Andrew
They heard the Green Fork before they saw it, an endless susurrus, like the growl of some great beast. The river was a boiling torrent, half again as wide as it had been the last time he saw it, almost a decade before, when his father had been the King in the North and took his heir and queen south to meet his southern friends and family. King Eddard had needed Lord Walder and his bridge then, and Andrew needs them even more now. His heart was full of the past as he watched the fresh green waters swirl past. It reminded him the green eyes of Joy Hill, though hers had never been fierce like the river. Her eyes had been two green pools, still and calm. He had drowned and lost in them more often than not.
The green waters of the Green Fork was raging before him. There is no way we will ford this, nor swim across, and it could be a moon's turn before these waters fall again.
There has been talks of fighting in the Riverlands and the Stormlands lately and he could be very well losing allies as they were waiting for the rainfall to stop and the rivers to quiet.
Andrew rode at the front of the column, beneath the flapping white banner of Winterfell. His father had taught him enough to treat all of his men as equals. There was always a man with King Eddard at the high table of Winterfell while he still ruled the north. The people would differ everyday, going from high lords to guards walking the walls. Following his father, each day Andrew would ask one of his lords to join him, so they might confer as they marched; he honored every man in turn, showing no favorites, listening as his lord father had listened, weighing the words of one against the other. Today it was Lord Robett Glover's turn to ride with him.
Andrew had sent Lord Beric and his brotherhood with a hundred picked men and a hundred swift horses to race ahead of them and to screen their movements and scout the way. The reports Lord Beric's riders brought back did little to reassure him. The Tyrell host under Ser Garlan was still many days to the south . . . but Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, had assembled a force of near four thousand men at his castles on the Green Fork.
He could not say if the old man had gathered his men to oppose him or to fend off the reachmen who were troubling his liege lord and the fellow river lords. Lord Hoster had already called his banners; by rights, Lord Frey should have gone to join the Tully host at Riverrun, yet here he sat.
"Four thousand men," Lord Robett repeated, perplexed at the thought. "Lord Frey cannot hope to fight the Targaryens by himself. Surely he means to join his power to ours."
Does he? Andrew wondered. Both his father and mother never placed any trust in Lord Walder. They trusted him as much as anyone would trust a sellsword. Andrew still remembered meeting Lord Walder for the first time. For the brief time they had spent in the halls of Lord Frey, he had been mostly interested in the gold and silver his father had brought with them. They hadn't even stayed in the comfort of his castle, opting to make camp away from the sight of the Twins. He should expect nothing of Walder Frey, then he might never be surprised.
The vanguard spread out behind him, a slow-moving forest of lances and banners and spears.
"He's Lord Hoster's bannerman," Andrew said. "Yet I see him sitting in his castle despite his overlord's call."
"Your lord father always treated the man with caution, my lord," Lord Glover said.
Andrew nodded. Somehow he remembered his mother's words then, "Some men take their oaths more seriously than others, Andrew. When Lord Arryn denied to hand over the heads of your father and Lord Robert to the Mad King and rose in rebellion there were still some lords of the Vale who were loyal to the king. Loyalty of the people is not bought in one day, love. It is earned. One day you might have to earn it for yourself. Then know well that love is always better than fear. Let your enemies fear you but not your people."
"Do you think Frey means to betray us to the Targaryens, Your Grace?" Robett Glover asked gravely.
Andrew sighed. "I don't know, we will see soon enough. Anyways, we must have the Twins," Andrew said knowingly. "There is no other way across the river. And we don't have enough time to wait for the rains to stop and rivers to calm. What's bothering me is that Walder Frey knows that, you can be sure of that. I don't know what he is going to ask us in return for the passage."
That night they made camp on the southern edge of the bogs, halfway between the kingsroad and the river. It was there his cousin brought them further word from the lightning lord. "Lord Beric says to tell you he's crossed swords with the Tyrells. There are a dozen scouts who won't be reporting back to Ser Garlan anytime soon. Or ever." He said. "Ser Dickon Tarly commands their outriders, and he's pulling back south, burning as he goes. He knows where we are, more or less, but the lightning lord vows he will not know when we cross."
"Unless Lord Frey tells him," Lord Robett said.
"We don't have to worry about that, my lord," Edric said. "Lord Beric has placed his best bowmen around the Twins, day and night, with orders to bring down any raven they see leaving the battlements."
That was deftly done, thought Andrew. I want no birds bringing word of my movements to the Targaryens.
"Its done wisely," Theo Wull said. "The lesser they know about us the better."
"What have the Freys been doing while the Targaryens burn their fields and plunder their holdfasts?" Andrew asked.
"There's been some fighting between Ser Dickon's men and Lord Walder's," Edric answered. "Not a day's ride from here, we found two Tyrell scouts feeding the crows where the Freys had strung them up. Most of Lord Walder's strength remains massed at the Twins, though."
"That bears Walder Frey's seal beyond a doubt," Greatjon Umber snarled. "He is a craven, Your Grace. Your father knew as much. He will hold back, wait, watch, take no risk unless forced to it.
"If he's been fighting the Tyrells, perhaps he does mean to hold to his vows to House Tully," Andrew said.
Lord Umber was less encouraged. "He has not yet taken the field against the dragons. Its fear that's keeping him from declaring open battle against Rhaegar."
Andrew turned back to his cousin. "Has Lord Beric found any other way across the Green Fork?"
Edric shook his head sadly. "The river's running high and fast. Lord Beric and Thoros says it can't be forded, not this far north."
"I must have that crossing!" Andrew declared, fuming. Had he still been Andrew Snow, he might have swam across the raging river despite the risk. "Our horses might be able to swim the river, I suppose, but not with armored men on their backs. We'd need to build rafts to pole our steel across, helms and mail and lances, and we don't have the trees for that. Or the time. The Tyrells are dangerously close and Rhaegar might be marching north . . . " He balled his hand into a fist.
"Lord Frey would be a fool to try and bar our way," Smalljon Umber said with his customary easy confidence. "We have five times his numbers. You can take the Twins if you need to, Your Grace."
"Not easily," Roose Bolton warned them, "and not in time. While you were mounting your siege, Ser Garlan would bring up his huge host and assault you from the rear."
Andrew glanced from Lord Bolton to Smalljon Umber, searching for an answer and finding none. For a moment the crown on his head felt a little heavy on his head. He still found the weight of the sword in his hand more welcoming than the weight of his father's crown atop his brow. What would my lord father do? he asked himself. Find a way across, a voice seemed to tell him from the inside, a voice which sounded very much like his father's. Whatever it takes. Find a way.
The next morning it was Lord Beric Dondarrion himself who rode back to them. He had put aside the heavy plate and helm he'd worn which marked him as the lightning lord for the lighter leather-and-mail of an outrider, but his faded black and purple cloak still covered his shoulders.
Lord Beric's face was grave as he swung down off his horse. "There has been a battle at Tumbler Falls in the Blackwater Rush near Stoney Sept," he said, his mouth grim. "We had it from a Tarly outrider we took captive. Less than a fortnight past, they fought the battle in the banks of the Rush by the Roseroad. Lord Hoster had sent Lord Vance and Lord Piper to hold the Rush and block the Roseroad to the north, but Ser Garlan Tyrell descended on them and put them to flight. Lord Vance was slain by Ser Garlan himself. Lord Piper has fallen back to join Lord Tully and his other bannermen at Riverrun, with Ser Garlan Tyrell on his heels. That's not the worst of it, though. After the battle was done, the Tyrell host has split into two, with Ser Garlan racing north to lead the invasion of Riverlands while the second Tyrell army under the command of Lord Randyll Tarly and Lord Mathis Rowan turned south to meet Lord Robert and the power of Storm's End. They have planned to not to let us join together."
"Any word on King's Landing?" Andrew asked.
"Our captive says that Rhaegar has massed a great host in the Red Keep," Lord Beric replied. "He says that it will only be a matter of time before the king come for us with his dragons."
The news warmed his heart more than he had thought it would be. It was the best thing he has heard in the last few weeks. All the fighting and deaths in his life lead to only one thing. His sword against Rhaegar Targaryen's sword. His life against Rhaegar's. Andrew was glad that was coming to happen soon enough.
"How did the large host of the Reachmen got up north so quickly?" asked Lord William Dustin.
"Garlan Tyrell brought his army in barges and cogs by the river," Lord Beric said. "Tyrell is quickly riding for Riverrun to meet Lord Hoster and the riverlords."
Andrew looked around at his lords. "We must get across this accursed river if we're to have any hope of helping them in time."
"That will not be easily done," the lightning lord cautioned. "Lord Frey has pulled his whole strength back inside his castles, and his gates are closed and barred."
"Damn the man," Andrew swore. If only the crown was not there upon his head, he could've infiltrated the castle and opened the gates for his men. He had scaled the walls of buildings a dozen times bigger than the Twins. Yet a king is no assassin to do that.
"There must be someway to make him open the gates for us," Ned Dayne said.
Perhaps there might actually be, Andrew thought. He remembered his father's words. "A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot, Andrew," his father had told him when his mother complained his father about Andrew's lack of interest in the maester's lessons in favour for training sessions with Ser Rodrik.
He smiled knowingly. Now he knew how to deal with the Freys. "I know how to deal with the Freys."
His bannermen looked confused. Andrew continued. "The Freys have held the crossing for six hundred years, and for six hundred years they have never failed to exact their toll. They even made it sure to get enough gold from my father."
"What toll? What does he want?" Lord Umber asked.
Andrew smiled. "That is what we must discover."
It was near midday when their vanguard came in sight of the Twins, where the Lords of the Crossing had their seat. The rainfall was more frequent as they moved further south into the Riverlands and the downpour was the heaviest he had come across during the entire journey.
The Green Fork ran swift and deep here, but the Freys had spanned it many centuries past and grown rich off the coin men paid them to cross. Their bridge was a massive arch of smooth grey rock, wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast; the Water Tower rose from the center of the span, commanding both road and river with its arrow slits, murder holes, and portcullises. It had taken the Freys three generations to complete their bridge; when they were done they'd thrown up stout timber keeps on either bank, so no one might cross without their leave.
The timber had long since given way to stone. The Twins-two squat, ugly, formidable castles, identical in every respect, with the bridge arching between-had guarded the crossing for centuries. High curtain walls, deep moats, and heavy oak-and-iron gates protected the approaches, the bridge footings rose from within stout inner keeps, there was a barbican and portcullis on either bank, and the Water Tower defended the span itself.
One glance was sufficient to tell Andrew that the castle would not be taken by storm. The battlements bristled with spears and swords and scorpions, there was an archer at every crenel and arrow slit, the drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.
The Greatjon began to curse and swear as soon as he saw what awaited them. Lord Rickard Karstark glowered in silence. "That cannot be assaulted, my lords," Roose Bolton announced.
"Nor can we take it by siege, without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle," Helman Tallhart said gloomily. Across the deep-running green waters, the western twin stood like a reflection of its eastern brother. "Even if we had the time. Which, to be sure, we do not."
As his northern lords studied the castle, a sally port opened, a plank bridge slid across the moat, and a dozen knights rode forth to confront them, led by four of Lord Walder's many sons. Their banner bore twin towers, dark blue on a field of pale silver-grey. Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder's heir, spoke for them. The Freys all looked like weasels; Ser Stevron, past sixty with grandchildren of his own, looked like an especially old and tired weasel, yet he was polite enough. "My lord father has sent me to greet you, and inquire as to who leads this mighty host."
"I do." Andrew spurred his horse forward. He was in his jacket, with the long leather coat clasped over and Ghost padding by his side.
The old knight looked at him with a faint flicker of amusement in his watery grey eyes, though his gelding whickered uneasily and sidled away from the direwolf. "Forgive me, my lord, but you do resemble your father. My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here."
His words crashed among the lords bannermen like a great stone from a catapult. Not one of them approved. They cursed, argued, shouted down each other.
"You must not do this, my lord," Galbart Glover pleaded with him. "Lord Walder is not to be trusted."
Roose Bolton nodded. "Go in there alone and you're his captive. He can sell you to the Targaryens, throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat, as he likes."
"If he wants to talk to us, let him open his gates, and we will all share his meat and mead," declared Ser Wendel Manderly.
"Or let him come out and treat with His Grace here, in plain sight of his men and ours," suggested his brother, Ser Wylis.
Andrew shared all their doubts, but he had only to glance at Ser Stevron to see that he was not pleased by what he was hearing. A few more words and the chance would be lost. He had to act with his words now, and quickly. "I will go," he said at last.
"Your Grace?" The Greatjon furrowed his brow.
"My king, I beg you to reconsider," Robett Glover said.
"No," Andrew said. "I have made my decision. I'll go and explain our purpose in being here to Lord Frey."
"Then let me come with you, Your Grace," the Greatjon offered. The others started to ask the same as well.
"I trust you all with my life," Andrew told them. "But it is disrespecting the faith of our good Lord Frey if we don't honour his noble invitation." He lied wisely. It will be easier for him to escape from the castle should Lord Frey tries to capture him for the Targaryens if he was alone. Andrew was ready to play the old lord's game in his terms. He did not come all the way out here to sit down meekly in some damn dungeon. Should Frey betray me for some sacks of Targaryen gold, I'll pull down the Twins all around him.
"Ghost, with me," Andrew called. The direwolf shook the wetness off his thick white fur and came to his side. He spurred his horse forward and did not look back. Lord Walder's sons and envoys fell in around him.
The gatehouse towers emerged from the rain like ghosts, hazy grey apparitions that grew more solid the closer they rode. The Frey stronghold was not one castle but two; mirror images in wet stone standing on opposite sides of the water, linked by a great arched bridge. From the center of its span rose the Water Tower, the river running straight and swift below. Channels had been cut from the banks, to form moats that made each twin an island. The rains had turned the moats to shallow lakes.
Across the turbulent waters, Andrew could see several thousand men encamped around the western castle, their banners hanging like so many drowned cats from the lances outside their tents. The rain made it impossible to distinguish colors and devices. Most were grey, it seemed to him, though beneath such skies the whole world seemed grey. The greyness reminded him of Braavos and its fogs.
He must tread lightly here, as mother would urge his father.
Four Freys rode out from the eastern gatehouse, wrapped in heavy cloaks of thick grey wool. Andrew recognized none of them. The four of them were likely Lord Walder's own sons or grandsons. Ser Stevron confirmed as much. "Ryman, the first rider, is my son. Edwyn is eldest riding next to my son. The tall man with the beard on the black palfrey is Black Walder. Petyr is on the bay. Petyr Pimple, his brothers call him." Andrew looked at them carefully. Ser Ryman, son of Ser Stevron, Lord Walder's firstborn. When his father dies, Ryman will be the heir to the Twins but it seemed as if Ser Ryman could already have some grandsons of his own. The face he saw beneath his hood was fleshy, broad, and stupid.
Edwyn Frey was a pale slender man with the constipated look. Black Walder was a wiry man with a cruel face. Petyr was the lad with the unfortunate face. He could have only been a year or two older than Andrew himself. Andrew had to take only one look at his face to understand why he was called Petyr Pimple.
They halted to let their hosts come to them. Andrew's banner drooped on its staff, and the steady sound of rainfall mingled with the rush of the swollen Green Fork on their right. Ghost edged forward, tail stiff, watching through slitted eyes of red blood. When the Freys were a half-dozen yards away Andrew heard him growl, a deep rumble that seemed almost one with rush of the river.
There was more trouble at the gatehouse. Ghost balked in the middle of the drawbridge, shook the rain off, and howled at the portcullis. Andrew whistled impatiently. "Ghost. What is it? Ghost, to me." But the direwolf only bared his teeth. He does not like this place, Andrew thought. He dismounted from his horse and knelt beside Ghost to speak softly to the wolf. At last he did consent to pass beneath the portcullis. By then Lame Lothar and Walder Rivers had come up. "It's the sound of the water he fears," Rivers said. "Beasts know to avoid the river in flood."
"A dry kennel and a leg of mutton will see him right again," said Lothar cheerfully. "Shall I summon our master of hounds?"
"He's a direwolf, not a dog," Andrew told them, "and he stays with me."
The Lord of the Crossing welcomed Andrew in the great hall of the east castle, surrounded by twenty-one living sons, thirty-six grandsons, nineteen great-grandsons, and numerous daughters, granddaughters, bastards, and grandbastards. It is a bloody army here, Andrew thought as he looked at the people crowding around him.
Lord Walder was ninety, a wizened pink weasel with a bald spotted head, too gouty to stand unassisted. His wife, a pale frail girl of sixteen years, walked beside his litter when they carried him in. Andrew could clearly remember that the girl wasn't the same one he had seen with Lord Walder years before. He wondered how many wives Lord Frey has had in his entire life to build up such a formidable army of sons.
"It is a great pleasure to see you again after so many years, my lord," Andrew said.
The old man squinted at him suspiciously. "Is it? I doubt that. Your father was the same. Spare me the sweet words your mother fed you along with her sweet milk. I am too old but not stupid. Why are you here?"
Andrew had been a babe at his mother's hip the last time he had visited the Twins, but even then Lord Walder had been irascible, sharp of tongue, and blunt of manner. Age had made him worse than ever, it would seem. He would need to choose his words with care, and do his best to take no offense from his.
"Father," Ser Stevron said reproachfully, "you forget yourself. Lord Stark is here at your invitation."
"Did I ask you? You are not Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead? I'll hear no instructions from you."
"This is no way to speak in front of our royal guest, Father," one of his younger sons said.
"Now my bastards presume to teach me courtesy," Lord Walder complained. "I'll speak any way I like, damn you. I've had four kings to guest in my life, and queens as well, including his parents, do you think I require lessons from the likes of you, Ryger?" He dismissed the red-faced youth with a flick of his fingers and gestured to two of his other sons. "Danwell, Whalen, help me to my chair."
They shifted Lord Walder from his litter and carried him to the high seat of the Freys, a tall chair of black oak whose back was carved in the shape of two towers linked by a bridge. His young wife crept up timidly and covered his legs with a blanket. When he was settled, the old man bowed forward. "You will forgive me if I do not kneel, I know. My legs no longer work as they did." His mouth split in a toothless smile as he eyed his crown. "Some would say it's a poor king who crowns himself with bronze, Your Grace."
"Bronze and iron are stronger than gold and silver," Andrew answered. "The old Kings of Winter wore it with pride, so did my father and so will I."
"Sire," Lord Walder said, "Why are you here?"
"To ask you to open your gates, my lord," Andrew replied politely. "My army and bannermen are most anxious to cross the river and be on our way."
"To Riverrun?" He sniggered. "Oh, I have gotten the letters as well."
"To Riverrun," Andrew confirmed. He saw no reason to deny it. "Where I might have expected to find you, my lord. You are still Lord Hoster's bannerman, are you not? Have you not heard of the fighting in the Riverlands."
"Heh," said Lord Walder, a noise halfway between a laugh and a grunt. "I called my swords, yes I did, here they are, you saw them on the walls. It was my intent to march as soon as all my strength was assembled. Well, to send my sons. I am well past marching myself." He looked around for likely confirmation and pointed to a tall, stooped man of fifty years. "Tell His Grace, Jared. Tell him that was my intent."
"It was, Your Grace," said the Jared Frey. "On my honor."
"My sons tell me that the Tullys are already on their heels," He leaned back against his cushions and scowled at him, as if challenging him to dispute his version of events. "I am told Mace Tyrell's son went through them like an axe through ripe cheese. Why should my boys hurry south to die? All those who did go south are running north again. Do you not remember what happened to your royal family, Your Grace?"
Ghost bared his teeth at the mention of his family. Andrew rubbed the white wolf behind the ear and wondered how the old man would feel if he set Ghost upon him and sent him running south on his own two legs, but he had only little time to open the bridge. Words of anger or threats will not help him here. Calmly, he said, "I remember that, my lord. It is for that reason I have to go south."
"Heh, all the more like your father," Lord Frey smiled a toothless smile. "I need to talk with you." The spotted pink head snapped around. "What are you all looking at?" he shouted at his kin. "Get out of here. I want to speak to his grace in private. Go, all of you, find something useful to do. Yes, you too, woman. Out, out, out." As his sons and grandsons and daughters and bastards and nieces and nephews streamed from the hall, he leaned close to Andrew and confessed, "They're all waiting for me to die. Stevron's been waiting for forty years, but I keep disappointing him. Heh. Why should I die just so he can be a lord? I ask you. I won't do it."
"I hope you haven't called me here to discuss about how long we would live."
"That would be nice, to be sure. Oh, to be sure. Though I believe you Starks don't think much about life."
No, he thought. I've never thought of life until I met Joy and never have thought about it since I lost her. "Maybe that's why I want to rush south," Andrew told him.
"Heh, that's blunt. So I get it that you want to cross." Lord Frey leaned forward. "Why should I let you?"
"I have gold," Andrew answered.
Lord Frey cackled. "I have no need for your gold. I know that the gold your father paid me is still somewhere in my chests." He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his arms, smirking. "You and your fourty thousand men will soon be charred corpses when the king descends upon you from King's Landing. You have been named as a traitor to the realm and anyone who might be joining you will be treated as such. Even your father, as great as he was still lost his life in the south. I've sworn oaths to House Targaryen not to your father, it seems to me. Rhaegar's the king now, and that makes you and your allies and all those fools out there no better than rebels like your father. If I had the sense the gods gave a fish, I'd help the Targaryens burn you all. Why should I help you and be branded as a traitor to the realm?"
"You are right," Andrew admitted. "We might lose. We might actually be riding forth to our deaths. But what if we prevailed in the end."
He bobbed his head side to side, weighing his words. "Ah, Dragonslayer, this is not a single castle we are talking about."
"I know," Andrew told him. "Still nothing in this world is certain, my lord. Nothing but winter alone, and Winter is coming."
Lord Walder snorted with disdain. "Heh, your fancy words. But those words mean very little here. I have seen more winters than your entire family combined!" He cackled. "I have been Lord Frey since your father's grandfather was Lord Stark and I've outlived all of them to your father."
"I have no intention of dying too soon like you think I will," Andrew said calmly.
Lord Walder jabbed a bony finger at his face. "You're impudent like your father. Your family has always pissed on me, you know it's true. Years ago, your family came to my castle to cross the river. I opened my gates for him despite his feud with the Targaryen king. While he was here, I suggested a match between you and my daughter. Why not? I had a daughter in mind, sweet girl, a little older than you for you were still a red faced babe at your mother's teats, but if your father did not find her perfect, I had others he might have had found perfect for you, young ones, pretty ones, virgins, widows, whatever he wanted. No, King Eddard would not have any of them. Sweet words he gave me, excuses, but what I wanted was to get rid of a daughter. When I provided him the hospitality of my castle, he would not stay. My bed was too old and cold for your father to lay his queen down and fuck her.
"And your mother, pretty as she was, her words were the sweetest of lies. She told me that you were promised to someone else. Queen Ashara the Benevolent told no to me. Oh, but I did see her benevolence in a way. She promised me that she would take two of my grandsons as wards to your royal castle Winterfell. Even still she wouldn't take them to the south with you. Why, I should have asked her then. Your father had southron friends; the great lords Arryn, Baratheon, Tully and I believe she was ashamed to call Lord Frey as their friend to the likes of them. At least your mother offered to take my grandsons as wards, but your aunt, the queen, she is full of bad, I promise you. When I proposed the same thing to her and her husband she told me that she had no time for my grandsons or any wards for that matter. Are my grandsons unworthy to be seen at the king's court? They are sweet boys, quiet and mannerly. Walder is Merrett's son, named after me, and the other one . . . heh, I don't recall . . . he might have been another Walder, they're always naming them Walder so I'll favor them, but his father . . . which one was his father now?" His face wrinkled up. "Well, never mind. Years after your parents never came back to hold their promise to me, after Rhaegar made his six kingdoms as seven again, I went to his city to see my sons ride in the tourney for the prince's nameday. Stevron and Jared are too old for the lists now, but Danwell and Hosteen rode, Perwyn as well, and a couple of my bastards tried the melee. If I'd known how they'd shame me, I would never have troubled myself to make the journey. Why did I need to ride all that way to see Hosteen knocked off his horse by that Tyrell whelp? I ask you. The boy's half his age, Ser Daisy they call him, something like that. And Danwell was unhorsed by the Targaryen boy you slew in Winterfell. Some days I wonder if those two are truly mine. My third wife was a Crakehall, all of the Crakehall women are sluts. Well, never mind about that, she died even before your mother was born, what do you care?
"I was speaking of your aunt. I proposed that the king and queen foster my grandsons but they wouldn't have Walder, or the other one, and I blame your aunt for that. She didn't even know how to behave like a highborn and stormed off without a word of regrets after knocking down half the plates on the table." Lord Walder slumped against his chair. "Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Lannister, Arryn, Tully, Martell, none of you have been friends of mine. Why should I help any of you?"
Andrew smiled knowing what the old man wanted. "I will honour the promise my mother made to you," he said at last. "I will take your sons as royal wards to Winterfell. Had I not been promised to someone else, I would have married your daughter like you wanted."
"Heh, that wasn't hard now, was it?" Lord Walder smiled. "And I need you to take one of my sons for your personal squire. I would like to see him knighted, in good time. "
"Squire?" Andrew asked confused. "I am no knight."
"Damn your excuses," Lord Frey said. "I've heard of your skills, Dragonslayer. You know how to swing a sword. That's enough to keep a squire."
"Very well, then," Andrew said. "Ask your son to join me on the way out. If that's all . . ."
"And," Walder Frey started off again. "I need a marriage pact to join our houses in the future."
"Well, you have it," Andrew said at once. He has no idea that it might never happen whilst he lives, Andrew thought as he saw Lord Frey grinning.
"So, its done," the Lord of the Crossing said. "My castle is yours, sire and so are my men. I mean to keep back four hundred men to hold the Twins for you."
"Take five hundred of my own men as well, my lord," Andrew told him. "Bolster the castle and let no one cross the river." And should I ever find out that you need help to keep faith, they will make sure to teach you a lesson.
A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills when the gates of the castle opened. The drawbridge creaked down, the portcullis winched up, and Andrew Stark rode forth to rejoin his lords bannermen. Ghost followed him closely. Behind him came Ser Jared Frey, Ser Hosteen Frey, Ser Danwell Frey, and Lord Walder's bastard son Ronel Rivers, leading a long column of pikemen, rank on rank of shuffling men in blue steel ringmail and silvery grey cloaks. His new squire Olyvar Frey held his direwolf banner beside him.
His bannermen galloped out to meet him. "Lord Walder will grant us our crossing. He has pledged his swords to me." Andrew looked around his lords and found Ser Helman Tallhart. "Ser Helman," he beckoned him forward. Ser Helman moved forward and bowed his head. "Choose five hundred picked men, a mixed force of archers and swordsmen. I'm leaving a garrison here at the Twins to hold the crossing and you're in command of it."
"As you say, Your Grace," Ser Helman answered. "I'll not fail you."
Andrew gazed at the ranks of pikemen forming into their formation behind them. "Get the men ready to move," he told his lords.
They crossed at evenfall as a horned moon floated upon the river. The double column wound its way through the gate of the eastern twin like a great steel snake, slithering across the courtyard, into the keep and over the bridge, to issue forth once more from the second castle on the west bank.
Andrew rode at the head of the serpent, with Ghost and his cousin Ned, his new squire and Ser Stevron Frey. Behind followed nine tenths of their horse; knights, lancers, freeriders, and mounted bowmen. After them came the larger part of the northern host, pikes and archers and great masses of men-at-arms on foot . It took hours for them all to cross. Afterward, Andrew would remember the clatter of countless hooves on the drawbridge, the sight of Lord Walder Frey in his litter watching them pass, the glitter of eyes peering down through the slats of the murder holes in the ceiling as they rode through the Water Tower.
As he brought the men south, he could only think of one thing; the quest which brought him here, the quest for justice, and now it begins.