Chapter 231 — The Most Beautiful Woman in the Seven Kingdoms, Kidnapped
At The Twins, the great hall of House Frey was packed to the brim.
Long stone tables stretched along both sides, laden with steaming platters of meat and bread. Members of House Frey crowded every seat, laughing loudly, drinking deeply, as if war were nothing more than a distant rumor.
At the head of the hall sat Walder Frey, draped in heavy furs, his withered frame barely concealed beneath the bear pelt.
Yet his cloudy eyes gleamed—calculating, as always.
Clink.
He tapped his spoon against a plate, raised his goblet, and spoke in a slow, deliberately refined tone:
"This cursed winter has frozen the river solid… but it is our honor to host the Regent's envoys here at the Twins!"
"May the Seven bless us—keep us fed, keep us warm, through every winter to come!"
"To our distinguished guests—let us drink!"
His toast rang out.
But the response was lukewarm.
Only the Freys themselves echoed him enthusiastically.
Seated to his left, Eddard Stark lifted his cup and took a token sip.
Beside him, his wife Lysa Tully sat stiffly, her expression distant—her eyes occasionally drifting toward the small man seated opposite.
Petyr Baelish noticed.
With a practiced smile, he raised his own cup and gave her a courteous nod.
But whatever fragile harmony might have existed was crushed by the man seated at the head of the envoy table.
Balman Byrch.
Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired—yet cold as iron.
He ignored the wine entirely, methodically cutting into a perfectly cooked veal steak.
The knife slid through the meat with a soft scrape.
His posture was slightly hunched, much of his face hidden in shadow, as though the noise of the hall had nothing to do with him.
He ate in silence.
Alone.
The contrast with the surrounding revelry was suffocating.
Walder Frey's raised cup lingered awkwardly in the air. When Balman still didn't respond, the old lord finally lowered it, chuckling dryly:
"Seems Ser Byrch is quite hungry, hahaha…"
No one laughed.
The silence dragged.
At last, Balman finished his steak, wiped his mouth slowly and precisely, then lifted his gaze—
Not toward Walder.
But toward Eddard Stark.
"Lord Stark."
His tone was flat. No courtesy. No respect. Only statement.
"I am here to deliver the Regent's command."
"You are to immediately gather all your forces and march on Moat Cailin."
"Within two months, you will break into the North and take Winterfell."
"The traitor Rickard Stark will answer for his betrayal of the Iron Throne."
The hall fell completely silent.
All eyes turned to the high table.
Walder Frey's lips twitched—just slightly—before he lowered his head and resumed eating, hiding a flicker of schadenfreude.
"That's impossible."
Eddard tapped the table lightly, his reply just as direct.
"Two months is far too short."
"I only deliver the Regent's orders," Balman replied coldly.
"Whether it is possible is not my concern."
"You need only prove your loyalty to the Iron Throne."
The bluntness in his tone left no room for negotiation.
Two men who spoke plainly—inevitably clashed.
"Lord Stark's loyalty is beyond question, Ser."
Before the tension could escalate, Roose Bolton spoke.
He knew his liege too well. If this continued, it would end in open conflict with the Iron Throne.
And for Roose, that was… inconvenient.
"Moat Cailin is the most formidable stronghold in the Neck," he continued calmly.
"A fortress surrounded by marshland."
"In winter, the snow covers the bog—but it does not freeze it solid."
"Men will die on the march. Horses will sink and be lost."
"For thousands of years, no army has taken Moat Cailin by direct assault."
"To attempt it now would be to waste lives for nothing."
His reasoning was flawless.
Measured.
Logical.
Impossible to refute.
And yet—
"I've already said," Balman cut in, unmoved.
"The Regent tells you where to fight—you fight there."
"When and how? Not my concern."
His gaze remained fixed on Eddard.
Unyielding.
Eddard's expression hardened, irritation flaring as he met that stare head-on, ready to push back—
"Lord Stark!"
Petyr Baelish suddenly interjected.
Sharp.
Timely.
As a master of schemes, he had no intention of letting this spiral into a direct clash between Stark and the Iron Throne.
After all, even if Eddard Stark had to be eliminated, it had to be done after he returned to Winterfell and truly secured his position as lord.
"Gentlemen, please—this is all for the good of the realm. Let's not lose our tempers."
Petyr Baelish stepped in smoothly, casting a quick glance at Balman Byrch, whose expression had grown increasingly dark.
A practiced, harmless smile spread across his face.
"Lord Stark's concerns are entirely valid. Moat Cailin is indeed difficult to take—but the Regent's command must still be carried out."
"That is precisely why we must rely on wisdom."
He turned to Eddard, his tone sincere.
"I can offer some suggestions on how to take Moat Cailin, my lord. That is, in fact, why His Grace sent me."
"I assure you—we can fulfill the Regent's command while minimizing casualties…"
"Are you playing games with my men's lives, little man?"
Eddard cut him off coldly.
"I've never heard of you, a nobody from the Fingers. And you expect me to gamble thousands of lives on your word alone? Impossible."
"To march in winter and assault the gateway to the North—there is no safety in that."
His distrust was absolute.
And understandable.
A stranger appears, claims to have a plan—but requires thousands of soldiers as stakes. No sane commander would accept that.
But the blunt rejection left Baelish momentarily stranded.
Ignoring him entirely, Eddard turned back to Balman.
"Ser Balman," he said, voice steady, "we fought side by side at Harrenhal. I know you are a capable warrior."
"But you should also understand—if war begins in winter, countless Northerners will die. Not just soldiers. The old. The young. Entire families—starving, freezing."
"They are my people."
"My father, Rickard Stark, will answer for his crimes. But not now."
"Tell the Regent this—we refuse the order."
The moment the words "refuse the order" left his mouth, Balman's hand moved to his sword hilt as he rose to his feet.
"You will disappoint the Regent, Eddard Stark."
His voice remained calm—but ice-cold.
"I will say this one last time. I deliver orders. You obey them."
"No one questions the Regent's will."
"As for the lives of Northerners?" He paused, then added flatly, "I am not the Lord of Winterfell. Their winter is not my concern."
The hall froze.
No one had expected things to escalate this far.
Yet under all those watching eyes, Eddard stood firm. He rose, drew a slow breath, and spoke each word with iron certainty:
"I will also repeat myself, ser."
"As long as winter holds… as long as snow falls… as long as the winds still howl…"
"We will not march."
"The North does not wage war in winter."
The declaration rang like steel striking stone.
Time itself seemed to pause.
Silence pressed down on every chest.
Walder Frey remained seated, unmoved, as if none of this concerned him.
Baelish quietly stepped back, careful to stay out of the line of fire.
Roose Bolton rose as well, one hand resting lightly on his sword—watchful, but making no move to draw it.
Seconds ticked by.
Then, at last, Balman moved.
No rage. No shouting.
Instead, he raised a hand—and nudged the untouched goblet before him.
Clink.
The cup fell, honeyed wine spilling across the rug.
"I believe I've had too much to drink."
He spoke evenly—despite not having touched a drop.
Then he turned and walked out.
As he passed Baelish, however, he paused.
"Three days."
His voice dropped low.
"You have three days. Use whatever method you like. Even that… relationship you have with Lysa Tully."
"In three days, I want to see the army marching north—fully committed to taking Moat Cailin."
"Otherwise… I'll handle it my way."
And with that, he left.
The doors shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the feast.
Outside, the cold air did nothing to calm him. If anything, it deepened the gloom in his eyes.
Ever since that incident—since his wife's entire family had been wiped out—his purpose had narrowed to one thing alone:
Absolute loyalty to the Regent.
More than once, he had asked Lance Lot to let him join the Kingsguard.
But Lance had told him to think it through… to wait until the war was over.
Balman exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.
Then he turned—not away from the castle, but toward Baelish's quarters.
That smiling little man…
In just a few days, he had already earned a label in Balman's mind:
Suspicious.
Too smooth. Too polished. Words like honey—laced with poison.
Impossible to trust.
Even after warning him at the feast, Balman couldn't bring himself to entrust the Regent's mission to such a man.
He was certain of one thing—
Baelish and Lysa shared some secret.
And he intended to uncover it.
But as he approached the corridor leading to Baelish's room, he suddenly stopped.
Instinct overrode thought.
He slipped silently into the shadows.
Moments later—
Footsteps.
Someone approached from another direction.
A knight, fully armored.
Unusual.
At the Twins, so close to the North, such a presence stood out.
A Frey knight, heading to the feast?
No.
In the dim glow of a distant oil lamp, Balman saw clearly—the knight was heading toward a side gate.
Stranger still—
He carried a flat box.
Late at night.
A fully armed knight, sneaking toward the outer passage, carrying something concealed.
No matter how one looked at it—
Something was wrong.
Balman frowned, hesitated briefly, then followed—silent as a shadow.
The knight moved quickly, confidently, passing through a side gate used for supply boats and into a stone-carved passage beneath the castle.
The waterworks.
The narrow tunnel echoed with the heavy rhythm of armored footsteps.
Balman kept low, hugging the damp stone wall beside the half-frozen channel, placing each step with extreme care.
One in light.
One in shadow.
They moved through the underground like hunters and prey.
Until—
The passage narrowed.
Ahead, a hidden dock entrance.
And within the darkness—faint firelight.
Someone was there.
"Damn it, what took you so long? I'm starving!"
A rough voice echoed from within, thick with a Northern accent.
"Relax," the knight replied. "Too many people tonight. The Freys are hosting guests—the kitchens are swamped."
"I had to wait until the servants cleared out. Too much movement would draw attention."
He handed over the box.
Immediately, the sound of ravenous eating filled the space.
The knight didn't leave.
Instead, he glanced around, then asked:
"Where's the woman?"
"Hah, in the back!" the man replied through a mouthful of food. "You ask every time—what are you so worried about?"
"That southern girl's frozen stiff. If I hadn't kept a fire going, she'd be dead by now."
"She's not going anywhere."
"…Good."
The knight seemed relieved.
But still, he stepped deeper into the cave—checking.
A few seconds later—
"Get away from me!"
"Stay back, you traitor, Tybolt!"
The voice was weak—but sharp.
Like a cornered lioness.
Fierce. Defiant.
The knight—Tybolt—didn't seem angered. If anything, he sounded… amused.
"Heh. Save your strength. You should eat."
"Where we're going is much colder than this. Without enough fat on your body, you won't last long."
"So… eat."
He paused, then added softly—
"Lady Cersei Lannister."