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Riverrun. The ducal bedchamber of House Tully.
It had once belonged to Hoster Tully.
Now its temporary master was Lynn.
A fire burned in the hearth, pushing back the damp chill of the Riverlands night. Woven hangings lined the walls, each one depicting the scenery of Riverrun, and in the firelight the silver trout stitched across them seemed to move, gliding through imagined water.
Everything was quiet. Everything was rich.
But the quiet kept breaking , muffled sobs from somewhere beyond the door, and the rough bark of soldiers cutting through them.
Every upheaval meant a reshuffling. The Freys' hidden networks were being torn out root by root, and the Tullys of the Riverlands suddenly found themselves holding more power than they had in years. They were beginning to look like their ancestors again.
Roslin Frey was curled into a soft chair in the corner of the room.
She had her knees pulled to her chest, her head buried in the crook of her arms. Like a cat dropped into a strange house, frightened of everything and trusting nothing.
When the slaughter in the Great Hall finally ended, that black-cloaked guard , the one who moved like a statue and felt like one too , had carried her down the corridors and deposited her here. Then left without a word.
No chains. No cage. A warm fire and a soft bed.
Roslin felt like she was sitting in an icehouse.
She didn't know what Lynn wanted. The man had butchered her father and brothers without hesitation, then wiped the filth from her face with something close to gentleness. He had called her his trophy.
Trophy.
The word wasn't new to her. At the Twins, she and her sisters had been trophies from the moment they were born , goods, bargaining chips, things Walder Frey parceled out to other houses in exchange for alliances. Their worth was measured in what marriages they could secure.
She had told herself that marrying Edmure Tully was the end of it. Her fate, sealed. She had made her peace with that.
She had never imagined the wedding would become a funeral for her entire family.
Did she hate them?
She didn't know. She couldn't find it in herself to look for the feeling.
Her father had traded her like livestock. She had never loved him , only feared him. Her brothers had spent years mocking her, pushing her around. She had felt nothing for them either. They had died in front of her like animals at slaughter, and some of their blood had landed on her dress.
She hadn't felt a trace of grief.
Only fear. Fear that she would be next.
She was just an ordinary person. She wanted to live.
Time crawled past in the silence. The noise outside the door faded. Riverrun settled into something like sleep.
Roslin knew she couldn't keep waiting.
She had no spine for vengeance, no courage to die on principle. She wasn't that kind of woman. She was the kind who wanted to see tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day that followed.
In this castle, only one person held that power over her.
Lynn.
A thought took root and spread through her mind before she could stop it.
She remembered Edmure standing before the assembled lords, declaring their marriage void. She remembered the way Lynn had watched her , that amused, measuring look , and the words he'd said. What is the greatest value of a beautiful woman?
She understood now what he wanted.
This was her only chance. Her last one.
Roslin pulled a slow breath and pushed herself to her feet.
Her wedding dress was long gone. She was wearing a plain maid's gown now, simple Riverrun linen. She crossed to the polished bronze mirror on the wall and looked at herself.
The face looking back was pale. Hollowed out by fear and crying. But her eyes were still clear, still blue.
She worked her fingers through her tangled hair, smoothing it as best she could. Rubbed her cheeks hard until some color came back into them.
She didn't know how to do this. At the Twins, her older sisters used to huddle together and whisper about how to please men. Roslin had always fled the moment she realized what they were talking about, face burning.
Now she had to walk toward it herself.
To survive.
How pathetic.
She stood at the bedroom door with her hand on the cold handle and stayed there for a long time.
Then the will to live won out over the shame.
She pushed the door open.
The black-cloaked guard was still at his post, still motionless as stone. He glanced at her when she stepped out , those strange blue eyes, cold and flat , and then looked away. He didn't move to stop her.
A threat at Roslin's level was an ant in front of a mammoth. She posed no danger to Lynn, and they all knew it.
They didn't even bother to care.
Her heart climbed into her throat.
She walked the corridor to the door of the master bedchamber. It wasn't fully closed. Through the gap she could see Lynn at the table, turning something over in his hands.
Her palms were slick with sweat.
She gathered herself and pushed the door open.
Creak.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
Lynn went still.
He didn't turn around.
"Something?"
Roslin's body started to tremble without her permission. She walked up behind him and stood there, looking at the breadth of his shoulders, breathing in the faint scent that clung to him , leather and something cool, some herb she couldn't name.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
She stood there trying to find the words.
Lynn's patience ran out. He turned.
In his hand was a dagger made entirely of ice. The shape of it, the curve of the blade, the taper of the point, was identical to the one that had opened her father's throat.
Roslin's legs gave. She barely caught herself before she hit the floor.
"I , I —"
The words finally scraped out of her.
Lynn looked at her. His eyes were dark and deep, bright in the candlelight. He didn't push her. He just waited.
She knew she was out of time.
She closed her eyes. Took a breath. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
"Lord Lynn... Duke Edmure... he never touched me."
"I'm still... pure."
"Tonight, I will serve you well."
The moment the words left her mouth, her face went scalding hot. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to die on the spot.
Something shifted in Lynn's expression.
Amusement. Quiet, unhurried interest. He watched her the way someone watches a play they're finding unexpectedly entertaining, and said nothing at all.
His silence was worse than anything he could have said.
She knew words weren't enough. Trembling, she reached up and tried to undo the laces at her chest.
The knots wouldn't cooperate. Her fingers fumbled and slipped, fumbled again. The more she tried, the more they seemed to tighten.
The tears came without warning.
Humiliation. Shame. Fear. Everything tangled together until she was barely holding herself upright.
Then a hand closed over hers.
Warm. Steady.
"You've misunderstood."
Roslin's head snapped up. She stared at him through blurred eyes.
"The reason I said what I said," Lynn began.
He let go of her hands. He stood and walked to the window, looking down at the river below, its surface scattered with moonlight.
"was for the lords in that hall to hear."
"The Freys committed unforgivable crimes. At a moment like this, any show of mercy gets read as weakness. They might not say it aloud, but the thought would be there."
"In the North, the men are mine. The more generous I am, the more loyal they become."
"The Riverlands are different. The Vale is different. Show too much mercy, show no edge at all, and they'll decide you're soft. Easy to push around."
"I won't have that."
"I need them to understand what I am. Someone who rewards and punishes without sentiment. Someone who does not forgive betrayal."
"I need them to fear me."
Roslin stared at his back.
"Killing people like you — victims — accomplishes nothing," Lynn said. He turned to face her.
"But releasing you outright would make them think I went easy on the Freys."
"So. A compromise. Making you my 'trophy' was the cleanest solution. It lets me project strength. It lets you live."
Roslin's mind went white.
She had walked in here believing she was negotiating for her life. Offering the only thing she had left.
And the entire time, she had been a piece on his board. A prop. Something he had already accounted for before she ever stood up from that chair.
He had never wanted anything from her.
"I... I..."
She had no idea what to say.
"Starting today, you're my personal maid," Lynn said. His tone was even, matter-of-fact. "You'll handle my daily needs."
Maid.
Not trophy. Not plaything.
Maid.
It was so far from what she had braced for that she couldn't make sense of it.
"As for your family —"
Lynn seemed to read the question forming behind her eyes.
"Those women. On the surface, I won't pardon them. When the Twins fall, they'll be brought north."
"But I'll find them something at Dragonstone Keep. Work they can do with their own hands — the kitchens, the laundry, whatever suits them. They won't starve. They won't be sold."
"Instead of being trafficked to a brothel or shipped to Essos as slaves, they'll live under my watch. But they'll live like people."
Roslin couldn't believe what she was hearing.
She had assumed those women were already dead in every way that mattered. That whatever came next for them would be worse than dying.
But this man , the man who had personally ended the Frey name , had already arranged something for them.
"Why?" she asked. Her voice shook.
"Because keeping them is more useful than killing them."
Lynn's answer was what it always was: practical. He made no move to dress it up, no attempt to cast himself as merciful. That would have been hollow, and he had no patience for hollow things.
"The North is short on people. Women especially. Give it a few years, and most of them will find husbands , Northerners, free folk, someone. They'll have children."
"And those children will be Northerners. They'll fight for me."
"That's worth considerably more than leaving them to rot in a ditch somewhere."
Roslin had nothing left to say.
She looked at him.
He was cruel. Cold. Human lives were figures in a ledger to him. But underneath the cruelty was a logic she couldn't argue with, a foresight that reached further than she could follow. Everything he did had a reason. A destination.
Her little plan , the thing she had worked up the courage to walk in here and offer , felt very small now.
"I understand," she said finally.
She drew a breath and bowed.
When she straightened, her eyes were steady.
"Thank you for your mercy, Lord Lynn. And for pulling me out of Edmure's hands today." She paused. "By the Seven , my father chose open rebellion. He earned his death. I have no intention of seeking revenge. You have my word."
She meant it. Every word. Not just for herself , for those women at the Twins too.
"Good." Lynn nodded. "Then as my maid, you'll do what the role requires." He settled back into his chair and glanced at the wine cup on the table. "I'll pay you two gold dragons a month."
He gestured at the cup.
"Pour me a drink."
"Yes, my lord."
Roslin went to the cabinet and found a bottle of golden Arbor wine. She poured carefully, carried the cup to him, and held it out with both hands.
Lynn took it.
He didn't drink. He just sat there, turning the cup slowly, watching the candlelight move through the wine.
Thinking.
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