The truth is the truth nothing more
4th moon, 279 AC.
Murmurs ran through the gathered lords, a soft ripple of confusion and alarm. But the Freys murmured louder, barked louder still—sons and grandsons turning in their seats, some half-rising, others reaching for hilts they did not wear. Their blades had been politely requested at the gates, and now even the boldest of them realized the weight of that courtesy.
"What is the meaning of this?" bellowed Stevron Frey, eldest and least witted of Walder's brood. "You bid us come to court your girl, now you trap us like dogs in a pit?"
"Only dogs need fear the pit," Ser Marq Piper quipped, but the jest fell flat.
Lord Walder, still seated, did not rise. His watery eyes scanned the hall, flitting from face to face, seeking allies. He saw none. The banners had become walls—Vance, Whent, Darry, Piper, all present, all watching. And at the high table stood Lord Hoster Tully, as motionless as a statue of the gods of old, his cane clutched before him like a scepter.
He did not shout. He did not rage. His voice came slow and deliberate.
"Lord Walder Frey. You stand accused of crimes most grievous against your liege lord and the peace of the Riverlands."
A hush fell like snowfall. Even the Frey babes in swaddling ceased their squalling, as if the words themselves had bitten through the warm air.
Lord Walder blinked. "I am a loyal man," he rasped, thick with phlegm. "My banners have flown beneath your own since before your lady wife had her moon's blood, my house has been loyal since the dragon made it you r vassal. You dare—?"
Hoster's hand cut the air like a blade. "Do not lie, Walder. Not here. Not now."
And from beside him, Jason Mallister stepped forward, bearing a thick leather pouch. Hosteen Mudd walked at his side, his cloak trimmed in grey wolf fur, his face still and solemn.
Jason laid the pouch on the table before the lords and opened it with care. Parchments spilled forth, some sealed, some torn and stained with age, but all legible.
Ser Brynden took them in hand, read one aloud.
"To Ser Willam of House Charlton. The lands between Pemford Creek and the Beechwood are to be held as Frey fiefdom in all but name, with your house rewarded in due time with proper vassalage…"
He let the words hang. A second scroll was drawn forth.
"To Ser Lothar. If the banners are called, you are to wait. Let the Tullys bleed. We shall pick the carcass clean."
A gasp, a rustle of garments and armor. Ser Hugo Vance went pale. Lady Whent whispered to her son. Ser Darry shook his head in disbelief.
"They are forgeries," cried Jared Frey.
"They are treason," Ser Brynden answered, calm as a cold river. "And they are signed with your father's seal."
Walder Frey made no attempt to deny it. His mouth twisted, not in shame but contempt. "Treason, is it? You call planning survival treason? What fool charges into war before seeing which way the battle turns?"
"You do not plan to watch your liege lord die," Hoster Tully said coldly. "You plan to hasten it. You sowed disorder in Seagard and Mudd lands. You backed a pretender. You bribed and threatened your vassals to swear false oaths. All to grow fat while the Riverlands bled."
A silence again.
Then, Lord Walder coughed wetly and spat into the rushes.
"You've done well, Tully. Laid your trap, baited it with my own blood. My own hopes. I brought my line here because I believed you might have some sense at last. And now what? You'll kill me? String up sixty of mine from your walls like trout on a line?"
"No," said Hoster. "You will be judged."
He turned to the assembled lords. "These charges are not mine alone. The Freys have abused their strength, endangered their neighbors, and spat on their oaths. I summon you now to form a tribunal—to weigh the truth of these accusations. If you find them guilty, then justice shall follow."
Walder sneered. "You'd have my enemies sit in judgment. The Pipers? The Vances?"
"They are your peers," Brynden said. "And they are not alone."
From a side door, two more men entered: Lord Maynard Charlton, and Lord Lymond Goodbrook, silent and grim. Charlton bore himself with dignity, and it was he who stepped forward.
"I stand by my word and the evidence I gave," Maynard said. "I serve no man who forgets honor in pursuit of gain."
Hosteen Mudd stepped forward too. "And I. The Freys have not just conspired—they have threatened the peace of the Trident itself."
Walder was red with rage. "You think this is justice? This is vengeance! This is Tully pride!"
"No," said Hoster, rising to his full height, voice steady as an oak in storm. "This is the Riverlands reclaiming its soul."
The tribunal was named: Piper, Vance, Whent, Charlton, and Darry. Five lords, five voices, sworn to hear the case in full come morning.
Until then, the Freys were confined. They would sleep in chambers under guard—lords and sons alike. No chains, not yet. Not unless they ran.
As they were led away, Walder Frey turned once more to the high table.
"You'll regret this, Tully," he hissed. "You forget—spiders spin from silence. But they strike loud."
Hoster Tully did not reply. He only raised his cup, and drank deep.
The next morning broke over Riverrun shrouded in mist, the Tumblestone running gray and cold beneath the high red walls of House Tully. The halls of the keep were quieter than usual, as if the stones themselves held their breath for what was to come. The summons had gone out at first light: all lords and their households were to gather in the great hall for a matter of justice.
The hall had been cleared of long tables. Instead, rows of benches and high-backed chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing the dais where Lord Hoster Tully now sat in solemn judgment, a fur-lined cloak draped over his thin shoulders and his maester standing silent beside him. At his left stood Ser Brynden the Blackfish, ever grim, a sword belted at his hip. To his right were Jason Mallister of Seagard and Hosteen Mudd, flanking their liege lord not merely as guests but as witnesses and accusers.
Lord Walder Frey arrived last, trailed by his offspring like a river following its course. Sons and grandsons, some barely of age, others gray with years—sixty heads, some said, or more, though no one could be bothered to count. They filled the opposite side of the hall, taking seats with a rustle of cloaks and a sheen of smug expectation. Walder himself leaned heavily on his cane, bones brittle as dry wood, but his eyes glittered like a crow's in the torchlight.
Hoster Tully waited until all had settled. Then he stood.
"We gather," he began, "not for war or peace, but for truth. Lord Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, has been summoned before his peers to answer for accusations of disloyalty and sedition. The hall shall hear the words, and those who speak them shall be known."
Lord Walder smirked and made no effort to hide his sneer. "If you wanted truth, you could've sent a raven. Instead, I bring half my sons through mud and frost just so I can be insulted in a trout's den."
Hoster's face did not shift. "You will be heard, Lord Walder. But first, so shall those who speak against you."
Jason Mallister stepped forward first. His words were measured, his voice strong as he laid out the evidence: the bandits in the south, the forged alliances with false lords, the treachery whispered in the dark. He spoke of men who confessed under blade and fire, and of weapons marked not by random thieves, but the sigil of House Charlton—Frey's own vassal.
Lord Frey yawned. "Sellswords will say anything when their entrails are threatened."
Then came Hosteen Mudd, more quiet in his manner but no less resolute. He spoke of strange movements across the Riverlands, of lords coerced and weaker houses corralled like sheep. He spoke, too, of the documents: ledgers, letters, records of deals that reeked of disloyalty and ambition.
And still, Lord Walder scoffed. "Words on parchment. No seals I recognize. No hand of mine."
Hoster Tully looked weary, yet he did not relent. "You will answer each charge, Lord Frey. Truthfully. And we will judge."
And so the questions began. One by one, lords stood and asked. Did Frey fund the Pemford pretender? Did he instruct his bannermen to stand idle should the Riverlands call their banners? Was he plotting to bring Ryger and Paege into his fold through coin or marriage or both?
Each time, Walder Frey answered. Blustering, dismissive, dancing between truths and lies like a mummer on a rope.
Until the wine came.
Hosteen had waited until the tension crested. In the murmuring, while Lord Walder leaned back and barked at a grandson to refill his goblet, Hosteen moved. He rose quietly, made his way past the guards with no resistance, for none suspected his step. A slip of the hand, a flick of the fingers, and three drops of veritaserum fell into Lord Walder's wine—clear and flavorless, indistinguishable from water.
No one saw. Not even Jason beside him.
Lord Walder drank.
And when the next question came—this time from Lord Vance, who stood at the far edge of the chamber and asked: "Did you instruct your vassals to delay aid to Riverrun should war come?"—Walder's tone shifted.
"I did," he said flatly.
A murmur rose. Jason turned his head sharply. Hosteen said nothing.
Lord Piper leaned forward. "Did you offer gold to the Ryger girl's uncle to press her claim over her lord father's?"
"I did."
Lord Walder blinked. His eyes widened, as if confused by his own mouth. But still, the truth poured out.
"Did you plan to align with either the Lannisters or the Reach should strife come to the Trident?" asked Lord Whent.
"If it proved fruitful, yes."
Lord Hoster straightened. "Have you conspired to elevate your house to power beyond its station, at the cost of your liege?"
"Yes."
Silence fell, heavy and final. Even the Frey sons stopped murmuring, some glancing uneasily at their father. Walder Frey's cane trembled against the stone.
"I—" he began. Then frowned. "What sorcery is this?"
Hosteen only watched, his hands folded in front of him.
Lord Hoster Tully spoke again, voice grim. "It seems the truth has been drawn out of you at last, Lord Walder. The court will recess for an hour. When we return, judgment will be rendered."
He banged his staff once on the dais, and the lords rose. Walder Frey remained seated, blinking down at his goblet with suspicion and dawning fear.
As the hall emptied, Hosteen Mudd remained by the doors, cloaked in shadow. No one would ever know—but the truth, once spoken, had a life of its own.
The bell atop Riverrun's tallest tower tolled thrice before noon, its heavy bronze mouth calling the lords of the Trident back to the hall. The skies outside had turned ashen, the sun cloaked in mist. Inside, the great hall of House Tully felt colder than stone had any right to be.
Lord Walder Frey sat in chains.
He was slumped on a low stool before the dais, a fur thrown over his bony shoulders, though even that could not hide the tremor in his limbs. Two of his sons—Stevron and Emmon—stood beside him, wrists manacled, their faces pale and drawn. Behind them, a line of Freys stretched along the wall, grandsons and great-grandsons, some barely old enough to grow whiskers, others seasoned men of war. The Blackfish had personally overseen the separation of those who had wielded power from those who had merely followed. None had been harmed—yet.
The hall filled again. Lords Piper and Vance took their seats first, followed by Whent and Darry. Charlton stood near the front, stern-faced, flanked by his sons. Lord Jason Mallister and Hosteen Mudd had resumed their place beside the dais. The rest of the Frey brood, disarmed and surrounded by Tully men-at-arms, filled the back corners of the chamber in uneasy silence.
When Lord Hoster Tully finally rose, all voices ceased.
He looked old that day, older than the stone walls and the river that bore his name. His face was long, his eyes heavy-lidded, but the voice that rang from his throat was firm as iron.
"Lords of the Trident," he said, "you have heard the words of Walder Frey. Words drawn not by trick nor torment, but from the truth that lay beneath his tongue. Treachery, spoken plainly and without shame."
He looked down at Walder, who said nothing. The old man's lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line, though his eyes glared like coals in the ashes.
"For years you played the loyal vassal," Hoster went on. "And all the while, you undermined the peace of this realm with whispers and bribes, feigned neutrality, and schemes against your neighbors. You bred sons like a man breeds dogs for war, and thought that sheer number would make you strong."
He turned to the gathered lords. "It was not strength that guided him. It was rot. And like rot, it spread."
"Let it be known," Hoster said, raising his voice so all might hear, "that Lord Walder Frey of the Crossing is hereby attainted and condemned. For treason, for conspiracy against his liege lord, and for acts that endangered the unity of the Riverlands and the Kings Peace, he shall pay the price owed."
He looked to Brynden. The Blackfish gave a slight nod.
"Execution," Hoster said. "By sword, and by justice."
Gasps and murmurs broke through the hall. One of the Frey boys—no older than twenty—cried out, and had to be silenced by a guard's firm grip.
Hoster turned to Stevron and Emmon. "You knew of his plots. You aided them. You shall share his fate."
Stevron, ever the quiet heir, lowered his head. Emmon began to protest—"I am wed to Lord Lannister's sister!"—but the words fell on stone. Hoster's face did not change.
"As for the rest," Hoster said, his voice heavy with judgment, "you shall have a choice."
He looked down the long line of Freys who stood behind the condemned. "Those of your house who did not bear command, who did not lead men or hold arms in this conspiracy, may take the black. The Night's Watch has need of men, and perhaps there you will find some honor, though none remains here."
A rustle of movement rippled through the younger Freys. Some wept. Some looked defiant. A few already seemed resigned.
"And your lands," Hoster said, turning back to the lords. "The Twins were built by house Frey yes, but the lands were usurped by them from House Charlton and shall now once again be held by House Charlton, as it has been for a thousand years before they fell victim to a plot not unlike this one by a Frey."
He lifted a scroll and held it aloft.
"Let it be declared: House Charlton is restored to its rightful seat, and shall henceforth hold the Crossing in place of traitors."
Lord Maynard Charlton stepped forward. He did not bow, but lowered his head. "I will hold it well, my lord. In your name."
The hall rumbled with a dozen voices, some in agreement, others uneasy. But none spoke in Walder's defense.
The execution was not swift. It was done in the godswood, for the sept was no place for it, and the Tullys did come from the blood of the First men, so before the old weirwood tree, where ravens cried from above as each man knelt. First Walder, then Stevron, then Emmon. Jason Mallister took the sword for Walder. Brynden Blackfish handled the others. No lord of Frey blood was allowed the dignity of dying by a Frey hand.
The air smelled of blood and moss. The Tumblestone flowed on.
Later, Hosteen Mudd stood alone at a window, watching the river carry a branch down its current. Beside him, Jason Mallister exhaled.
"You dosed him, didn't you?" Jason asked softly. "That wine."
Hosteen said nothing for a time. Then, with a quiet voice, he answered, "Truth serum . He told the truth. That's all."
Jason did not press further.
Below them, Riverrun's courtyard was already busy—messengers departing, banners being lowered. The Freys who chose the Wall were being gathered for escort north. The Twins would change hands soon. The Riverlands, for now, were still.
But stormwinds stirred in the distance, and justice, once loosed, was not so easily cage.