A Web for a Spider
3rd moon, 279 AC.
The sunlight slanting through the high arched windows of the solar turned the river below into a ribbon of gold, but within the stone walls of Riverrun, the air was thick with unease. Lord Hoster Tully sat behind his broad oaken desk, the collection of parchments laid before him like the bones of some ancient, treacherous beast. He had not spoken in some time.
Jason Mallister shifted in his chair across from him, his gloved hands folded tightly in his lap. Beside him stood Hosteen Mudd, silent and statuesque, his eyes fixed on Lord Tully, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The stillness in the solar was interrupted only by the faint rush of the Tumblestone outside and the occasional creak of wood as one of the men moved.
At last, Lord Hoster drew in a breath and leaned back in his chair, the weight of his years—and of what he now knew—resting heavily on his shoulders.
"This," he said, lifting a page with trembling fingers, "is treachery writ in ink and ambition."
Neither Jason nor Hosteen responded. There was no need. The documents, provided by Lord Maynard Charlton, were damning: letters from Frey to lesser houses, coded language implying disloyalty, subtle commands not to march should Riverrun call its banners. And more—notes concerning the Rygers and the Paeges, phrases cloaked in politeness that hinted at slow encroachment, at submission not through war but through politics and marriage.
Hoster placed the page back down, carefully, as though it might bite. "Walder Frey has ever been ambitious. That is no crime in itself. But this..." He shook his head. "This is the seed of a civil war in the Riverlands. If he succeeds in bending others to his will—if he divides us—then he becomes a king in all but name, and I become a figurehead. Worse, he weakens us before the eyes of the realm."
Jason leaned forward slightly. "And if you act too late, my lord, he may become more than just a nuisance. He may become a threat that no one lord alone can stop."
Hoster gave him a sharp look, but not unkind. "Do not mistake me, Lord Jason. I understand the threat. That is why this matter must be handled with precision. Frey is like a spider: he does not charge, he waits, and he ensnares. A bold hand will only tangle the web and draw his fangs."
Hosteen finally spoke, his voice measured. "Then what do you propose, my lord? You believe the truth of what we brought you, do you not?"
"I do," Hoster said slowly, his fingers steepling before his face. "Your word, Lord Mudd, and the documents from Lord Charlton—who would risk such a move against his own liege unless the danger were real? Yes. I believe it. But belief does not bring power. It must be wielded carefully, lest it burn the hand that bears it."
He gestured to the scrolls. "If I marched on the Twins tomorrow, what would happen? Frey would call it a lie. He would weep to his bannermen, claim persecution, betrayal. Many would believe him—or at least pretend to, out of fear or ambition. War would come not just to his halls, but to the whole of the Trident. Brother would rise against brother. Old debts and old grudges would be paid in blood. And in the chaos... the lions or the roses might come prowling."
"The West or the Reach," Jason muttered, grim. "Both ever watchful of the Riverlands."
"Indeed." Hoster sighed. He looked older than he had when they'd entered. "No, I cannot act rashly. This must be done... cleverly. Deliberately. With cause so plain, and proof so undeniable, that none may question it when the hour comes. We must not stumble into his trap. We must weave our own."
Jason nodded. "Then what do you wish of us?"
Hoster looked at them each in turn, his eyes sharp despite the age in his face. "Nothing more. Not yet. You have done enough, and I thank you both. There is loyalty in what you have done, and courage too. Whatever comes next, I will remember that. But now, I must think. I must speak with my brother. You are dismissed—for now."
Jason stood and bowed stiffly. "As you wish, Lord Tully."
Hosteen gave a slight nod, watching the old lord closely. His mind turned, already wondering what plans the Tullys might devise. He could feel the shape of things shifting—slowly, like ice cracking on a lake.
As they turned and left the solar, the great doors closing behind them with a soft thud, Lord Hoster remained seated, his eyes once more fixed on the parchments. The evidence of Frey's ambition lay before him, undeniable and damning. But truth, Hoster knew, was not enough.
Truth must be turned into a blade. And to do that, one needed time, craft, and a steady hand.
He reached for the small bell on his desk and rang it once. A servant entered.
"Send for Ser Brynden," he said. "At once."
The heavy oaken door opened again not ten minutes later, and Ser Brynden Tully stepped into the solar with the easy confidence of a man who had walked its floors for decades. His dark cloak, pinned with the silver trout of his house, swept behind him as he moved. He looked more like a weathered knight of war than a courtly lord, lean and sharp as a sword newly honed. The lines around his mouth and eyes spoke of battles long past and burdens carried alone, yet his gaze was still keen and clear.
"You rang your bell, brother," he said, pausing just inside the doorway. "What mischief has stirred the waters this time?"
Lord Hoster motioned for him to sit, and Brynden obeyed, lowering himself into a chair by the hearth. A pitcher of watered wine sat between them on a tray, untouched. Hoster poured a cup for each of them but did not drink.
"Mischief indeed," Hoster said at last. "I've just had a visit from Lord Jason Mallister and young Lord Hosteen Mudd."
Brynden gave a nod. "That's a pairing I'd not expect to see crossing the Red Fork together, and yet they came unannounced even. What trouble did they bring?"
"Proof." Hoster passed a roll of parchment across the table. "Or enough of it to set my guts to turning. Frey is plotting, not just to gather influence but to make himself unassailable. If there is a war—and you and I both know one may yet come—he intends to withhold his banners. He whispers to his bannermen to delay, to wait. And in the aftermath, should we fall, he would rise."
Brynden's brow darkened as he read, his mouth tightening. "Seven hells. So that old weasel finally slipped his tail out of the sack. And we've let him fester in the Twins too long."
"Yes," Hoster agreed. "But now we have something. It came to us from Lord Charlton, of all men."
Brynden looked up sharply. "Maynard? I thought him gutless."
"He's turned, or so he claims. Frey's ambition has grown too brazen for even his own men to stomach."
Brynden leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire. "We could send riders. Call the banners quietly. Take the Twins by force before the spider knows he's been seen."
"No," Hoster said sharply. "Too soon. Too risky. If we strike too early, he'll cry falsehood. His bannermen will scatter or rise in his defense. No, brother. This must be done not with swords, but with strings. He must be drawn out into the light—made to step into a trap of his own choosing."
Brynden glanced back at the parchment. "Aye. And you have a trap in mind, I take it?"
Hoster's eyes gleamed, and a grim smile touched his lips. "A bait he cannot ignore. Frey has a thousand sons and grandsons, and he's ever eager to marry them off to lords great and small. He has long sniffed at Riverrun's gates, hoping to tangle himself with our name. Let's let him think the time has come."
Brynden's mouth twitched with amusement. "You mean to dangle one of your girls or me in front of him like a trout on a line?"
"I mean to suggest," Hoster said, "that Catelyn is ready to wed at last, and that the Lord of the Crossing might send a delegation of his kin to Riverrun… so that my daughter may choose a husband."
"Old Walder would trot half his brood here with bells on," Brynden muttered. "He'll come himself, no doubt, to make sure no one snubs his precious spawn."
"And when he's here," Hoster continued, "so too will be Jason Mallister, and Hosteen Mudd, and the documents they brought me addidtionaly I will of course invite other Riverlords as not to make the following judgment to private. Let the Freys walk our halls, break our bread, speak their lies. And then, when they believe they have won—when they are most exposed—we spring the trap. The truth will be read aloud, with the witnesses present. And the great lords of the Trident will hear it."
Brynden looked at him with something close to admiration. "Clever. Bold. And dangerous."
Hoster leaned back, his hands resting heavily on the arms of his chair. "It must be. He has spun a great web, brother. But now the spider must come into the open."
They sat for a time in silence, the fire snapping in the hearth. At last, Hoster stood, slow but steady, and called for a guard to bring Lord Mallister and Lord Mudd back to the solar.
Jason Mallister and Hosteen Mudd returned minutes later, their boots echoing on the stone as they stepped inside once more. They bowed, and Hoster waved them toward their chairs.
"I have made my decision," Lord Tully said without preamble. "And you two shall be part of what comes next."
Jason glanced at Hosteen. "We're listening."
"There will be no war. Not yet. To do so would turn this matter into a bloodbath. Instead, we shall set a snare. I will announce the potential for a betrothal—my daughter Catelyn, and one of Lord Frey's kin. I shall request he come to Riverrun with those he deems worthy of her hand."
Hosteen's brow furrowed. "Would the Lady Catelyn agree to such deception?"
"She will not be required to wed," Hoster said firmly. "Only to attend a feast. And choose none. Frey will bring his brood, hopeful and arrogant. And when they are all here, I will confront him with the evidence, with you both as witnesses. The Riverlands will hear his treachery in my own hall."
Jason leaned forward, eyes sharp. "And if he tries to deny it?"
"Then he can explain the letters. The instructions to delay, the schemes to swallow smaller houses whole. He will hang himself with his own words."
Hosteen gave a slow nod. "And you wish us to remain? Until the Freys come?"
"Yes," Hoster said. "You are both witnesses to what was said and what was given. Your presence will lend this the weight it needs. And more than that—if Walder Frey is a spider, then we must be patient flies. Waiting."
Jason chuckled, though without mirth. "A dangerous game, Lord Tully."
"They all are," Brynden said from his chair, his arms folded. "But I've never much liked spiders."
The ink had scarcely dried upon the last letter when Lord Hoster pressed the seal of House Tully into the red wax with a deliberate, heavy hand. A trout leaping from water—clean, proud, unmistakable. He handed the missive to the maester with a single nod. "
The maester bowed low and vanished, leaving only the scent of hot wax and damp parchment behind him.
The letter was courteous, as expected of a great lord addressing a bannerman of long standing, but no one in the solar mistook it for a casual invitation. In careful wording and gracious tones, it proposed a match: Lady Catelyn of Riverrun, unwed still, and ever more a woman grown, might be moved to take a husband at last—if the right suitor could be found. Lord Frey, so rich in heirs, was invited to Riverrun with his kin, so that the Lady might see them with her own eyes and make her choice.
It was bait, wrapped in parchment and pleasantries, sweetened by the prospect of alliance.
Hoster knew Frey would not ignore such a summons. The old man's hunger for prestige was bottomless, and he had long sought to tie his family to greater names. A Tully daughter—even the eldest—was a fish too fine to resist.
But one trap was not enough.
Another letter was already being penned as the first was sent, and another after that. By evening, ravens were being dispatched from Riverrun's gates in all directions—to Wayfarer's Rest, to Castle Darry, to Pinkmaiden and Harrenhal. Lords Vance, Darry, Piper, and Whent were all summoned under the pretense of a feast and a prospective betrothal. Hoster made no mention of Frey's crimes in these letters—only that a joyous occasion was being planned, and he wished his strongest bannermen close at hand to share in the merriment.
They would come. Of that he was certain. And when they did, they would not just see a feast—they would see justice done beneath the vaulted ceilings of Riverrun's great hall, and none could say it had been done in secret.
The fortress of Riverrun, built at the meeting of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, hummed to life. The kitchens filled with the sounds of boiling pots and cracking eggs. Pheasants were plucked and gutted. Barrels of salt pork were rolled up from the cellars. The steward paced the great hall with quill and parchment, marking seats for honored guests. Maids beat dust from old banners and scrubbed the stone floors with lye and sand until their knuckles bled.
In the bailey, Ser Brynden Tully watched the guards drill beneath a pale spring sun. His face, half-shadowed beneath his helm, betrayed little of what passed behind his dark eyes. He gave orders as only the Blackfish could—sharp and clear and not to be questioned. More men were posted to the gates. Riders on patrol were doubled. A fresh detachment of guards began training with halberds and shields, preparing for the possibility of treachery cloaked in ceremony. All of it under the guise of hospitality.
"We are expecting many lords and ladies," Brynden told the captain of the guard, "and many more hangers-on and opportunists. The Twins are always half-crowded with Freys. Be sure we are not overrun."
He said nothing of the deeper reason for his caution, but the captain understood well enough.
Lord Jason Mallister and Lord Hosteen Mudd were given comfortable chambers in the southeastern wing, with wide windows looking out over the Red Fork. There they kept close counsel, walking the walls in the dusk and talking low over goblets of red wine in the evenings. Jason wore a constant frown, his thoughts never far from the Twins, while Hosteen sat stiller and more thoughtful, his long-fingered hands often clasped before him as if in silent prayer.
"It's begun," Jason said one evening as they watched a pair of ravens take flight from the rookery tower. "Whether this ends with a rope, a sword, or just words, it's begun. Gods help us if Frey smells the trap."
"He won't," Hosteen said quietly, his gaze fixed far off. "He's too proud. He sees opportunity, not danger."
"And what do you see?"
Hosteen turned to him, pale eyes reflecting the fading light. "A coming storm and a restless realm will follow."