A/N: So Season 7 & 8 were fucking atrocious pieces of televsion. How do you fuck up that badly? I know. Put two incompetent hack writers in charge of your show.

To give my history with the show, I first heard of it back in 2013, I think: I remember hearing about there being 3 Seasons and watching the first of the Honest Trailers. Until 2019 I was simply just aware of it and had the intention of watching it at some point. It was when Season 8 released that I showed more interest. By that time I was quite the fan of a podcast called 'Every Frame a Pause' run by 3 guys called MauLer, Rags and Wolf. MauLer & Wolf both were watching the show and they're reactions were the same as most other people.

I had an outsider perspective of the shitshow that was the last four episodes as they were airing. So, from that point on I was perfectly aware of what I would be getting into by watching the show. I watched the videos MauLer made ripping the 8th season apart and listened to the podcasts he made talking about it. It wasn't until Christmas that year, when I got the mainline books, that I became a fan of the series. I read all of the books in five months, reading the last 140 pages of Dance in a day. If your curious as to my take, it's as lukewarm as you can imagine: I prefer the books. If you're curious, from favourite to least favourite (not best to worst, there's a difference), these are my rankings for the books: 1, 3, 5, 2, 4. Best to worst would be: 3, 1, 2, 5, 4.

I watched the show in 2020: Season 1 at the beginning of March, Season 2 & 3 in mid April, Season 4 after I had read up to 'The Blind Girl' at some point in May, 5 & 6 after I finished Dance toward the end of May. 7 & 8 I watched over two days in the 2nd week of June. I cannot put into words the utter disppointment I felt when Ramin Djawdi's spectacular music played over that incredibly bungled ending. If the world was just, Dan & Dave would never work in entertainment again. I know I could go on for ages about how much I despise the last two seasons, as well as season 5, 6 and parts of 2,3 & 4, but that's not what you're here for.

I'd started to write notes for this rewrite before I watched 7 & 8 because I was anticipating the motivation I'd get to write versions of them that weren't shit. So strap in, avid reader. This is my gift to those who felt rightly betrayed by those last two seasons. I will be releasing a Season 8 rewrite after this which will be a direct sequel to this Season 7 rewrite (obviously).

As it stands I have not yet to have finished the first draft of the Season 8 rewrite so all I can say is prepare for a staggered release. I cannot be certain when I will be done with each chapter, but I will promise to get them out as quickly as I physically can. There's a lot of work to be done and I'm one a man army at the moment. I don't know if there are any of you out there who would like to be beta readers, but by all means let me know. It will certainly help make sure this rewrite is as good as it can be.

Thank you for reading this monster of an author's note. Please enjoy the rewrite.


Prologue

He poured himself his fifth cup of spiced dornish red, raised the goblet to his lips and swallowed slowly. The taste was sweet and strong, burning his throat some but not near as much as the black spiced rum from the Summer Islands that they had in the cellars. The wine accompanied a thick stew populated by chunks of diced beef, carrot, potato, turnip & onion, all swimming in a thick broth made using the fat that would have leaked out from the meat while it was boiled. Such was the meal he and his kin were eating.

"Mother would tell you not to drink so much," his son Edwyn said, a measure of concern in his tone. The lad was nearly a man grown and leaned more toward being comely compared to rest of his Frey kin. Ryman had always been surprised that such a good looking lad had been sired from his own loins.

"Well she's been dead since Petyr came screaming into the world, so shut your trap," Ryman replied harshly. No matter how much he tried to act differently, Ryman always grew sad when his wife was brought up. The woman had given him Edywn, Walder and Petyr – who was a parting gift of sorts – alongside fifthteen comfortable years of marriage: during which he had found his happiest memories. But he had another family member to grieve for now.

Lord Walder Frey had been found dead a week ago, his throat cut from ear to ear and a pie made of human flesh on the table in front of him. Ryman had been out collecting taxes from the nearby farmers when the messenger came to him the day after the murder, bearing news that his grandsire was dead. He'd left capable men in charge of the tax collecting before pushing his horse into a hard gallop to arrive back at the Twins before nightfall. By the time he'd returned, the human flesh in the pie had been identified as Lame Lothar's & Black Walder's: they had gone missing the morning of Lord Frey's murder. Ryman had wasted no time establishing himself as the new Lord of the Crossing, being the rightful heir; there were plenty of Freys who would try and steal the position from him. Following that, he took control of the investigation into his grandsire's death. His inquires had led him to the conclusion that the most likely culprite was a serving wench, brown of hair & eye, who had brought Lord Walder his lunch that day: lunch being the pie made from Lame Lothar & Black Walder. The serving wench had disappeared the day of the murder and Ryman would be damned if she was going to make it out of the Riverlands alive.

That was the point of this gathering: planning the search. Of course, they could not do it on empty stomachs.

Ryman sat at the high table in the chair meant for the Lord of the Crossing; its back fashioned into the twins towers of House Frey. To his right was his heir, Edwyn. To his left sat his brother, Walton; who he trusted the most out of his kinsman, beside his three sons. Also at the high table sat kinsmen who were as well respsected amongst Freys as Freys could get: his half-uncles, Ser Jared & Ser Hosteen, as well as his half-cousins Symond & Ser Raymun. He trusted them somewhat, but mainly they were sitting in places of honour because Ryman needed them to support his claim as Lord. Along with the rest of the gathered Freys, they were eating the same thick stew that the cooks had decided to make for them tonight. As they ate, Ryman scanned the room for faces, to see if any of his kinsmen had neglected to attend.

One had.

Ryman caught the attention of a passing serving wench, brown of hair and blue eyed. He could not help but wonder how many of his kinsmen she had let shove their cocks inside her. It was likely that every serving wench in this hall had slept with at least one the of the men they were serving.

"Girl, do you know where Ser Arwood is?" Ryman asked as curtly as he could.

"Far as I know, he took dinner in 'is solar. Cooked 'is own meal for 'imself, 'is wife & 'is children, m'lord," she answered in a clear tone.

That bastard.

"Thank you, girl." The serving girl bent her knee a bit to curtsy, before returning to her duties. He leaned toward Walton and whispered, "Remind me to give Arwood a bollocking once this meeting is done." Walton grunted his acknowledgement.

Arwood had always been a prickly bastard since the Red Weeding had been thought of, planned and enacted. From the beginning he disapproved of it. Him and a number of the younger Freys had refused to take part and ever since became the black sheep amoung the Frey flock. But at least the other lads who'd refused to take part in the Red Wedding had turned up to this meeting, the meeting where they would plan bringing the old patriarch's killer to justice. Because of Arwood's absence, he may very well have lost his place at The Twins; the deciding factor would be how he responded to Ryman's chastisement.

When all the stew was swallowed, a chorus of belches filled the room. It told Ryman that now was the time to speak to his kinsmen concerning the matter at hand. He pushed his chair away from the table with his legs & his arse then stood as he held onto the table's edge, steadying himself; the wine having done what wine does. Slamming his wooden goblet upon the high table – Bang! Bang! BANG! – he gained the attention of his kinsmen.

"Kinsmen," he bellowed after the room had gone quiet. "We sit here today a week following the death of our Patriarch, the Great Walder Frey, who was murdered in this very room. It was his efforts that led to the Freys of the Crossing becoming the strongest house in the Riverlands and one of the most feared in all of Westeros." A small cheer went up in respect. "Now we must track down the bitch who killed him.

"From the questions I've put to all who were in this tower at the time of the murder, I have come to the conclusion that the culprite is a serving wench who worked here some years now. The Seven only know why she chose now to commit murder but that is not what I gathered you all here to find out. Starting as soon as possible, you lot and I will be sweeping the Riverlands with all our strength to find this bitch and put her to knife & flame. She will suffer for what she's done. It is a stain on the family's honour on the same level as when the Young Wolf spurned our fine women for the forgien bitch from Volantis who got a knife in her whore belly. If anyone has any suggestions for how we might go about tracking this murdering bitch down, now is the time to voice them."

A flurry of calls came at him, near all inaudible in the sea of voices they were a part of. Ryman slammed his goblet again, yelling, "One at a time! One at a time!" before he could make them settle. The ideas they gave him were the best he could hope for: ten stags to any person who can give them any good information, sending out men to make camp on all borders of the Riverlands (both on and off road), clearing out any villages that she could of reached and be hiding in by now. Honestly, it was all Ryman expected.

Some simpleton suggested calling upon help from the Iron Throne. To which he replied, "Are you daft? Jaime Lannister just came up here to help us retake Riverrun from that cunt the Blackfish. Do you honestly think he would be arsed to haul his army back up here to help hunt some serving wench? How do expect House Frey to gain the respect it deserves if every time we run into trouble, we call upon the Lannisters to help us? If we can't hunt this bitch down and show what happens to people who cross House Frey, then we will become a laughing stock to the people we are supposed to be ruling over and those who would look down on us for being one of the younger great houses." The simpleton retreated into his wine cup.

The suggestions continued to come for the better part of ten mintues. Good ones he praised, shit ones he chastised, ones that were middle of the road he said would be put into consideration. With the rate the ideas were coming, Ryman was sure that they would be in this meeting for the better part of the night, hashing out the plan as to how they were going to find the bitch who killed Lord Walder.

He lost count of how many times the serving girls filled his own wine cup & the wine cups of his kinsmen. He didn't fail to note the brunette who'd told him about Arwood. She's comely enough. Perhaps I'll ask if she wouldn't being bedded by the Lord of the Crossing. If a bastard is in her belly afterwards, I'll care for it as one of my trueborn sons. That thought about a possible bastard made Ryman realise he'd had enough to drink. He made a promise to the Seven and on his wife's grave that he would never seek to replace her or sire any children that he didn't share with her.

And all this ran through his head as he began to cough.

The first cough was passed off as normal: a tickle of the throat causes by a speck of food, freeing itself from his teeth only to make its way down to his stomach. He didn't bother to cover his mouth, instead stealing a sip of water from Edwyn's wooden tumbler. While Ryman told Edwyn he could drink all the wine he liked, he preferred plain water, boiled so it was not too cold.

The second cough he covered his mouth for. It was decidedly more violent than the first, causing his upper body to lurch forward a fraction as his chest did its work. He did his best to listen to the suggestion being made, but the Frey who was making it decided to stop mid-sentence as Ryman continued to cough. He felt the warm hand of Edwyn on his shoulder, accomapnied by Edwyn saying, "Are you alright, father?"

Ryman waved him off, said, "Yes, I'm fine," and sat back down before more coughs came from those gathered. One, then two, then three, then four, so on and so forth, the gathered Freys began to cough; softly at first, only getting more violent. Something is wrong. Horror took hold of Ryman when even Edwyn began to hack up phlegm. Ryman nearly didn't hear a blonde serving girl as she began to address the room while other serving girls simply stared on in fear at the dying men:

"My Lords of Frey," she began, "I do hope you enjoyed the stew." Her tone was angry, smuggness lying underneath.

"What have you done, you bitch?" Ryman demanded of the wench, lurching over the table as blood began to come up with each of his violent coughs.

"Only what you deserve for the atrousity that was commited here. Butchered a woman pregnant with her babe. Cut the throat of a mother of five. Slaughted your guests after inviting them into your home and giving them bread & salt." She pulled a piece of leather out of her apron's pocket. She had moved to the centre of the room and held the leather up for him to see. Only then did he realise it was a face. "You wanted the wench who killed your patriarch, there she is." She threw the face toward the high table, sounding like thin leather when it landed on the wooden dais. Beside him, Edwyn was coughing massive amounts of blood. Ryman looked at his eldest son. His eyes were those of a scared boy, looking to his father for help.

"Father," he managed. "Help m–" Edwyn coughed one last time before going limp. He fell onto his chair and stumbled to the ground. Dead.

Ryman stared hard at the blonde. "Who are you, you fucking bitch? My boy had nothing to do with the Red Wedding."

"And my mother had nothing to do with King Robb's choice to marry the woman he married." The girl grabbed the flesh at the base of her neck and pulled. As if like a mask, the face parted from her head and once it had parted completely, the one she had underneath was much different: long with grey eyes & brown hair. "Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe." Her voice had changed. "The North remembers, My Lord, the North remembers. Winter has come for House Frey."

With that, the bitch turned toward the doors, but didn't reach them before guardsmen came crashing through. Ryman watched as she slunked pass them. The last of his strength was leaving him. His ears burst and the world went silent, pain biting into the sides of his skull. Hot blood trickled down the sides of his head and a warm wave passed over him. At least I will be with my boy. A painful, ironic chuckle escaped his lips; he felt it but did not hear it. Perhaps that same thought had passed through Catelyn Stark's head as Black Walder had cut her throat. You best avenage us Arwood. The last thing Ryman felt was his arm sliping across the table and the table coming up to meet him.

The world went dark.