His chance came when the Freys arrived again at Riverrun.
Earlier, on learning that Robb had broken his oath and married Jeyne Westerling, Lord Frey’s men and servants had left the castle in a fury.
Roman, who by now thought of himself simply as Edmure Tully, sat at an imposing black table with carved legs.
Silver jugs of wine, goblets, and baskets of fruit covered its surface.
The negotiations took place in the upper solar of Riverrun.
The room boasted a high, nearly five meter ceiling, tall windows facing south, and doors set into opposite walls.
Heavy bronze chandeliers hung from ancient beams, thick candles burning in them, above two dozen chairs upholstered in dark blue leather, several cabinets, and two smaller tables.
A great fireplace sat against one wall; Roman had ordered it lit, and the wood now crackled comfortably within it.
Ceiling, floor, and walls were all rough, deliberately unfinished stone.
Roman liked this room.
Something about it carried the weight and majesty of Riverrun and the river lands themselves.
A light, damp breeze drifted through one of the half open windows.
Somewhere below, archers loosed arrow after arrow at their targets, drilling for accuracy and coordination.
To Edmure’s left sat Brynden Tully, his uncle.
Tall and lean despite his years, quick in his movements, his face weathered, lined, and clean shaven.
Even here he wore black boiled leather and a discreet mail shirt, refusing himself any softness.
The old Edmure had always been a little afraid of him.
To his right sat Robb Stark: sixteen years old, well built, fair skinned, with reddish brown hair and blue eyes.
A beard and mustache were just starting to come in, redder still than the hair on his head.
More than one person had remarked how much he resembled a younger version of Edmure Tully himself.
Directly behind Robb sat his mother, Catelyn Stark, Edmure’s elder sister, her graceful hands folded in her lap.
She had high, delicate cheekbones, wide blue eyes, and once luxuriant brown hair.
People had called her a great beauty in her day, though the years, and recent events, had worn some of that shine away.
These were Edmure’s family, his allies, and the people who cared for him least.
Directly across the table sat two men dressed plainly, almost humbly.
One of them, thin featured and already going gray, had neither an imposing height nor much physical presence, and yet was known as a hard, formidable fighter.
His name was Ser Walder Rivers, a bastard son of the Lord of the Twins, and it was he who took the lead in speaking.
The other, in charge of the pair, was Lothar Frey, called Lame Lothar, the twelfth trueborn son of old Lord Walder.
He looked to be about thirty five, thickset, with close set eyes, a pointed beard, and dark curly hair falling to his shoulders.
He served his father as steward at the Twins, and many considered him the shrewdest, most calculating man in the whole Frey brood.
Lothar and Walder had ridden into Riverrun at the head of a small escort of twenty riders, intent on opening negotiations over what should happen now that Robb Stark had broken his word and married a stranger instead of one of Frey’s daughters.
“The Twins are far from Riverrun, and the roads are not kind these days,” Robb said quietly, trying his best to sound majestic and every inch a king, and doing a fair job of it.
“We’re grateful you made the journey at such a difficult time.” “Aye, the roads are thick with bandits and killers these days,” Walder Rivers agreed, nodding.
“But when the King in the North calls, we come.” “Our father instructs us to say the alliance between our houses can be renewed.
On his terms.” Lothar leaned back in his chair, his tone polite but flat and unreadable.
Roman found himself wondering, almost against his will, whether the man’s manner was a deliberate performance, whether such calm even served him when he killed.
If he enjoyed killing, did he do that with the same blank expression?
“Lord Frey requires a formal apology from you for breaking your oath to marry his daughter.” “Of course.
I acted dishonorably.” Robb spread his hands on the table, fingers laced together.
You should have thought this through before, and thought with your head instead of somewhere lower, Roman thought, biting back the urge to say it aloud to his newfound nephew.
Robb had made a mess of things.
He could have kept Jeyne as he pleased and still married a Frey girl; both wolf and sheep would have survived that arrangement.
A Frey marriage would have brought loyalty and the swords of the Twins with it.
Jeyne had brought nothing but a wedge between allies.
Instead, the fool had chosen the single worst path available and was now riding, at speed, toward the Red Wedding.
And Frey, evidently, felt secure enough in his grievance that his own sons could speak to a king in this tone.
Catelyn sat in silence.
The Blackfish rewarded the Freys with a thin, contemptuous smile.
“As recompense for the insult, our father asks for Harrenhal and the lands around it,” Rivers added, quiet as before.
“Harrenhal sits in the Riverlands.
It belongs to my vassals.” Roman spoke up for the first time.
“The right to give it away is mine, not anyone else’s.
I don’t think…” “We are fighting this war for the North,” Robb cut him off, shooting him a hard look that told him plainly to be quiet.
“Harrenhal may not lie in the North, but the right to decide its fate is mine.
It will be yours again once the war’s won.” “We’ll discuss who has the right to what,” Roman said, unable to hold his tongue.
He didn’t know the finer points of these negotiations and had no memory of how the old Edmure had handled them, but the way Robb was carrying himself said plenty on its own.
He was handing away land that wasn’t his to give, without so much as a glance at his uncle’s opinion on the matter.
It felt insulting.
Nobody else in the room seemed to think it strange at all.
“Hold your tongue,” the Blackfish said, his voice low and threatening.
Roman glanced at him sidelong and, for the moment, kept quiet.
Trading insults in front of the Freys hardly seemed the wisest course.
“And one more thing,” Lothar added, his voice flat.
“We will try to give Lord Frey whatever it is he wants,” Robb said solemnly.
Yes, especially at Riverrun’s expense, Roman thought.
That was how everyone here treated him, or rather, had treated his predecessor: remembered only on the hard days, called on only when some hole needed plugging.
Exactly like now.
“Not everything.
One thing in particular,” Rivers clarified.
Both Freys turned their eyes pointedly toward Roman as they said it.
He didn’t need to know the story ahead of time to guess what was coming.
Robb, Catelyn, and Brynden were all looking at him now too.
Under the weight of five stares, he felt distinctly uncomfortable.
He held his silence anyway.
Let them say the whole of it first.
“Father wishes you, Lord Tully, to marry one of his daughters.
Lady Roslin,” Lothar said at last, apparently deciding no one would ask him outright.
“Is that so.” Roman raised an eyebrow.
“How old is she?” “Nineteen,” Rivers answered.
“We ride home in the morning, and we’ll need your answer before then.
This condition is not open for discussion.” “Yes, it is.
Isn’t that exactly what we’re doing right now?” Roman said it with a confidence he didn’t fully feel.
Catelyn coughed a warning under her breath.
She had clearly never seen her younger brother behave quite like this.
The Blackfish’s fists tightened at his sides.
“The wedding is to take place within a fortnight,” Lothar went on, as though he hadn’t heard Roman’s last remark at all.
“If not, there will be no alliance between our houses.” “Are you aware that we happen to be fighting a war right now?” Brynden asked.
“My father is old, not blind.
He misses very little,” Lothar allowed himself a faint smile.
“He has no wish to put off matters of such importance any longer.
And recent experience has taught him to treat an ally’s promises with some caution.” The barb landed as another insult, thinly disguised.
But there was nothing to say in response.
Robb had set a bad precedent, and now everyone else had to live with the consequences.
Roman pressed his lips together in anger.
“He’s within his rights,” Robb said, color rising in his cheeks, though his voice stayed even.
“If you’ll excuse us, we need to discuss this among ourselves.” The Freys exchanged a glance, nodded together, and rose from their seats.
Rivers stood easily; Lothar had to lean on the table to push himself up, and walked slowly to the door, dragging his left leg.
The others watched him go without a word.
Roman took a long breath and drank from his goblet.
The wine was excellent, faintly tart, with a hint of dust and southern sun.
It wasn’t the taste he was after just then, though.
He needed the courage more.
The real conversation was only beginning, and a great deal hinged on how it went.