(This will be a Game of Thrones Series. Timelines/birthdays are automatically adjusted for the characted to be 18+.)
Adian Frey was born beneath gray skies and the sound of river water rushing past stone.
The year was 259 AC, the same year Prince Rhaegar Targaryen first drew breath in the Red Keep, though no singer would ever bother to tie the two together. One was born to prophecy and song. The other—to the Twins, to tolls and oaths, to a name spoken with thin smiles and clenched teeth.
Walder Frey acknowledged the boy without ceremony. He had sired so many sons by then that another infant scarcely merited more than a glance. Adian's mother died quietly not long after his birth, and so the boy was passed from wet nurse to tutor to castellan, raised among stone corridors and careful words.
From his earliest memories, Adian dreamed.
They were not nightmares, nor were they visions clear enough to name. Only fragments—faces without names, places that felt wrong, thoughts that did not belong to a child of the Riverlands. A sense, always, that the world moved along a path already worn smooth by countless footsteps.
He learned quickly, but not eagerly. He listened more than he spoke. When other Frey boys jostled for notice or favor, Adian lingered at the edges, watching, remembering dreams he could not quite grasp when waking came.
And he told no one.
Instinct told him that some things were better kept close to the chest, like a hidden knife or a private sin.
By the time he reached boyhood, Adian had discovered two truths that shaped him more than any lesson from a maester.
First: the world did not reward effort—only survival.
Second: life, when it could be enjoyed, should be.
He trained his body diligently, not with the desperate hunger of a glory-seeker, but with steady discipline. Swordplay, riding, endurance—he learned enough to defend himself, enough to endure hardship, enough to not be helpless when fate turned cruel.
Yet he did not chase renown. He drank when drink was offered. He laughed when laughter came easily. He found warmth where warmth was available and did not burden himself with guilt over it. The world was harsh enough without denying oneself its few pleasures.
For a long time, the dreams remained distant echoes.
Then, at thirteen, they sharpened.
A bandit camp had taken root not far from the Twins—deserters and river thieves preying on merchants who paid their tolls but never arrived. A small force was sent to deal with them, and Adian, too young and too unimportant to refuse, rode along more as baggage than blade.
The fighting was chaos.
Mud, blood, screaming men who died without ever understanding why.
Adian fought because there was no other choice.
He killed his first man there, and nearly died for it. A rusted axe split his shoulder, another blow crushed him into the dirt, and he would have been trampled if not for a soldier dragging him clear.
He spent weeks fevered and broken.
It was during that time—hovering between life and death—that his memories returned.
Not all at once. Not neatly.
But enough.
He remembered a world like this one, and yet not. He remembered stories he had once consumed rather than lived. He remembered knowing how this game was played—how thrones rose and fell, how noble names became curses, how even dragons could bleed.
When he woke, the world felt heavier.
Adian did not emerge from that bed with ambition blazing in his eyes. If anything, the opposite. He now understood just how fragile everything was. How easily men died for causes that did not remember them.
There were enough people holding up the sky already, he decided. Kings, lords, heroes, traitors—let them play their parts.
His goal was simpler: do not die early, and enjoy what life offered while it lasted.
But enjoyment required survival. Survival required strength.
So he trained harder, more quietly than before.
Years passed.
When Lord Denys Darklyn took King Aerys hostage during the Defiance of Duskendale, banners were called. Adian rode with the Frey forces, neither eager nor reluctant—only aware.
He did what was required. No more. He guarded where ordered. Fought when forced. Saved a knight pinned beneath rubble during the chaos, earning just enough notice to matter—but not enough to be remembered.
When the city finally fell and the king was freed, Adian knelt, bruised and bloodied, as a sword touched his shoulder.
"Rise, Ser Adian Frey."
A knight of the Seven Kingdoms. No songs followed him. No banners bore his name. And that suited him just fine.
As he rode away from Duskendale, the memories lingered quietly in his mind, like a map he chose not to unfold—yet.
For now, Westeros turned as it always had.
And Adian Frey intended to move through it carefully, savoring what he could, and leaving the fate of the realm to those foolish enough to chase it.
The feast at Riverrun was in full swing, the great hall echoing with laughter, clinking tankards, and the strains of a minstrel's song. Adian Frey sat near the end of a long table, observing more than participating. At twenty, he had grown into his frame—lean but corded with muscle from years of disciplined training. His hair, the color of dark river mud, fell across his brow as he watched the high table where Lord Hoster Tully presided with his children.
Catelyn Tully sat there, resplendent in a gown of deep blue that matched the Tully colors. Her auburn hair was arranged in an intricate braid, her face composed in the polite mask of a highborn lady. But Adian had learned to read the tells in people—the slight tightening around her eyes when a bannerman spoke too loudly, the way her fingers traced the rim of her goblet as if seeking solace in its smoothness.
Rumors had preceded this gathering. Catelyn was promised to Brandon Stark, the wild heir of Winterfell. A good match, politically sound. But Adian saw something else in her—a restlessness, a curiosity that warred with duty. He had been playing this game subtly for months, never overt, always maintaining the proper deference of a vassal's son to his overlord's daughter. A shared glance across a courtyard, a brief conversation about a tapestry, a compliment on her riding that was just personal enough to linger.
Tonight, he intended to press his advantage.
When the dancing began, Adian waited until Catelyn had taken a turn with several eligible bachelors before approaching. He bowed deeply, his movements fluid from years of practice.
"My lady, would you honor me with this dance?"
Catelyn's eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw something flicker there—surprise, perhaps, or something more.
"Ser Adian," she said, her voice smooth as river stones. "I would be delighted."
As they moved to the dance floor, his hand found the small of her back. Through the fabric of her gown, he could feel the warmth of her skin, the subtle shift of muscles as she moved. Their steps were formal at first, following the prescribed patterns of the dance.
"You seem distant tonight, my lady," Adian said, his voice low enough that only she could hear over the music.
Catelyn's gaze darted to his face. "I am merely observing. It is a lady's place."
"Is it also a lady's place to look as though she'd rather be anywhere else?"
A faint blush colored her cheeks. "You are bold, ser."
"Only when I see something worth being bold for." He guided her through a turn, his fingers pressing slightly against her back. "I have watched you these months, Lady Catelyn. I see the weight of expectation in your eyes. The burden of being always proper, always perfect."
Her steps faltered for just a moment. "You presume much, Ser Frey."
"Do I?" Adian's thumb traced circles against her back, a gesture that could be mistaken for guidance in the dance but was nothing of the sort. "Or do I simply see what others are too intimidated to notice?"
The music swelled, and he drew her closer than was strictly proper. Her scent filled his senses—lavender and something uniquely her, like rain on stone.
"My father would not approve of such familiarity," she whispered, but she did not pull away.
"Your father is not here," Adian murmured. "Only us. And the gods, if you believe they watch over such small moments as these."
Catelyn's breath hitched. "I do believe. The Seven Face—"
"Are watching from afar," he interrupted smoothly. "They see a lady dancing with a knight. Nothing more."
But it was more, and they both knew it. The dance ended, but Adian did not release her immediately. His fingers lingered at her waist.
"The gardens are beautiful this time of year," he said. "The moonflowers will be be blooming."
She knew what he was suggesting—knew she should refuse, call him insolent, perhaps even slap him for his presumption. But instead, she found herself nodding almost imperceptibly.
"I would like to see them," she said, her voice barely audible.
Adian offered his arm, and she took it, her gloved fingers resting lightly on his forearm. As they slipped away from the feast, through a side door into the cool night air, neither spoke. The weight of what they were doing—what they were about to do—hung between them.
The gardens of Riverrun were meticulously maintained, even in the growing darkness. Stone paths wound between beds of flowers and neatly trimmed hedges. Above them, the moon cast a silver glow over everything, illuminating the white moonflowers that had just begun to open.
"They're beautiful," Catelyn said, her voice regaining some of its formal composure.
"They are," Adian agreed, though his eyes were on her, not the flowers. "But not as beautiful as you."
Catelyn turned to face him, her expression a mixture of shock and something else—something he couldn't quite name. "Ser Adian, you must not—"
"Must not what?" He stepped closer, backing her gently against a stone wall covered in ivy. "Must not speak truth? Must not notice that the lady of Riverrun is more than just a political pawn to be traded to the highest bidder?"
Her breath came faster now. "You know nothing of it."
"I know that Brandon Stark is a wild man, more suited to the forests than a lady's chamber. I know that your father has sold you like a prize horse to secure an alliance with the North. And I know," he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he placed a hand on the wall beside her head, "that you wonder if there is more to life than duty and sacrifice."
Catelyn's eyes darted around the garden as if seeking an escape, but there was none. Adian had cornered her deliberately, knowing that the physical proximity would make it harder for her to maintain her composure.
"The Faith teaches us that our duty is our purpose," she said, but her voice trembled slightly.
"And what of pleasure? What of desire? Are those not also gifts from the gods?"
"That is different. That is for marriage."
"Marriage," Adian scoffed softly. "A contract. An arrangement. Tell me, my lady, when you imagine your wedding night with Brandon Stark, do you imagine passion? Or do you imagine duty performed in the dark?"
Catelyn flinched as if struck. "How dare you—"
"I dare because I see you," Adian interrupted, his other hand coming up to trace the line of her jaw. "I see the woman beneath the lady's mask. The woman who wonders what it might feel like to be touched not out of obligation, but out of desire."
His fingers continued their exploration, moving down her neck to the collar of her gown. Catelyn shivered, her body responding even as her mind recoiled.
"This is wrong," she whispered, but she made no move to stop him.
"Is it?" Adian leaned closer, his lips near her ear. "Or is it simply... forbidden? There is a difference, you know."
His mouth found the sensitive spot just below her ear, and Catelyn gasped, her hands coming up to push against his chest. But the push was weak, half-hearted at best.
"Ser Adian, please..." "Please what?" he murmured against her skin. "Please stop?
Or please don't stop?" When she didn't answer, he took it as permission. His lips moved along her neck, planting kisses that grew progressively more intimate. Catelyn's resistance crumbled with each touch, her body betraying her mind's protests. Her hands, which had been pushing him away, now clung to his tunic as if afraid he might pull away.
Adian's hand slid from her jaw down to her breast, cupping it through the fabric of her gown. Catelyn arched against him, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"You see?" he whispered. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind has been taught to deny it."
He guided her away from the wall, deeper into the shadows of the garden where a stone bench sat partially concealed by overgrown rose bushes. The moonlight filtered through the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the ground around them.
"Kneel," Adian said, his voice low but firm.
Catelyn's eyes widened. "What?"
"Kneel," he repeated, not unkindly but with an undeniable authority. "Let me show you what pleasure can be when it's not tied to duty."
For a moment, she hesitated, the weight of her upbringing warring with the curiosity he had awakened. Then, slowly, gracefully, she sank to her knees on the soft grass before him.
Adian stood before her, his silhouette framed by moonlight. He watched as she looked up at him, her expression a mixture of fear and anticipation. This was it—the point of no return. If she continued, there would be no pretending this was merely a stolen kiss or a moment of weakness.
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