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The Twins stood almost empty. House Frey had sent nearly every fighting man to join Jon's army. Only a token garrison remained.
Howland Reed had marched south from the Neck with what soldiers he could spare and now held Riverrun alongside the few Frey men left behind. Together they numbered fewer than a thousand.
Old Walder had summoned Howland to ask about Jon's true parentage. He wanted every detail.
"Jon is not Eddard Stark's son," Howland said plainly. "We defeated the Sword of the Morning near Dorne. Eddard came out of the Tower of Joy with a newborn boy—Jon—and the body of his sister Lyanna, who died in childbed."
Walder leaned back in his chair, eyes bright with satisfaction.
"So the honorable Eddard Stark fooled the entire realm?"
"I don't think Lord Eddard ever expected things to go this far," Howland replied. "He only meant to protect his sister's child. If Joffrey had truly been Robert's son, Jon would still be wearing black on the Wall."
Walder smiled to himself. Frey blood might one day run in the veins of a dragon king. That thought pleased him more than he cared to admit.
A guard hurried in and leaned close to whisper something to Howland. Walder's face darkened.
"This is my castle. If there's news worth hearing, I'll hear it too. Speak."
Howland gave a short nod. The guard straightened.
"My lord. Your Grace. Stannis's army is marching on Riverrun."
Howland turned to the old man at once. "Lord Walder, you should head north while you still can. The North is vast. Stannis won't chase you that far."
Walder took a slow sip of wine and set the cup down.
"Flee? To the North? That frozen waste? I'd be dead before I reached the Neck. Only you Northmen can stomach that cold."
He gave a short, bitter laugh.
"I know what those ungrateful whelps of mine are playing at. They think they've outsmarted me by sending the whole army away. They've been waiting for me to die for years. Well, let them wait."
Howland stared at him. Even after decades of hearing stories about Walder Frey's cunning and his endless supply of children, he had not expected this.
"Lord Walder—"
"Go if you want, Reed. Take the boys with you. I'm staying right here. I don't care who ends up ruling Riverrun after I'm gone. I'll haunt the bastard's dreams every night." He laughed again, then coughed hard enough to make his whole body shake. "I'm ninety-odd years old. Plenty of men died at nine or nineteen. I've outlived most of them. I've had more wives than most men have daughters, and more sons and grandsons than I can count. My blood is already in the dragon king's line. What else is there to want?"
He looked at Howland with something almost like kindness.
"Stay if you like. Stannis won't be here for a while yet. Walk with me. I'll show you the place while I still can."
Howland Reed had expected a desperate old man. Instead he found one who had already made his peace.
They walked the battlements together. Walder pointed out towers and halls the way a man might show a guest around his home for the last time.
Howland's men held the walls for less than three days.
Stannis arrived with forty thousand men and came prepared. The first two days he spent building siege equipment. On the third day the gates broke.
Stannis rode through the shattered gates of Riverrun with his lords around him. A red-haired young knight caught his eye—fighting hard even with two arrows in him, one in the shoulder and one in the ribs.
"You fought well," Stannis said when the man was brought before him. "What's your name?"
"Roland Connington, Your Grace."
"Jon Connington. What was he to you?"
"My uncle, Your Grace."
Stannis studied him for a moment.
"I restore the title of Lord Connington to House Connington. Fight well, and when this war is done I will see your family's lands returned as well."
Roland dropped to one knee, eyes bright despite the pain. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Stannis was about to enter the keep when Roland suddenly pointed toward a tall tower.
"Your Grace—there's a man up there."
On the battlements sat an ancient, withered figure. Even from a distance the mocking half-smile on his face was clear.
Stannis recognized him at once.
"Bring Lord Walder to me."
Roland ran. He returned a short while later with a slack-jawed simpleton boy and a corpse.
Walder Frey had taken poison. By the time Roland reached him, he was already dead.
Stannis looked at the drooling boy. The wide-set eyes and vacant expression told him everything. The child was simple.
"Take him away," Stannis said. He had no interest in tormenting a fool.
The boy suddenly shouted, voice thick and slow.
"I'm Zack Frey! But Grandpa gave me a new name! I'm Stannis now! I'm King Stannis!"
The lords around them went still.
Roland's riding crop cracked across the boy's mouth before anyone else could move.
The simpleton wailed and begged, still insisting he was king. The more he cried, the harder Roland struck him.
"Enough," Stannis said at last, voice cold. "Get him out of my sight."
The boy was dragged away still babbling.
Walder had spent his final days teaching the fool his new name. Even in death, the old man had found a way to spit in Stannis's face.
Stannis felt the insult settle in his gut like bad meat, but he had no time to dwell on it. Riverrun was taken. That was what mattered.
Then the next raven arrived.
An enemy army had appeared behind them—well-equipped, well-led, and sitting squarely across their supply lines near Harrenhal and the shores of the God's Eye.
Stannis stared at the message for a long moment.
He had won the castle.
He was about to lose the war if he did not deal with the force at his back.