It had been a tense evening at the Twins. Walda Frey sat in her high-backed chair at the head of the great hall, her swollen joints hidden beneath a thick fur cloak, her sharp eyes fixed on the young lord of the north, marching south after his father's arrest. The room buzzed with the murmurs of her descendants, sons, grandsons, and granddaughters lining the benches, all eager to see how this meeting would unfold.

Robb stood tall before her, his direwolf growling softly at his side. He had come south in haste, his army of Northmen gathered outside the castle walls, demanding passage across her bridge and the allegiance of House Frey to his cause.

“So, you would ask to cross my bridge and for my swords,” Walda began, her thin lips curling into a sharp smile. Her voice, though old, carried across the hall with authority. “And what, pray, does the young Stark offer in return? Words of gratitude?”