Old Walder Frey had been lounging lazily beside the warm hearth, half dozing with a goblet of wine in hand, when Ryger Frey's words pulled him upright.
"Are you saying he opposed his brother becoming king?" the old man demanded, his eyes narrowing, the shaking hand that held his cup spilling a few drops of dark red onto the floor.
"Yes, Father," Ryger confirmed with a solemn nod. "As we neared Riverrun, Jon urged the sailors to row faster, as though time itself were chasing him. The moment we landed, he didn't pause to greet the lords or even take rest. He strode straight into the great hall—as if he already knew the Northerners were going to crown Robb."
Old Walder leaned back slowly, tapping one gnarled finger against the wooden arm of his chair. "Knew in advance?" He let out a wheezing chuckle. "He is no prophet, boy. Likely he simply wished to hear tidings of Eddard Stark. That, at least, would explain his haste."
Ryger inclined his head, feigning realization. "Yes, Father, your guess seems far more reasonable."
But Walder Frey was not entirely convinced.
He had met Jon Snow twice—once when the boy carried himself with quiet humility, self-deprecating, as though unsure of his place. The second time, Jon swore loyalty with fire in his voice and iron in his gaze. Both times, Walder had sensed something slippery about him, as though the boy kept a wall up, never letting himself be fully grasped.
If Jon truly wished to dissuade Robb Stark, he could have found subtler ways than open opposition. His actions had been too brazen, too public. That was uncharacteristic.
Walder grunted. Whether the boy had acted from conviction or calculation, one truth was plain: his investment in Jon Snow was beginning to look like a poor bargain.
Publicly opposing Robb's coronation would not bar Jon from receiving land or titles, but such lands would surely lie at the periphery, far from the heart of power. It would limit him.
Yet Walder's mood did not sour. Robb Stark's coronation had already secured what the Freys truly desired. He had schemed only for a marriage alliance with the Starks. He had not dreamed that through Roslin, he might seize a queen's crown for his house.
That crown elevated the Freys nearly to the rank of the Tullys. No longer mere upstarts. No longer mocked behind closed doors. The name Frey would stand proud among the great families of the Riverlands.
Walder leaned back in satisfaction, his clouded eyes wandering toward the young maidservants bustling about the hall.
Ryger, noting the old man's relaxed cheer, took the chance to raise another matter.
"Father," he began cautiously, "when Jon and I left the Twins that day, Roslin seemed to have… feelings for him."
"Roslin," Old Walder cut him off sharply, "is my prettiest daughter. She belongs to Robb." His voice struck like a gavel sealing fate.
"I spent good coin raising her, feeding her, clothing her. I expect to be paid back. That is her purpose. Whatever feelings she has for Jon Snow are meaningless to me."
Ryger bowed his head. "Yes, Father."
---
Far above, in her chamber, Roslin Frey stood at the window, staring at the sleek black raven perched on the sill.
The bird was large, its glossy feathers shimmering faintly with hues of violet and green when the sunlight caught them. From time to time, it tucked its head beneath a wing, scratching with its sharp beak, as though perfectly at ease in its new surroundings.
Roslin's heart beat faster as she unrolled the tiny scroll it carried:
Lady Roslin,
This raven is mine. I ride now to the Mountains of the Moon, seeking warriors for Robb's cause. When victory comes, perhaps we shall meet again at the feast. Our last farewell was too abrupt—please forgive me.
—Jon Snow of Winterfell
Her lips parted in wonder. Ravens carried messages, yes, but never had she seen one so clever, one that had found her chamber unerringly. It had to be trained, cared for, loved. Jon must have tended to it with his own hands.
Quickly, glancing about to ensure she was unobserved, Roslin fetched nuts and scraps of dried meat from her stores, offering them to the raven in secret. She knew her father's will well enough—Walder Frey would never permit one of his daughters to follow her own heart.
The raven pecked happily at her offerings. Roslin sat with her ink and parchment, struggling to shape her feelings into words. The memory of Jon singing that day in the hall rose unbidden, and a blush warmed her cheeks.
What should she write? What could she say that would not sound foolish?
The raven, watching her with bright black eyes, cocked its head toward the parchment as if urging her on.
Finally, in delicate script, Roslin penned:
May your sword reflect the bright moon, not blood. I shall pray for you before the Gods. If the bells of celebration ring, please save the first dance for the girl who wears a lily of the valley at her breast.
She stared at the words, mortified at her own boldness. Hastily, she crossed out the final sentence, recopied the safer lines, and sealed them in a bronze tube for the raven.
As the bird took wing, Roslin touched her cheeks. They still burned crimson.
---
Far away, on horseback, Jon Snow opened his eyes. His connection with the raven had already whispered the letter's contents to him. He did not even need to break the seal.
He sighed softly, fed the scroll to the fire, and sent the raven back.
Roslin was a good girl, gentle and kind, and she would indeed make a fine wife. But Jon had no luxury to dwell on such matters. For now, her affection was useful only as a thread that tied him closer to the Twins—a thread he might one day use if Walder Frey wove treachery, as Jon feared.
If the Red Wedding still loomed ahead, he must be ready.
Jon steeled himself. The northern host was close now. Soon he would rejoin his bannermen. And then—then he must turn to the Mountains of the Moon.
If any ally could aid him in that venture, it would be Howland Reed. Loyal, cunning, and with deep roots in the Neck, Reed's support would be invaluable.
But upon reaching camp, Jon was greeted not by Howland but by grim tidings from Old York.
"Ser Howland has been sent back to the Neck," York reported. "He guards the causeways now, at Roose Bolton's command."
Jon's jaw clenched. "When?"
"Not long after you left Riverrun. Bolton claimed it was to secure the North's gateway. But all know the truth—Reed fought beside Lord Eddard in Robert's Rebellion. His loyalty to your house is beyond question. Bolton feared his influence and sent him away."
Jon's face darkened.
Roose Bolton. A serpent in the fold, silent and watchful, waiting for the moment to strike.
If Jon ever marched on King's Landing, he would not leave Bolton at his back. The man was a powder keg waiting to explode. Better to confine him, strip his power, even spark a coup if need be, than to trust him.
History had shown it clearly—when Tywin Lannister passed Harrenhal on his march to Blackwater, Bolton had sat still, neither opposing nor aiding, a corpse feigning loyalty.
Jon knew better than to mistake inaction for loyalty.
He could not risk such a viper.
---
Back in the command tent, the northern lords greeted him warmly, most of them unaware of his quarrel with Robb over the crown.
Meiqisaiwen clasped his arm. "Jon, what's this I hear of you riding for the Mountains of the Moon? The wild clans there are half-savages, without discipline, without loyalty. Why waste your time?"
Haliang snorted. "Even if they agree to fight, they'll be more trouble than they're worth. Different tongues, different gods, different tempers. You'll spend more time breaking up brawls than winning battles."
Jon met their skepticism calmly.
"I know the risks," he said evenly. "But we cannot fight the Lannisters with pride alone. Every sword we gather is another life between our people and ruin. And those clans have fought the Vale for centuries. They know how to endure, how to raid, how to bleed an enemy."
The older lord, Meiqisaiwen, softened. He could see Jon's resolve. "If you must go, then go," he said gravely. "But take care. I fear the effort will drain more from you than it gives."
Jon inclined his head respectfully. "Then I leave the logistics in your hands, Lord Severn. Ensure the men are fed and supplied."
The elder nodded. "You can rely on me."
---
When Jon left the tent, the camp stretched before him—rows of pavilions, soldiers sharpening blades, cooks tending fires, horses stamping in the mud. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and determination.
But beneath it all, Jon felt unease. The war ahead would be long, and Roose Bolton's shadow loomed over every move.
He mounted his horse, eyes fixed on the distant peaks of the Vale.
He would gather strength in the Mountains of the Moon—not only to strike at King's Landing when the time came but to remind Roose Bolton, and any who doubted him, that Jon Snow was no pawn to be discarded..
He was playing his own game.
And in that game, he would never again leave his back exposed to Bolton.
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