Old Walder was offering Robb a match with one of his legitimate granddaughters.
What he'd "offer" Jon, though… who knew what that would even be.
The Freys had so many children that plenty of them were practically interchangeable—half the time you couldn't even tell whose kid was whose. And Walder Frey wasn't about to take Jon seriously.
Not even if Jon truly could fight on the level of the Sword of the Morning.
For a split second, after Jon finished all that humble self-deprecation, one thought flared hard in his chest:
Someday I'm going to be the one calling the shots.
He could accept being a bastard and accept what that meant socially, but if a person lived forever with his head bowed, something inside eventually broke.
In his previous life, Jon had learned a simple rule: people who spend all day sucking up will eventually take it out on someone below them.
Emotional pressure builds. If it can't go up, it gets dumped downward.
That's the whole "kick-the-dog" effect in a nutshell.
Still, Jon's speech clearly pleased old Walder.
First, it protected Walder's pride. Second, it let Walder "win" while also hearing that this famously dangerous fighter was willing to serve him.
That was enough. If Walder kept pushing, it would make him look petty.
And the truth was, the outrageous proposal had been a test.
Walder wanted to see who the "clever mind" in Winterfell really was.
But it seemed that person hadn't come along.
So old Walder threw back his head and laughed.
"Interesting little pup," he said. "You see that? I was only trying to scare him, and he took it seriously."
"Since the alliance is agreed, House Frey won't withdraw. Our alliance is unbreakable!"
He raised his cup, and everyone else followed suit.
The Northern lords, though, were genuinely surprised by Jon.
They'd always assumed Jon was just Robb's blunt instrument—a brute with strong arms and not much else.
They'd figured the planning came from Robb or Maester Luwin.
Jon had never imagined anyone might credit him with more.
But after this exchange, it wasn't so clear anymore.
Roose Bolton, especially, studied Jon with a colder, more probing look.
Maybe Robb hadn't just placed "eyes" near him.
If Jon had been the mind behind all those earlier moves, Bolton would need to be far more careful.
Greatjon Umber, meanwhile, grinned at Jon like he'd found a new favorite pastime.
They shared the same name, Jon could fight, and he looked like Ned—Greatjon was practically predisposed to like him.
Rickard Karstark's gaze changed too.
In Jon, he saw something of Brandon Stark—Ned's older brother—silver-tongued and dangerous with steel, the man the North had once expected to rule Winterfell.
In a way, Brandon had been the North's version of Rhaegar: the shining heir who never got his chance.
Jon had no idea the room's opinion of him was shifting. He only smiled and kept quiet.
In this world, there was no such thing as an "unbreakable" alliance.
After Walder finished his little show of dominance using Jon, he had Robb lay out the plan for the southern campaign.
Robb said the priority was relieving Riverrun. He planned to split the army in two: one force would take most of the cavalry and strike fast, while the other would draw Tywin's attention along the Green Fork.
"Lord Bolton," Robb said, "you and Jon will handle the force meant to distract Tywin's army."
"As you command," Bolton replied evenly.
Inside, Bolton quietly raised Jon's "threat level" another notch.
Robb made a few more arrangements. Walder nodded along from his high seat, seeming satisfied with Robb again.
Whatever else could be said, Robb's military thinking was bold and structured.
Then a servant leaned in and whispered something to Walder.
Walder turned and announced, "Robb—your mother, Lady Catelyn, has arrived at the Twins."
"My mother?" Robb's eyes lit up, and he couldn't help glancing toward the doors.
Half an hour earlier, Catelyn had heard on the road that Robb had already marched south.
She'd left the Eyrie—her sister Lysa's seat—and ridden hard for the Twins, sending Ser Rodrik ahead to scout.
Rodrik's house were Stark household men—closer than bannermen, more trusted.
Like Jory Cassel, the captain of Ned's guard in King's Landing, Rodrik came from the same kind of sworn service that the Starks relied on with their lives.
Rodrik learned the basics quickly, then went back to meet Catelyn and praised Robb without holding back.
He rode beside her carriage, leaning toward the window as he spoke.
"Robb balanced force and generosity, and he brought the Northern lords into line fast."
"And the North has already secured an alliance with House Frey."
"He's assigning forces and finalizing objectives now. The host could move at any time."
Hearing that her son had accomplished all this, Catelyn felt a wave of relief she hadn't realized she'd been starving for.
Even the alliance terms—she doubted she could've negotiated better herself.
Truthfully, she'd been carrying regret.
She knew her choices had helped ignite the Riverlands' suffering—and that her husband in King's Landing had been dragged deeper because of it.
Since Robert visited Winterfell, she'd watched her son become crippled and her husband become a prisoner.
On top of that, she'd likely been deceived more than once.
The constant travel and fear had exhausted her.
But now, seeing Robb's competence—his growth—lifted the weight off her shoulders, if only a little.
By the time she reached the hall, her steps were almost light.
"Lady Catelyn Stark is here!"
At the announcement, the Northern lords rose.
Catelyn entered the Twins' great hall and spotted Robb almost immediately, warmth spreading across her face.
Then her eyes fell on Jon.
Jon saw her too.
Aunt Cat, he thought—his private nickname for her.
Catelyn was only in her mid-thirties. Even after five children, she carried herself with the poise of a great lady, well-kept and commanding.
You could've believed she was younger if you didn't know her history.
She had the Tully auburn hair and bright green eyes—no wonder Littlefinger had never let go of the idea of her, even twisting it into an obsession with Sansa.
Jon bowed respectfully.
Catelyn gave him a single glance and then ignored him.
Ever since Ned brought Jon home, she'd never liked the boy whose mother Ned refused to name.
Given that Jon had ridden south to help save Ned, she didn't start a fight.
But that was as far as her tolerance went.
She had no idea that behind Robb's newfound authority, Jon had been shaping the board.
Once she arrived, she became the new center of attention.
Walder's eyes lingered on her for a beat—just long enough to show a flicker of interest—then withdrew.
He hid it well.
Catelyn stepped to Robb's side and addressed Walder.
"Lord Frey," she said, "I thank you on House Stark's behalf for your support."
"With your help, we will restore justice for my husband more quickly—and bring order back to Westeros."
Listening to her, Jon felt a reluctant respect.
When Catelyn wasn't acting out of fear for her children, she could be a very capable diplomat.
If not for the shadow assassin that killed Renly, the Starks might actually have forged a workable alliance in that direction.
Her words were the same strategy Jon had just used: stack compliments, protect pride, and steer the outcome.
After a cordial exchange, they agreed to move the next night.
Walder also used House Frey's reach to make sure news of the Northern army's southward march didn't leak.
Once the formal meeting ended, Catelyn returned to the Northern camp—with Jon and Theon along—so they could discuss the war ahead.
The tent was packed with Northern nobility.
Only lords of real weight were present: Greatjon Umber of Last Hearth, Rickard Karstark of Karhold—Stark loyalists to the bone.
Roose Bolton, of course.
There was also Lord Cerwyn, and Ser Wyman Manderly of White Harbor—present through a representative.
Walder's son Stevron attended as well, representing House Frey.
Jon was present, but he remained standing.
By etiquette, he had no right to speak.
Jon knew the battle Robb was about to fight: the Whispering Wood.
In that fight, Robb would relieve Riverrun—and capture Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, Tywin's eldest and favorite son.
It would be a decisive victory.
But on the other side, the infantry-heavy force under Roose Bolton would be mauled at the Green Fork.
Bolton would preserve enough strength to keep Tywin occupied, but he'd bleed the North hard—shrinking an army of over eighteen thousand to barely more than ten.
And Bolton's own core troops would come through suspiciously intact.
The Dreadfort's original four thousand would somehow become close to half of what remained afterward.
Lose the battle, gain influence.
Jon couldn't let that happen again.
So even if it wasn't "proper," he needed to find the right moment to speak up.
read more inpat**
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