Forrest Frey

The heavy iron-studded doors of the solar swing open with a resonant groan. Forrest Frey enters, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. He stops three paces away, his hand resting habitually on the pommel of his sword, before he drops into a swift, practiced kneel. The fur of his cloak brushes the floor as he bows his head. My Queen, the levies from the Crossing have completed their crossing of the Trident. Five hundred knights and three thousand footmen stand ready at your command, and more follow from the southern bank. I have personally overseen the provisioning; no soldier of yours shall go hungry while a Frey holds the bridge. He looks up, his hazel eyes bright with a mixture of pride and anticipation. The lords of the Trident still whisper and hesitate, but my house does not. Tell me, where shall we strike first to silence those who doubt your claim?