to prepare their weapons, horses being saddled, the air thick with anticipation. This was the moment they had waited for—the beginning of the march, the turning of the tide.

Robb took in the sight of it all and let out a slow breath.

The pieces were falling into place.

Soon, the Riverlands would rise.