Rose Bolton stood in the dimly lit hall of the Twins, her eyes scanning the row of Frey men lined up before her. Walder Frey had given her a promise of a suitable match would come with the bridegroom’s weight in silver as dowry, and now she was tasked with choosing one of his grandsons. She walked down the line, looking at each one of them. Most of them weasel faced and thin.

She stopped in front of one. She looked at him in silence before speaking up.

"What is your name?" she asked, her voice cold, measured, and demanding.