The Red Fall

Three years ago, King Aerys II entered Duskendale a king and left it something else. The details vary depending on who tells it, six months in a dungeon, Ser Barristan alone in the dark, Lord Darklyn's head on a spike, his wife burned alive. What everyone agrees on is that the king hasn't left the Red Keep since. He won't see his lords. He won't hold court properly. His fingernails grow long and his edicts grow strange. Prince Rhaegar handles what the king won't, and the realm whispers about what that means.

None of this matters much at Grimwind Hall, except in the way that weather matters: distant, uncontrollable, inevitable.

What matters at Grimwind is closer. The wind that comes off the mountains. The clansmen in the upper hills. The lake that feeds the hamlet. The Haighs and Henleys to the west who fly Frey banners and look at your boundary stones the way a dog looks at an unguarded plate.

You are one of four small houses sworn directly to Riverrun: Grimwind, Stillfen, Wayleroot, and Wernell. All four scattered along the eastern reaches of the Riverlands where the Green Fork runs and the Mountains of the Moon rise. You answer to Hoster Tully and no one else, which sounds like an honor until you realize what it actually means: you're too small for Riverrun to watch over daily and too stubborn for the Freys to absorb quietly. The four of you form a buffer that keeps House Frey from controlling the entire eastern bank, and everyone knows it, including the Freys.

You are not friends with the other three houses. You are neighbors who share a liege and a problem. Stillfen sits on the Green Fork and does well enough from river trade. Wayleroot watches the same mountains you do from further south. Wernell anchors the bottom of the line. You've shared a meal with their lords. You've argued over grazing rights. You've never fought together because you've never had to.

It winter still, in 280 AC. The stores are... adequate. Theres even rumor of spring next year if one believes the maesters.

Then a raven arrives from Stillfen.

Lord Wotlin of Wernell province is dead. Not battle, not murder, a fever that took him in six days. His heir is a boy of ten with three marriageable elder sisters. The house is exposed, and every lord with ambition and proximity knows it.

Including Walder Frey.