The biting winter wind swept across the Riverlands, tearing through withered reeds along both banks.
The grey stone walls of The Twins stood cold and unyielding, its twin towers rising high—almost seeming to shiver beneath the bleak sky.
This was the throat of the north–south passage.
For hundreds of miles along the Green Fork, this was the only crossing sturdy enough for wagons and armies alike. Its importance needed no explanation.
For centuries, House Frey had held this choke point. Whether northern riders heading south or southern lords marching north, all had to pay their toll.
And that toll—
had made them very, very rich.
---
Inside the main keep.
At the very top floor.
Heavy curtains blocked out most of the cold, while the fireplace bathed the stone chamber in a drowsy, golden warmth.
Nearly eighty years old, Walder Frey was hard at work upon a bed large enough to hold ten men.
Beneath him—
his young and vigorous sixth wife, Sarya of House Rosby.
For a man of his age, Walder's stamina—and more importantly, his obsession with producing heirs—was nothing short of astonishing.
He remained utterly devoted to the cause of "expanding the family tree," firmly believing he still had a few more children left in him.
And, to be fair—
his efforts had been extraordinarily successful.
Over a lifetime of relentless "labor," he had sired nearly thirty legitimate children, along with an uncountable number of bastards.
Those children, in turn, had produced over a hundred grandchildren—and even great-grandchildren.
At this point, House Frey's direct bloodline alone outnumbered the cadet branches of many noble houses combined.
A terrifying statistic.
When House Darklyn of Duskendale had been exterminated, their entire family—main line and branches included—had amounted to only a few dozen lives.
But to wipe out House Frey?
Just figuring out how many of them existed would be a monumental task.
After all—
if even the legitimate line was this vast, what about the scattered bastards across the Riverlands?
Even Walder himself probably couldn't remember them all.
No wonder some joked that House Tyrell should give up their words.
Because truly—
"Growing Strong" suited the Freys far better.
---
Just as Walder was sweating profusely, pushing toward the creation of yet another life—
"BANG!"
The chamber doors were flung open.
"Father!"
A young man rushed in, his voice urgent.
He looked to be in his twenties, wearing the blue twin-tower sigil on grey—clearly one of Walder's sons or grandsons.
A gust of cold air flooded the room.
Walder shuddered violently, then turned with a furious roar:
"Shut the door, you witless idiot—Rhaegar Frey!"
"Who gave you permission to barge in like a rutting stag? Is my bedchamber a marketplace to you?!"
"S-sorry, Father!"
The young Frey straightened quickly, though his eyes couldn't help flicking toward the strong young woman beneath his father.
Who's the rutting stag here…?
You're almost eighty and still at it every day. Aren't you afraid you'll die on top of her?
Though thinking that, he hurriedly shut the door.
Warmth returned—
but the mood was thoroughly ruined.
Walder pushed himself upright with some effort, his frail, naked upper body slick with sweat, chest heaving.
"Well? Speak!"
"Can't you see I'm busy giving you another brother or sister?!"
"Gods know how many more relatives this old skeleton can still give you fools!"
The young Frey took a breath and spoke quickly:
"It's a message from Lady Lysa Tully, Father."
"She demands tonight's dinner be veal from the Reach—only the most tender cut, marinated in honey and rose salt."
"And the wine… must be golden Arbor vintage. Ten years old."
"That's… all."
He delivered the message like a courier—and then shut his mouth.
Silence filled the room.
For a moment—
nothing.
Then—
a sharp, mocking laugh squeezed from Walder's throat.
"Reach veal?!"
He slammed his hand against the bedpost, furious.
"That greedy, insatiable fool—does she even know it's winter?!"
"Winter!!!"
"Where the hell am I supposed to get Reach veal now?!"
"She and that useless husband of hers—the one strutting around with the empty title of 'Lord of Winterfell'—have been squatting here for over two months with five thousand men!"
"Food, wine, rooms, firewood—whose supplies are they using?! Mine!"
"Those damned soldiers eat like pigs! Train by the river all day, then line up waiting to be fed!"
His pent-up anger erupted.
"How far is Moat Cailin from here? Not even a day's ride!"
"But in two months, have they moved even a single step?!"
"Lord of Winterfell? Bah!"
"They've turned my castle into their granary!"
Walder's voice rose higher and higher, his chest heaving as he counted grievances on his fingers like each one cost him blood.
"First she complained the venison stew wasn't fresh enough—so I hired a cook from King's Landing!"
"Then last week, she said the hall was too drafty—I hung four of the finest wool tapestries!"
"Paid in gold dragons!"
"And what did she do? Threw them into the Green Fork because they were 'ugly'!"
"And now—Reach veal?!"
"The river's frozen solid!!!"
Spittle practically flew into the young Frey's face.
He quietly took a step back.
Not his problem.
He was just the messenger.
Besides—
he wasn't even married yet.
If he didn't serve this "honorable lady" well, how could he get introductions to noble ladies?
And besides…
Her sister's still unmarried…
Even if his chances with Catelyn Tully were practically zero—
A man had to have dreams.
What if she liked him?
"Lady Lysa is still waiting for an answer, Father…"
He braced himself and asked:
"Should we send people to find it or not?"
Though furious—
Walder still ground his teeth and agreed.
After all—
she was his liege lord's daughter.
And her husband had an army stationed here.
Fortunately, House Frey was rich enough.
Even if they stayed the entire winter, it wouldn't break him.
Worst case—raise the toll in spring.
So even if she demanded the stars—
he'd grit his teeth and fetch them.
Though he agreed in the end, Walder Frey kept cursing furiously:
"Lysa Tully—that greedy, insatiable woman! Not a trace of her sister's grace or virtue!"
"I swear, Hoster Tully must've picked the wrong day to sow his seed!"
Hearing his father's endless ranting, the young Frey simply grinned.
"I'll go take care of it now!"
He turned toward the door—then suddenly paused, as if remembering something.
"Oh, right."
"I'm Robert Frey, Father. Rhaegar is my brother."
With that, he pushed the door open and left without hesitation.
Walder merely snorted.
With so many sons, who the hell could keep track?
Besides, when naming his descendants, Walder had pulled from nearly every famous name across the Seven Kingdoms—
Aegon, Tywin, Steffon… even Tytos Lannister hadn't been spared.
His philosophy was simple:
Take everything—whether it was brilliance or rubbish—and use it all.
"Enough."
Turning back irritably, he looked at his robust sixth wife.
"For the next one…"
"I'll name him Hoster!"
---
Elsewhere in the Twins.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside The Twins, however, Lysa's receiving chamber was blazing with warmth—more firewood burned here than in Walder's own quarters.
The room radiated comfort.
Fine wool carpets from the Reach covered the floors and walls alike, embroidered with silver trout and leaping direwolves, just as the lady had ordered.
Lysa Tully sat upright in a high-backed chair draped in velvet cushions, chin raised, posture proud.
Her expensive dark-red gown accentuated her full figure perfectly.
She felt no guilt.
No discomfort.
As the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands—and now the wife of the "Lord of Winterfell"—this luxury was her right.
That sense of entitlement practically gleamed in her blue eyes.
Once, she had believed her sister would marry Brandon Stark, while she herself would fall in love with Jaime Lannister.
But everything had changed too quickly.
Brandon died.
Catelyn Tully fled her betrothal.
And somehow—
Lysa married Eddard Stark, becoming a Lady in truth, recognized by the Iron Throne itself.
Though they still lingered south of Moat Cailin, she firmly believed it was only a matter of time before she and her husband marched north to claim Winterfell.
---
Across from her sat a man.
Not particularly tall.
Petyr Baelish.
"You look radiant, Lysa," he said, his voice deliberately low and smooth.
He sat elegantly, though something about him felt out of place.
He lacked the imposing build of most men—slender, almost slight—even well-tailored clothing couldn't hide it.
Especially compared to a certain northern lord.
"Lady… Lysa."
Her response was cold.
Petyr's smile faltered.
He looked at her familiar face—but her blue eyes held nothing. No warmth. No recognition. Only distance.
Compared to the girl he had known in Riverrun—
she was calmer now.
Sharper.
And far more arrogant.
Power had changed her.
"Is that… a warning?" Petyr asked after a pause, his smile returning, carefully measured.
He leaned forward slightly, gaze intent, voice soft as if reciting an old memory.
"I've already instructed the servants to prepare Reach veal for you," Lysa replied, ignoring his tone entirely.
"Say what you came to say, Petyr."
Her voice was crisp. Direct.
Her gaze carried scrutiny—
and unmistakable disgust.
Since marrying Eddard Stark, she had come to realize just how absurd her past with Petyr had been.
She wanted distance.
Clean separation.
"I—"
"Before we begin," she cut him off, lifting her chin slightly.
"Don't contact me again."
"I don't want Ned to misunderstand."
A pause.
Her eyes sharpened.
"This… is a warning."
Her gaze locked onto his, asserting her authority as Lady Stark.
Petyr's smile froze.
He hadn't expected this.
Not after just two months.
The girl who once adored him—who hung on every word—
was gone.
She had once blushed at his whispers.
Flushed at his gaze.
He had been her world.
She had even climbed into his bed of her own accord, comforting him when her sister rejected him.
He had believed he could control her forever.
And yet—
this sudden transformation caught him completely off guard.
In that overly warm room—
Petyr felt colder than the winter winds outside.
But then—
he noticed something.
Her hands.
Her fingers, intertwined tightly over her abdomen.
Trembling.
She's nervous.
A slow smile curved his lips.
He stood.
Picked up his wine.
Walked toward her.
Looking down, he confirmed it.
Yes.
That small habit.
Whenever Lysa was nervous—
she did that.
"You should see yourself, Lysa," he murmured.
He stepped behind her, leaning close, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder.
"Marrying a Stark has turned you into a snarling she-wolf guarding her territory."
"You think you can erase the past? Pretend none of it happened?"
"You're naïve, my dear…"
As he drew closer—
her body tensed further.
"You've gone too far, Petyr Baelish!"
She trembled, teeth clenched, sweat forming on her brow.
"Get away from me!"
She raised her hand to strike—
But he was faster.
He caught her wrist easily.
Despite his slight frame, his strength far exceeded hers.
One hand restrained her—
the other pressed against her throat.
Tightening.
"You've never been able to lie," he whispered.
"If you truly wanted nothing to do with me…"
"you wouldn't have dismissed all the servants."
Rip—
With a violent motion, he tore open her collar.
Pale skin exposed to the air.
Her resistance—
faded.
Seeing this, Petyr smiled faintly, eyes fixed on hers.
"You've always been mine, Lysa."
"Always."