And so, an impromptu war council began without warning. As the grand folk on the dais traded words, the bragging and idle chatter below fell away of its own accord; men pricked up their ears to catch what was being said above.
The longer they listened, the more they realized the situation was hardly encouraging.
Just then, Jon Snow, tense for reasons he couldn't name, turned to look at Kal, wanting to see his reaction.
But when his gaze met Kal's, he found only a calm, indifferent face.
"Listen closely," Kal said. "Weigh what the lords are saying in your head."
"You don't need to give me an answer now. I'll give you the night to think it over. By tomorrow morning, I want your thoughts on this matter—and the solution you believe is best."
Hearing Kal suddenly hand him what felt like a piece of homework, Jon Snow was left completely bewildered.
He couldn't understand how, just for looking his way, Kal had tossed such a burden onto him without even turning his head.
But confusion aside, when he realized Kal was actually asking for his views on matters of the realm and the war itself, Jon felt a flicker of excitement deep inside.
So instead of watching Kal any longer, he turned his head back, pushed aside his food, and fixed his ears on the quarrels of the high lords above. He strained to catch their words, sorting them out in his mind, and silently worked through his own analysis.
For some reason, Jon suddenly felt that being Kal Stone's squire wasn't such a miserable fate after all.
And as for the South—well, it truly did seem far more interesting than the North.
Up on the dais, the noisy debate droned on until Robert, his head aching from the racket, slammed his hand on the table again.
At once, silence fell. Every eye turned toward the King, waiting to hear what he would pronounce.
Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked up at them.
"Alright, I get it now."
"You're saying there are only two things for us to do. First, we need to halt here, rest, and secure proper supplies."
"Second, we must find out what tricks that old lion Tywin Lannister is playing. Isn't that so?"
Having forced the hall to quiet, Robert only offered that simple summary of the situation. The gathered lords looked on, expectant.
When everyone stayed silent and merely lifted their heads to look at him, Robert understood that this was a matter he had to resolve himself.
But just as had been said before, it was impossible to draw so many supplies from King's Landing right now. One could not scrape such a vast expense of provisions from the gaps of the teeth of King's Landing itself, which could barely feed its own people.
And pulling them from the North? Even more unrealistic. The North was neither that wealthy nor inclined to such extravagance.
Before departure, Eddard had already voiced his worries about the coming of winter. It was precisely because of all these factors that their march had not been supplied with enough provisions.
No—bleeding the North further was impossible.
And it was even less possible to have supplies sent from the Stormlands at this moment.
After all, setting aside the fact that the Stormlands lay across the entire battlefield—what, were Renly's soldiers marching north from there supposed to feed on grass rather than grain?
So the only practical solution now was to make use of what was at hand.
And whose wealth to use?
Naturally, from the one with the deepest coffers.
And who was the wealthiest here?
Realizing the crux of the matter, Robert—along with everyone present—turned their eyes toward the master of this place.
Lord of the Twins, Lord of the Crossing, patriarch of House Frey—Walder Frey, already ninety years old yet still able to take eight wives and sire a brood of children.
When they had first arrived at the Twins, everyone had seen with their own eyes the fertile lands along both banks of the Green Fork, covered with fields of grain.
And that aside, the strategic location of the Twins alone had brought House Frey enormous wealth.
Naturally, the Freys could not possibly lack such things. Supplying an army of tens of thousands would hardly be a problem.
Thus, now all eyes turned to settle upon the face of old Frey, who alone could resolve this matter.
Yet confronted with all those gazes, old Frey simply acted as though age had dimmed his eyes, as though he had seen nothing at all.
He kept sitting there with a broad smile, savoring the Dornish summerwine in his cup.
That sweet flavor, full of rich fruit aroma, lifted his spirits with delight.
Faced with old Frey's act of playing dumb, Robert's mouth twitched despite himself, but he could only force down the fire in his chest.
His expression shifted at once. Taking up the cup on the table, he moved toward old Frey of his own accord.
"Lord Frey, I believe we are in need of your help."
"Your Grace, hosting you is my honor. House Frey is gladdened that so many lords have deigned to attend my feast!"
Yet old Frey did not take the bait, acting once more as if he did not understand what Robert meant.
Robert's face darkened with fury.
At that moment, seeing the turn of things, Lord Eddard Stark had no choice but to step forward again.
He reached out and pressed down Robert's arm, which was frozen midair holding the cup, then turned with a smile to meet the calm gaze of Walder Frey.
"Lord Walder Frey, the help we seek from you is not about this feast. Of course, we are fortunate to enjoy your hospitality."
"But you know very well, my lord, that my men and I came from afar with insufficient reserves of supply. Therefore, we must reach a reasonable arrangement."
Hearing Eddard speak, old Frey no longer pretended to be deaf.
Chuckling, he set down his cup, folded his arms across the table before him, and fixed his gaze on the Lord of Winterfell, his eyes glinting faintly.
"Ah—pardon me, I thought it was my hospitality that fell short."
"So, Lord Eddard Stark, you mean to ask me to provide provisions for your host?!"
"But that I cannot do. Lord Eddard, I think you know very well—House Frey has no vast lands or rich domains. The expenses of our large household can barely be sustained by this bridge passed down from our forebears."
"So forgive my impoliteness, but House Frey truly cannot meet the expectations you and His Grace have of us."
Cunning light flashed in old Frey's eyes, yet the words spilling from his mouth made foreheads twitch in irritation.
Even Eddard Stark, patient as he was, found his temper stirred by the old man's evasions.
"My lord, we—" Seeing that this greybeard would neither yield to reason nor persuasion, Eddard prepared to press further.
But Robert lifted a hand, cutting short Eddard's humility.
His face hardened, his furious eyes locking on the greedy old man before him.
"Walder Frey, let us not quibble over words—I loathe such things!"
"So tell me: what terms do you demand before you will grant us the support we require?"
"Remember this—I am the King!"
Robert would not waste more time bandying words with this miserly old leech, whose desire for advantage was plain as day. He threw the matter of conditions openly onto the table.
Yet to Robert's threat, old Frey—yielding neither to softness nor hardness—only chuckled.
"But my liege lord is Lord Hoster Tully, Your Grace. I have sworn no oath to serve you."
He calmly lifted his cup again, looking at Robert without a care.
"Of course, under your command, House Frey will make its due contribution to the Seven Kingdoms. Your title of Protector of the Realm is reason enough for us to lay down our lives for the Iron Throne!"
"My sons, too, would feel honored by this!"
Old Frey offered Robert just the right measure of "flattery," his brow full of slyness, leaving not the smallest handle for Robert to seize.
After all, for an old man who scarcely wished to answer even the summons of his own liege lord, there was truly little anyone could do against him.
Of course, old Frey was not about to cut off all his own escape routes.
The show he put on now was only to tip the scales further in his favor, not to overturn the entire table.
So after brushing aside Robert's threats, he turned back with a beaming smile, fixing his eyes on Eddard Stark.
"My lord Eddard, I hear your eldest son has already reached the age for marriage. Yet I have not heard that Winterfell has arranged a betrothal for young Robb Stark with any lady of a noble house?"
At this moment, the hidden blade was finally revealed.
It was only now that Frey showed his true hand.
And to everyone's surprise, this greedy and cunning old weasel had set his sights upon Lord Eddard Stark—no, more precisely, upon the heir to Winterfell.
From his words it was not hard to discern his intent: he sought to seize this chance to bind House Frey to House Stark through marriage.
When Walder Frey laid out his condition, the vassals of Lord Eddard all turned their eyes toward their liege lord.
But Robert, sitting beside them, grew darker still at Frey's words.
For what the old man said was a barbed reminder, mocking the matter of betrothal once made between House Baratheon and House Stark.
Now, however, all the Seven Kingdoms knew the truth. Since the scandal of Queen Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister had been laid bare—
—and with the testimony of the late Jon Arryn and later Stannis to confirm it—it had been proven beyond doubt that Robert's three children were not his own blood.
In such a situation, the match once made with House Stark had naturally been dissolved.
Worse still, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen now remained in a half-imprisoned state within Winterfell itself, while Robert himself knew not how to face the three children upon whom he had once poured out his fatherly love.
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