House Frey is one of the younger noble houses in Westeros.
Over six hundred years ago, they were granted the lands and titles around the upper Green Fork.
Their ancestor was a forward-thinking man.
Over three generations, he built a wooden bridge across the Green Fork and placed wooden forts on both riverbanks to guard it.
Generations later, House Frey upgraded the wooden structures into a massive, seamless stone fortress called The Twins.
Today, the fortresses at both ends of the river are mirrored stone castles connected by a central arch bridge.
Both castles have high walls, deep moats, and heavy oak gates reinforced with iron.
The only way into the castle complex is across a drawbridge controlled from inside the gates.
The stone bridge across the river is wide enough for two large wagons to pass each other.
In the middle of the bridge stands the Water Tower, a defensive structure fitted with arrow slits, murder holes, and heavy iron gates to monitor all travel along the river and road.
The bridge guarded by The Twins is the fastest shortcut between Winterfell in the North, Riverrun in the Riverlands, and the surrounding territories.
Because it is the only crossing point for over a thousand miles along the Green Fork, it is a vital military and trade location.
Relying on their strategic bridge, House Frey built immense wealth by charging heavy tolls to every passing traveler.
They quickly became the richest and most powerful family in the Riverlands, second only to their liege lords, House Tully.
Because of their unique strength and status, Lord Walder Frey felt powerful enough to hesitate and wait for the highest bidder during the War of the Usurper.
Edmure was not sure if the people inside The Twins knew he had arrived.
He decided to camp outside the castle and cross the bridge first thing the next morning.
Since he had avoided staying inside castles during the trip so far, none of his companions found his decision unusual.
Ser Brynden Tully chose a safe, sheltered campsite.
He chatted with the group while directing them to pitch tents and light fires.
“During the summer, the area near the river crossing is very busy,” Ser Brynden said.
“Lord Walder Frey doesn’t let just anyone stay inside his castle, so traveling merchants usually sleep in the open fields near the gates.” “It looks like we are the only ones waiting to cross tonight,” Edmure said, looking around.
“Besides merchants trying to make a quick profit and restless young men like you, who would travel to the North in the middle of winter?” Ser Brynden pulled his cloak tight against the cold river wind.
Edmure remembered when he first wrote to his uncle about his plans to handle their rivals, prompting Brynden to rush home from the Vale.
When they first met, Brynden had scolded Edmure, warning him not to act rashly or risk ruining House Tully’s reputation.
Only after Edmure explained his entire plan in detail did his uncle agree to offer his full support.
“At least we won’t have to worry about being too loud and disturbing other travelers tonight,” Edmure laughed.
“That is true,” Ser Brynden agreed with a smile.
It had been over ten days since the group left Riverrun.
The excitement of the trip was fading, and fatigue was setting in.
Edmure knew he needed to find a way to lift everyone’s spirits.
He ordered several archery targets to be set up and brought out a barrel of fine honey wine from their supplies.
Once everyone had finished eating, he proposed an archery contest.
The winner would receive the honey wine as a prize, while the losers would get warm beer as a consolidation prize.
Excited to have something fun to do, almost everyone joined in, and the competition quickly grew fierce.
Light snow began to fall under a dim moon and constant wind.
The one-meter-wide targets were placed sixty yards away.
Campfires provided light, but the dark conditions still tested the archers’ eyesight.
After the first round, a quarter of the fifty contestants missed the target completely.
Those who were eliminated stayed cheerful, sipping their warm beer while watching the rest of the match.
Edmure kept the rules simple: the fires stayed in place, but the targets were moved back five yards for each new round.
Most of the archers in the second round took extra time to aim, but about ten more were eliminated.
In the third round, the targets were pushed back to seventy yards.
The wind made the firelight dance, casting flickering shadows across the targets.
By the end of the round, only a dozen archers remained.
Edmure looked at those who made it to the fourth round.
Aside from himself, Bronn, and his uncle, the remaining competitors included three veteran soldiers, five castle guards, and several young nobles: Ser Karyl Vance, Brynden Blackwood, Patrek Mallister, Ronald Vance, and Marko Piper.
The fourth round targets were set at seventy-five yards.
While that distance was easy during the day, it was difficult to hit in the dim firelight at night.
Patrek shot first and missed.
Marko went next and also missed.
Several others missed in a row.
Bronn hit the target, but the next few shooters failed.
By the end of the fourth round, only Bronn, Edmure, and Ser Brynden Tully had landed their shots.
The mood around the campfire grew tense.
In the fifth round, the target was set at eighty yards, looking like a tiny, blurry shadow in the dark.
It seemed the contest was about to end.
“I bet a silver coin that Edmure wins,” Patrek said.
“I bet on Edmure, too,” Marko added, with Hendry and Hugo agreeing.
“I bet on Ser Brynden,” said Ser Karyl, Ronald, and Brynden Blackwood, choosing the famous general.
“We bet on Bronn,” said Tristan Legg and Robb Paige, who knew how skilled the guard was with a bow.
Twang!
Twang!
Twang!
Three bowstrings snapped, and all three arrows hit the target.
“Do we need another round?” Bronn asked.
“No need.
Bring the targets here,” Edmure called out.
Six servants ran out to fetch them.
The group gathered around to inspect the results.
Edmure’s arrow was stuck near the outer edge of his target—he had misjudged the wind.
Bronn’s arrow was closer to the center, while Ser Brynden’s arrow hit the exact center of the bullseye.
“My uncle wins,” Edmure announced.
Those who lost their bets sighed and handed over their silver coins.
“Ser Brynden, what is your secret?” Marko asked curiously.
“Young man, your eyes are easier to fool than your mind,” Ser Brynden replied.
“Sometimes you have to trust your memory, instincts, and judgment.” “I…
don’t quite understand,” Marko admitted.
“You still have a lot to learn.
Practice more,” Brynden said with a grin.
Instead of explaining further, Ser Brynden picked up his prize, tapped the wooden barrel, and smelled the wine.
“Good wine, but not meant for children.
Bring your cups over; we’ll share it tonight.” Edmure took half a cup of honey wine and mixed it with water.
He raised his cup and shouted, “To the master archer!” “To the master archer!” everyone cheered, raising their cups together.
The small contest and warm drinks raised everyone’s spirits.
The men went to sleep in good humor and woke up feeling refreshed the next morning.
However, when they reached the gates of The Twins, House Frey’s tax collector gave them a rude shock.
“How much?” Edmure shouted.
“The bridge toll has tripled!” “Young man, you look new here,” the tax collector said, a greedy smirk on his face.
“Guarding this bridge in winter is hard work.
What’s wrong with a small price increase?
Besides, aren’t you going to make a fortune selling those goods in the North?
Why complain about a small toll?” Edmure already knew how greedy House Frey was.
With trade routes slowed by winter, the Freys were exploiting travelers even more, confident that merchants would pay rather than turn back.
Edmure had told his friends they could make a good profit in the North, but tripling the toll would cut heavily into their earnings.
Putting on a pained expression, Edmure said, “Could you lower the price a bit?
Most of these goods belong to the lords of the Riverlands.
I am only managing the shipment.” “Which lord?” the tax collector asked impatiently.
“Lord Walder Frey sets the toll prices.
You won’t get a single coin discount.
If you can’t pay, we’ll take your goods instead.” “This is robbery!” Edmure said, acting shocked and angry.
“Has the ‘Late’ Lord Walder Frey become the ‘Robber’ Lord Walder Frey?” During the war, some Riverlands lords stayed loyal to House Tully, while others backed the old king.
Lord Walder Frey did nothing, waiting until the main battle was over before arriving late with his army.
Because he was the last vassal to respond to his liege lord’s call, Lord Hoster Tully mockingly nicknamed him the “Late” Lord Walder Frey.
Lord Hoster had even refused to attend Lord Walder’s most recent wedding.
Lord Walder considered the nickname a massive insult and held a deep grudge over it, which was common knowledge throughout the region.
Hearing the insult, the tax collector’s face turned furious.
“You arrogant little brat!
You will pay for disrespecting Lord Walder Frey!” “Guards, arrest them!
If anyone resists, teach them a lesson!” he shouted.
Over a dozen House Frey soldiers wearing iron helmets and mail armor rushed out from the castle gate with drawn swords and spears.
From the high walls above, the sound of cocking crossbows echoed through the air.
“Nobody move!” Edmure called out, a light sweat breaking out on his back.
He realized his words had been slightly too aggressive and did not want his men to draw their weapons and cause unnecessary bloodshed.
“We will give you whatever you want.” “If you didn’t claim to work for a lord, I would have my men cut your tongue out,” the tax collector sneered.
He climbed onto the first wagon and ordered his men to break open the wooden crates.
Inside, rolls of fine silk wrapped in rough cloth spilled out onto the wagon bed.
The tax collector’s eyes lit up with greed.
A man in his position rarely saw such high-quality fabric.
He smashed open another crate and pulled aside the protective packaging.
Inside was a piece of beautiful, colorful brocade fabric.
As he looked closer, he froze.
Embroidered on the fabric were four distinct crests: the red and blue patterns, the silver trout, the grey direwolf, and the white trout.
The tax collector looked up at the group of travelers, realizing he had made a terrible mistake.
None of the travelers wore family crests on their clothing, but they were all well-built, well-armed, and remarkably calm despite having weapons pointed at them.
None of them showed any fear.
The tax collector’s face turned pale.
He quickly turned around and shouted to his men, “Lower your weapons!
Stand down!” The guards lowered their crossbows, sheathed their swords, and raised their spears.
The tension immediately eased, and Edmure let out a quiet sigh of relief.
“Who are you people?” the tax collector asked, staring at Edmure.
“I told you, I’m just managing the shipment,” Edmure replied calmly.
The tax collector gave him a long, nervous look before hurrying back through the castle gate.
A short while later, an armored knight stepped out.
“Gentlemen, my master, Lord Walder Frey, requests your presence inside.” Edmure stopped Bronn from following him and whispered, “Lord Walder Frey is a petty and vengeful man.
He cannot harm me, but he might try to take it out on you.
Take the men and move the wagons further back down the road.
If something goes wrong, abandon the supplies, ride to Seaguard, and ask Lord Jason Mallister for help.” Bronn was surprised, but he nodded and agreed.
Edmure called his uncle and his noble companions to his side, and together they crossed the drawbridge into the castle.