Chapter 226: A Wife Acting Strangely
South of Greywater Watch, deep within a remote and nearly untraveled forest, a small group of figures struggled forward through the snow.
Frost blanketed every inch of the land, weighing down even the sturdiest branches. Each step sank deep, the packed snow crunching dully underfoot.
"Gods, it's freezing…"
One of the younger Freys muttered under his breath, unable to hold it in any longer.
From the moment they crossed beyond The Twins, the cold only grew harsher the farther north they went. It seeped through thick furs, crept into gloves, stiffened fingers—an unrelenting chill that made southerners want to turn back immediately.
But for most of the men in this group—
it was nothing.
Because they were northerners.
"Hah! This is nothing!"
A burly guard laughed loudly, his voice rough with that unmistakable northern grit.
"Wait till we cross Moat Cailin—that's when winter really starts!"
"I spent half a month in Karhold once. Went out to piss at night—didn't even hit the ground before it froze solid!"
The others chuckled in agreement, their breath misting in the air.
For men born in the North, the cold was in their blood.
To them, even the Riverlands felt almost warm.
Even the crannogmen of Greywater were often mocked as "southerners."
Hearing their banter, Tywin Frey didn't take offense. He simply took a swig from the flask at his belt, letting the burn of strong liquor push back the cold.
At the head of the group, Eddard Stark walked in silence.
He drew in a deep breath.
The freezing air filled his lungs, clearing his mind.
Despite the harsh conditions, there was a faint lightness to his expression—something close to satisfaction.
Not long ago, they had reached the hidden fortress deep within the marshes—Greywater Watch—and successfully met its lord.
"Lord Reed is a man of honor," Ned said quietly, glancing toward the bannerman beside him. "This journey was not in vain."
At his side, Roose Bolton wore his usual pale smile.
He did not immediately agree.
"I'd say they had little choice."
Ned turned slightly, grey eyes thoughtful, but he did not interrupt—waiting instead.
Since taking up the mantle of Warden of the North, he had learned to listen.
Roose continued calmly, "Greywater Watch sits in a peculiar position. It's the southernmost stronghold of the North—almost like an island abandoned beyond Moat Cailin."
"Your father stationed forces at Moat Cailin, relying on the swamps. Even with tens of thousands, taking it would be difficult."
He paused briefly, then added, "But they would never be foolish enough to leave it."
"In that case, if war begins, House Reed would receive no support from the North."
"Their only viable option… is to cooperate with us."
Ned listened quietly, his brows knitting slightly.
He knew Roose's reasoning was sound.
But something in him resisted reducing people to pure calculation.
"You make a fair point," Ned said after a moment. "But you've overlooked something."
He slowed his horse slightly, organizing his thoughts.
"Greywater Watch has never been found—not by Andals, ironborn, Freys, or any army in history."
"That swamp… is a maze."
"Even in the worst case, they could simply remain neutral—neither helping nor opposing."
"And even then, when we march on Moat Cailin, we'd still have to hold forces back to guard against them."
When he finished, Ned turned to Roose, waiting—almost like a student awaiting judgment.
Over these past weeks, he had learned much from the Lord of the Dreadfort.
Roose nodded slowly, a hint of genuine approval in his eyes.
"An insightful line of thought, my lord."
"For someone who has never seen war… your progress is remarkable."
He studied Ned for a moment, then added, "I believe the North will grow stronger under your rule."
For once, Ned's usually stern expression softened into a small, awkward smile.
As the younger son, never meant to inherit, the weight on his shoulders had always felt heavy.
He had grown up in his brother's shadow.
And always felt lesser.
"You are a wise lord," Ned replied sincerely. "A trusted friend… and a good teacher."
They shared a brief smile.
A rare moment of harmony between lord and bannerman.
"My lord!"
A rider approached at a gallop, dragging a small elk behind his horse.
Its throat had been pierced cleanly—an impressive shot.
"Well done, Jory," Ned said, clearly pleased. "Looks about a hundred pounds—prime meat. Bring it back. Lysa will be pleased."
"She's been complaining about the food at the Twins. House Frey has done enough for us—we shouldn't burden them further."
At this, Jory Cassel grinned.
"I haven't bled it yet, my lord," he said loudly, patting the carcass. "They say it's great for vitality!"
"Have a cup before bed, and next year we'll have another strong Stark running around!"
Laughter broke out among the men—good-natured, not mocking.
After all, a lord with heirs meant stability for everyone.
But amid the laughter, Ned's expression tightened slightly.
"What is it, my lord?" Roose asked quietly, noticing immediately.
Ned hesitated.
For once, words did not come easily.
After a long pause, he urged his horse forward a few steps, leaning closer to Roose.
"My wife… Lysa…" he said in a low voice. "She's… strange."
"I can't quite explain it, but… in bed, she's like…"
He struggled for words, his face reddening slightly.
"…like a wild animal. Every time, it feels as though she's trying to tear me apart."
He looked at Roose with earnest confusion.
"Are all women like this?"
"I've never… been with anyone else. I heard Robert Baratheon say it's supposed to be… enjoyable. But my wife…"
"You've never?"
This time, even Roose Bolton was surprised.
He gave Ned a sidelong glance, clearly not expecting that.
A young nobleman, raised in the Vale for years—
and still untouched?
At that age, such impulses should have been… overwhelming.
And for a noble of decent appearance, finding a woman would have been effortless.
After all, Robert Baratheon's reputation alone—
was already legendary.
However, Eddard Stark did not answer Roose Bolton's question. He merely gave him a look—as if the answer should have been obvious.
"…Alright."
Roose shrugged lightly and began explaining in a calm, instructive tone.
"No need to be alarmed, my lord."
"Different women react differently to such matters. Perhaps Lady Lysa is simply… a bit more passionate."
He paused, then added casually, "Take my own wife, for example. She's rather cold in bed—hardly makes a sound at all."
Then, glancing toward the elk slung behind Jory's horse, he continued, "You might try that creature's blood. They say it does wonders for a man's vigor."
"I see…"
Ned nodded, though his understanding was only partial.
Yet something still bothered him.
In his mind, Lysa's behavior felt… improper. It clashed sharply with what he had imagined marriage to be.
Seeing his lingering unease, Roose patted his shoulder in a rare gesture of reassurance.
"Don't dwell on it, Lord Stark."
"Our priority now is to break through Moat Cailin and return north, so you may take your seat at Winterfell."
He allowed himself a faint, almost nostalgic smile.
"Come to think of it, I haven't been home in nearly half a year. I'd like to return to the Dreadfort and see my son… whom I've yet to meet."
Ned's curiosity was piqued.
"What is his name?"
"Domeric Bolton," Roose replied, a trace of genuine pride surfacing. "It means 'lord of the domain.'"
As he spoke of his firstborn, his posture straightened, his horse seeming to pick up its pace as well.
"I have a feeling he will grow into a fine and honorable lord of the North."
"Much like you, Lord Stark."
Ned looked at him, a quiet sense of admiration stirring in his chest.
A reliable bannerman.
If the North had more men like Roose Bolton, his rule would surely be far more secure.
The group continued southward, but before long, the sound of galloping hooves broke the stillness. A lone rider approached at speed from the south.
Ned was just about to order caution when Tywin Frey suddenly called out excitedly:
"That's my brother—Tytos!"
Moments later, the rider reached them, pulling sharply on the reins before addressing Ned with urgency.
"My lord!"
"A messenger from the Regent has arrived at The Twins!"
"You may need to hasten your return!"
___
Back at the Twins, Petyr Baelish returned to his quarters, thoroughly satisfied.
But before he could even pour himself a drink, a cold voice sounded from behind him.
"What exactly have you been doing, boy?"
"Seven hells!"
Startled, Petyr spun around.
From the shadows behind the door emerged the outline of a tall knight with golden hair, his gaze fixed sharply upon him.
Petyr quickly recovered, slipping back into his usual polished smile.
"You nearly frightened me to death, Ser Balman Byrch," he said, placing a hand over his chest in mock complaint. "At this hour, lurking like a ghost—has the Regent sent new instructions?"
"What did you do, Petyr Baelish?"
Balman did not move. His eyes flicked over Petyr's slightly disheveled clothing and the faint sheen of sweat at his temples.
He stepped forward, expression rigid.
"You claimed to be meeting the wife of Lord Stark. Yet you remained in her chambers for two full hours."
"Don't tell me you had that much to discuss."
Petyr's smile did not falter, though a glint of cold calculation flashed in his eyes.
He cleared his throat and replied in a composed, measured tone.
"My dear ser."
"I've mentioned before—Lady Lysa and I grew up together at Riverrun."
"It's only natural, after so long apart, that we would exchange a few words—especially in times as turbulent as these."
His gaze remained steady, open, almost disarmingly sincere.
But Balman was unmoved.
His hand drifted unconsciously toward the hilt of his sword.
Having once suffered betrayal, he trusted neither appearances nor charming words.
And to him, this smooth-tongued man before him reeked of deceit—perhaps even worse than the ironborn he despised.
Sensing the shift, Petyr quickly continued.
"As for the time… yes, her chambers are quite comfortable. But do you truly think I was merely drinking and reminiscing?"
His tone sharpened slightly.
"We are here under the Regent's command. No matter how eloquent we are, no matter how tirelessly we speak—"
"It will never be as effective as a few words whispered by the wife who shares Lord Stark's bed."
"That is why I took my time… persuading Lady Lysa."
He gave a small, confident smile.
"It wasn't easy. But I succeeded."
"She has agreed to convey the Regent's will to Lord Stark at the earliest opportunity."
The explanation was logical—clean, even convincing.
Balman stared at him for a long moment, searching for any crack in the façade.
Finding none, he finally spoke again.
"You'd better not be lying to me, man of the The Fingers."
"If I find that you've been playing games…"
His voice turned colder.
"The consequences will be severe."
With that, he turned sharply and strode toward the door.
Then, just before stepping out, he paused.
"Remember what you promised the Regent, Petyr Baelish."
"Do not… delay the greater plan."
Petyr bowed slightly, adopting a posture of perfect humility.
"You have my word, ser. My loyalty always belongs to—"
Bang!
The door slammed shut before he could finish.
No greeting when he came. No farewell when he left.
The sheer disregard made Petyr's jaw tighten.
From the moment he left the Fingers, he had sworn—
one day, all those who looked down on him would be beneath his feet.
Outside, the sound of boots faded down the corridor.
Inside the room, the warmth returned—but the smile on Petyr Baelish's face vanished.
In its place, his grey-green eyes gleamed once more—
sharp, calculating… and dangerous.