Riverrun, the ducal bedchamber of House Tully.
It had once belonged to Hoster Tully.
Now, its temporary occupant was Lynn.
A warm fire burned in the fireplace, driving away the cold, damp air of the Riverlands night.
Tapestries depicting the scenery of Riverrun hung on the walls.
The silver trout woven into them seemed to swim through water in the flickering firelight.
Everything seemed so peaceful, so luxurious.
But that peace was shattered by faint, stifled sobs outside the door and the soldiers' harsh rebukes.
Every upheaval meant a complete reshuffling of power.
With House Frey's hidden forces rooted out, the Tullys now wielded extraordinary influence in the Riverlands.
They seemed to have reclaimed the glory of their forebears.
Roslin Frey huddled in an upholstered chair in a corner of the room.
She hugged her knees, burying her head deep in her arms.
She was like a cat dropped into unfamiliar surroundings, terrified of everything around her.
After the bloody slaughter in the High Hall, that statue-like guard in black robes had carried her all the way here and tossed her into the room.
Then no one had paid her any further attention.
There were no chains, no cage, and even a warm fireplace and a soft bed.
Yet Roslin felt as though she were trapped in an ice cellar, a chill seeping out from her very bones.
She had no idea what Lynn intended.
That man had slaughtered her father and all her brothers with the cruelest methods.
Yet he had wiped the stains from her face with an almost uncanny tenderness.
He had said she was his spoils of war.
Spoils of war...
Roslin was no stranger to those words.
At the Twins, she and her sisters had been her father Walder Frey's spoils, goods, and bargaining chips