GAME OF THRONES: AEGON THE AVENGER

The hall of The Twins was filled with a damp chill.

Mottled light streamed in from the high windows, falling upon Walder Frey's wrinkled face in shifting patterns of light and shadow.

A marriage contract broken just like that... and now they replace it with a defeated general for an alliance, plus a few gold dragons... what do they take a Frey for!

His withered fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of the chair, which was carved with the twin towers pattern.

A stray dog that had its fatty meat snatched away, only to be sent off with a tossed bone?

The hall was silent, save for the occasional crackle of the hearth fire.

Several members of House Frey standing in the shadows remained expressionless.

Walder fell silent for a moment, a calculating glint flickering in his cloudy eyes.

He agreed.

Though it was a disgrace, this was the maximum profit a Frey could squeeze out of this mess for now.

If he truly pushed that little wolf pup to a dead end and he turned to storm The Twins, things would be hard to settle.

Not only would he agree, but he would also "help"... help Robb Stark head south smoothly to crash into the brick wall that was Aegon Targaryen.

That Targaryen acted perversely, actually wanting to strip the nobility of their hereditary rights? By what right!

Rather than falling out with the little wolf pup, it was better to let him be the vanguard, the scouting stone, the pawn to exhaust the Targaryen's strength.

He raised his eyes to look at Catelyn and the dejected Edmure standing in the hall, his face squeezing out a smile that was a mix of magnanimity and mockery.

"Lady Stark, Lord Tully," Walder spoke slowly, dragging out each word, "it seems you... haven't entirely forgotten what little face remains for these old bones of mine."

"Since Lord Edmure is willing to personally enter into a marriage alliance, there is no reason for House Frey... to refuse."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Catelyn's slightly relaxed face and Edmure's pale one.

"Only," Walder's voice deepened, carrying an unmistakable warning, "do not forget today's promise. The North... owes the Freys a debt that must be paid back in full one day."

From this matter, he had already measured Robb Stark's worth.

For such a person, there would always be an opportunity for revenge.

As for the Targaryen... let the little wolf pup test the waters first.

And as for House Frey...

Walder's gaze flickered almost imperceptibly toward the west.

A look of relieved joy appeared on Catelyn's face, and she immediately stepped forward. "My Lord is most righteous! Not a single gold dragon promised shall be missing!"

She thought the "debt owed" Walder spoke of referred to the compensation for the breach of contract.

Edmure stood behind his sister, looking like a frost-wilted eggplant.

He didn't even dare look at Walder's weasel-like face, while rumors about the appearance of the Frey daughters involuntarily flashed through his mind.

It was said they were all carved from the same mold, the spitting image of their father.

There was no other way.

He was the one who caused the trouble, he was the one who lost the battle; this blame, this humiliating marriage, could only be borne by him.

He gritted his teeth inwardly. In the future... he would have to keep several mistresses.

No, two or three wouldn't be enough, he would have to... be diligent in government affairs! Never coming home at night!

When Catelyn left The Twins with Edmure, she brought back not only news of the marriage alliance but also a large shipment of grain and two thousand poorly equipped Frey levies.

"This is a small token of respect and support from Lord Walder to the King in the North," conveyed the Frey knight escorting them out of the city. "The Lord hopes to bury the hatchet with the King in the North and return to their former friendship."

Catelyn sat on horseback and looked back at the towering twin towers of The Twins, feeling quite pleased with herself.

She believed the matter had been handled beautifully. It solved the problem of crossing the river, stabilized the Freys, and secured some support for Robb—even if the Soldiers didn't look like much—while also preserving the honor of the Starks and House Tully.

At least appearances were maintained.

When the news reached the Northern camp, the effect even exceeded expectations.

The Twins was no longer blockaded; the crossing was open.

Robb immediately ordered the forces to split.

Led by Lord Robett Glover, approximately three thousand of the most anxious Northern Soldiers, whose family lands were most severely plagued by the Ironborn, were to return north immediately to reinforce their homes.

As these three thousand left, complex emotions filled the camp.

Those who remained felt as if they had taken a sedative, for their loved ones in their ravaged homelands finally saw hope for rescue.

No one felt that three thousand men were too few.

In the eyes of most Northerners, those kraken pups of the Ironborn belonged in the sea; once on land, they were just flopping fish. Their ability to invade the North was only because they had struck while the Northerners were south and the rear was empty.

Three thousand Northern stalwarts returning would be enough to turn the tide of battle.

But not everyone was happy about this.

Among those who remained, undercurrents were surging.

Jealousy, resentment, indignation.

Why hadn't the chance to leave this bloody quagmire and return home fallen upon them?

Why was it Glover? My lands are also being burned by the Ironborn, and my wife and daughters might also be suffering humiliation!

This sentiment reached its peak during the war council in the commander's tent that night.

"...Three thousand men? To go back and feed the krakens?!" A young lord from The Rills could no longer contain himself; his family lands were being ravaged by the Ironborn, and he was not on the return list.

He stood up abruptly, his face flushed with agitation, and pointed at Robett Glover, who had just finished reporting on the northern-bound troops, his voice shrill:

"What we need is a great army! The whole army must return! Not these perfunctory three thousand men!"

"Your Grace, how much longer are you going to wallow in the mud of The Riverlands? Haven't you had enough of cleaning up after that idiot uncle of yours?!"

The tent fell instantly silent. Every gaze focused on the young lord, then quickly shifted to the head of the table.

Robb Stark sat there, silent.

The hearth light flickered on his young face; those Ice-blue eyes looked calmly at the shouting lord, containing no anger, no impulse, only a bottomless, cold stillness.

His hand slowly rested on the hilt of the greatsword, Ice, at his waist.

The movement was slow and steady.

Grey Wind rose silently from beside his feet, his emerald eyes locked onto the young lord, a low, menacing growl vibrating in his throat.

The air in the tent seemed to freeze, the temperature dropping sharply.

Robb looked at the generals in the tent, his voice steady yet carrying a resolve of iron, reaching everyone's ears clearly:

"I will say it once more..."

"Lord Glover is to head north immediately, without delay. The rest of the units are to prepare arms and supplies. In three days, we break camp."

He paused, emphasizing every word:

"Southward."

"Any further dissenters... shall be executed!"

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