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The Twins was not a large settlement. In fact, calling it a city would have been an overstatement, as its defining feature was its bridge. The so-called Twins was, at its core, a fortified bridge spanning the river, flanked on either end by two massive strongholds that served as both bridgeheads and defensive fortresses.
Clay and his party entered from the bridgehead fortress on the eastern bank of the Green Fork River. Now, they stood just inside the stronghold, not far from the entrance.
He cast a brief glance at the man before him—someone clearly of higher standing within House Frey than Petyr Frey, the great-grandson. Yet, Clay had no idea who he was.
Petyr left with an unsightly expression, unwilling to provoke the elderly steward who had served the lord for decades. Within House Frey, aside from a select few, who among them was not wary of this seemingly unremarkable old man?
To cross him would be a grave mistake—for a single whispered word from the steward into the lord's ear, and misfortune would surely follow. And with Lord Frey now ninety years old, his judgments on family matters had grown increasingly erratic and unpredictable.
With the soldiers and knights gone, the stranger before Clay showed no intention of introducing himself. Instead, he simply turned and began leading the way. Seeing that Clay and his companions had not moved, he halted and added:
"I am the lord's steward. In this city, I doubt anyone would dare impersonate me. My lord has invited you to the main keep—he has prepared bread and salt for you."
This was the well-known Guest Right of Westeros. A guest who partook of a host's bread and salt was granted protection—during their stay, neither party could harm the other. To violate this was to break a sacred law, one abhorred by both the Old Gods and the new.
The nobility of Westeros did, in fact, uphold this tradition. Even amid the bloodiest battlefields and the most ruthless court intrigues, few had dared to trample upon it. Yet, in truth, it carried little binding force beyond custom and belief.
Even so, Clay, who was well aware of House Frey's nature, had no faith in their adherence to any so-called sacred guest right.
In some ways, his connection to magic placed him closer to the gods than most. Yet, he had never believed in the so-called divine wrath of either the Old Gods or the new.
The Red Wedding had come and gone. House Frey had shattered guests right, yet no immediate divine punishment had followed. Walder Frey's son had become the lord of Riverrun, and the family's lands had expanded rapidly.
As for the vengeance of the Brotherhood Without Banners and Arya Stark's ruthless assassinations—what did that have to do with the Old Gods or the new? That was nothing more than the Freys' own failure to guard against retribution.
…
Taking a small bite of the slightly salty bread, Clay completed the guest right ritual while standing in the great hall of the Twins' main keep.
Seated before him, elevated slightly above the hall, was an enormous black oak chair. A frail old man, clad in gray robes, sat hunched upon it, his small, beady eyes fixed upon Clay.
There was no doubt—this was the Lord of the Crossing, Walder Frey, now ninety years old.
Though he inwardly loathed it, Clay had no choice but to offer a formal greeting. By both age and status, the proper etiquette was for him to bow first.
"The House of Manderly sends its regards. Esteemed Lord of Twins, Clay Manderly thanks you for your hospitality."
There was nothing appealing about the smile of a decrepit old man with sagging skin, no hair, and no teeth—especially one who was as hideous as Walder Frey.
Yet the lord seemed pleased with Clay's demeanor. At the very least, this young heir was far more respectful than his grandfather—the old sea lamprey.
In a hoarse voice, thick with age, Walder Frey spoke:
"Welcome, Clay Manderly. I trust you will find the hospitality of the Twins satisfactory. House Frey guarantees your safety."
I'd sooner drown myself in the Green Fork than believe that… Clay thought. Yet, his face remained all smiles as he placed a hand over his chest and bowed once more, formally concluding the guest right ceremony.
Under the steward's guidance, Clay left the great hall. There was still time before dusk, and the true meeting would take place at the evening banquet, where the key members of House Frey would gather—including the wives they had prepared for Clay Manderly.
For some reason, though White Harbor lay by the sea and the Twins by the river, the air here felt far damper. The moment he stepped inside his assigned chamber, Clay's keen sense of smell told him that somewhere in this room, mold was growing.
The unpleasant living conditions made him frown. He threw open every window, but it was of little use—outside, the Green Fork River rushed southward, its waters ever flowing.
His fifty guards had been quartered in another building, alongside House Frey's own soldiers. However, at the insistence of his captain of the guard, ten men—along with the captain himself—had been assigned quarters close to Clay's room.
Once the steward had escorted him inside, the old man took his position at the stairwell, standing there like a withered tree that refused to fall.
At first, Clay did not understand his purpose. But as shadowy figures repeatedly attempted to ascend the stairs—only to be turned away—it became clear. Walder Frey had placed a gatekeeper at his door.
Oddly enough, Clay found himself pleased by the old lord's decision. He had no desire to be disturbed—at least, not for now.
His captain of the guard insisted on inspecting the chamber, and Clay saw no reason to object.
The devoted man had no way of knowing that Clay—having mastered the foundational swordsmanship techniques of the Wolf School, wielding five magical seals, and possessing a body resistant to most poisons—was not so easily killed.
Besides, Clay had done nothing dishonorable regarding the arranged marriage. Why would House Frey want him dead? If he were to perish here, his grandfather would no doubt declare war on the Twins at once.
For now, he would remain inconspicuous and wait for the right moment—to make contact with the White Sea Guard agents stationed here. Trying to decipher House Frey's convoluted web of kinship was a fool's errand; intelligence reports from seasoned spies were far more reliable, even if he could only trust them halfway.
As the sun sank toward the horizon, its glow turned crimson. Yet, here in the Twins, Clay felt no trace of warmth.
A firm knock sounded against the door. Alone in the chamber, Clay heard the steward's aged voice:
"Lord Clay, the banquet is ready. The lord invites you to the great hall for the feast. Please follow me."
With a slight nod, Clay straightened his resplendent attire. Appearance often meant little, but in the right circumstances, it could be a powerful tool.
He strode down the narrow, dimly lit corridors. After nearly ten minutes, he arrived once more at the great hall he had visited earlier that day.
Through the slightly ajar heavy oak doors, he heard the murmur of voices—not a few individuals speaking loudly, but a collective hum, the sound of many conversing in hushed tones.
It seemed Walder Frey had spoken truthfully—most of House Frey had gathered. Otherwise, the room would not have been so lively.
Taking a deep breath, Clay pushed open the heavy doors that seemed to divide two worlds.
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[Chapter End's]
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