287 AC
Two years had passed, and Rykker Rivers had become a fixture in Lothar Frey's shadow. At twelve namedays, Rykker was taller, his face losing its childish softness, replaced by a guarded stoicism.
He sat at a small desk in the corner of Lothar's solar, copying a trade agreement with a merchant from Seagard. The relationship had evolved. Rykker was no longer just a counter; he was an aide-de-camp. He organized Lothar's schedule, filtered his correspondence, and provided the kind of modern logistical efficiency that Westeros lacked. He introduced double-entry bookkeeping to the Twins' granaries, a marvel that had saved House Frey thousands of dragons in waste management alone.
Lothar sat by the hearth, nursing his bad leg.
"The Mallisters are pressing for a lower toll rate on their timber shipments," Lothar noted, reading Rykker's draft. "They claim the King's peace makes the roads safer, so they shouldn't pay for our protection."
"The King's peace doesn't pave the roads or repair the bridge," Rykker replied without looking up. "Tell them the toll includes a guarantee of priority crossing. If they refuse, their timber can wait behind the wool caravans for three days. Wood rots in the damp river air. They'll pay."
Lothar smiled. "Vicious. I like it."
Rykker set down his quill. He had been waiting for the right moment. The rumors from the west were growing louder. The Ironborn were restless. Dalton Greyjoy—no, Balon, Rykker corrected himself—was building ships. The rebellion was coming.
"I need a favor, Lothar," Rykker said.
Lothar raised an eyebrow. "You are paid well, Rykker. You eat better than half my trueborn nephews."
"I need a name."
Lothar paused. The room went silent, save for the crackle of the fire.
"Legitimization? That is no small favor. That requires a royal decree, or at the very least, my father's heavy seal and a lot of bribing at court."
"The Ironborn are going to rebel," Rykker stated flatly.
Lothar frowned. "Rumors. Balon is mad, but not suicidal."
"He is both. It will happen within two years," Rykker lied, making the timeline tighter to force urgency. "When it does, the Riverlands will be the first target. House Frey will need to treat with the Mallisters, the Brackens, maybe even the Tullys for mutual defense. You can't send a bastard to negotiate war treaties. They won't respect me."
"They don't respect Freys anyway," Lothar countered, though he looked intrigued.
"They respect power," Rykker said. "I have streamlined the granaries. I have fixed the toll ledgers. I have made you richer. But I can do more. If war comes, logistics win battles. You know this. I can organize supply lines better than anyone in this castle. But I cannot command men or treat with Lords as 'Rivers.'"
Lothar tapped his finger against his chin. "Father doesn't give away names. He sells them."
"Then let me buy it," Rykker said. "There is a dispute between the Blackwoods and the Brackens over the Mill at Stone Hedge. It's been stalled for months. Let me resolve it as your proxy. The arbitration fees alone would fill a chest of gold. If I bring Lord Walder the gold and the prestige of solving a feud the Tullys couldn't... would he sign the paper?"
Lothar studied the boy—no, the young man—before him. He saw the ambition, cold and hard as iron. Lothar appreciated ambition, provided it was directed outward.
"If you solve the Mill dispute," Lothar said slowly, "and bring the gold to Father... I will whisper in his ear. I will tell him it was his idea to reward his cleverest servant. But if you fail, Rykker, you will look very foolish. And House Frey does not tolerate fools."
"I won't fail," Rykker said. He knew the history of the dispute. He knew the legal loopholes. He was an engineer in a world of brutes.
"Then go," Lothar said, turning back to the fire. "Make yourself a Frey."