The corridors of the Twins were cold and damp.
Sunlight cast a few feeble shafts through the narrow arched windows in the high walls, doing nothing to dispel the moisture seeping into the cracks between the stones.
It came from the Green Fork, carrying a moldy chill.
Roose Bolton walked down the corridor with steady steps, his face as pale as ever.
Several House Bolton guards followed silently behind him.
They reached the entrance to the lord's hall.
The heavy oak door bore the twin-tower arms of House Frey.
At the sight of them, the guards opened it without a word.
The hall was even more cavernous and chilly than the corridor.
Torches crackled, casting flickering light and shadows.
Walder Frey sat in a high-backed chair at the far end.
It was an enormous black oak chair, its towering back almost swallowing his withered frame.
Sparse gray hair lay flat against his scalp, and his small eyes gleamed shrewdly in their deep sockets.
"Lord Bolton," he rasped, his voice thick with an old man's phlegm. He raised a hand. "Please, sit. Thank you for making the journey."
Roose Bolton inclined his head slightly but did not sit down at once.
His gaze swept the hall. Aside from Walder Frey and two guards who stood like statues, there was no one else.
This was a private meeting.
"What important business did you wish to discuss, Lord Frey?" His voice was level.
He quickly weighed the situation in his mind.
Ever since he had withdrawn the surviving northern troops from Aegon's advance in the Riverlands and made his way toward the Twins, he had realized things were going badly.
House Frey had once again closed the river crossing, and its toll was staggering.
Worse still, his supplies were nearly exhausted. These past