How’s the leg, Ser Lothar?” Edmure asked politely.
“I hear it troubles you in bad weather.
And the rains have started early in the Riverlands this year.” “It doesn’t make me happy,” Frey answered evenly, watching Lord Tully with open wariness, plainly wondering what had prompted a second conversation when they’d already covered so much ground just hours before.
They stood at the top of the Great Keep, the tallest and most important structure at Riverrun, a powerful, high, triangular tower.
The view from up there was extraordinary.
The Riverlands stretched out for leagues, beautiful and rich to the eye, or at least they had been, before the war and the siege had come to strip that wealth away.
The wind pushed a few scattered clouds south.
The air felt damp and smelled of mud and crushed herbs.
Edmure had sent a servant to fetch Lothar up here on purpose, let him look out once more over the strength and reach of Riverrun.
“We all take wounds sooner or later.
Fate spares no one,” Edmure said thoughtfully, as they walked the tower’s edge at an easy pace.
No one else stood nearby, only the wind, the open sky, and the massive stone battlements that ringed them, solid enough to make a man feel safe.
“What did you wish to discuss, Lord Tully?” Lothar asked, stroking his thin mustache.
Edmure had already gathered that not many people held the old Edmure in especially high regard.
“Tell me, which of your father’s daughters does he love best?” He caught the flicker of confusion on Lothar’s face and added, “We want happiness for those we love, and I imagine many of them dream of becoming lady of Riverrun.” “I see,” Lothar said slowly, studying him.
Edmure smiled back, as open and untroubled as he could manage.
Being underestimated worked entirely to his advantage now, so long as he didn’t overplay his hand.
“Fair Walda and Roslin are both favorites of his.
He’s also fond of Arwyn, daughter of Lady Annara of House Farring, my father’s seventh wife.” “Good to know.
I’d like to choose one of the three.
Perhaps you’d offer some advice?
I’d be grateful for it.” “It isn’t my place to decide for the Lord of the Crossing.
What if he has reasons of his own?” Lothar’s voice was quiet but sure of itself.
“Then I suppose I’ll simply have to accept his choice.” They walked a few more unhurried steps.
His leg clearly didn’t make walking in the open air any more pleasant for Frey.
“So you’re heading back?
When should I expect you?” “We leave in the morning.
The sooner you arrive at the Twins, the better it will be for everyone.
You understand, Lord Tully, the insult King Robb dealt our house needs washing away as quickly as possible.
It benefits all of us.” Edmure studied him sidelong, trying to work out whether this particular Frey knew what was coming at the Red Wedding.
When exactly had they settled on it?
Now, or only once Lothar was back home?
What Edmure remembered clearly was that the Lame one had been deeply involved in planning it, right down to which song would signal the killing to begin.
For a moment he wanted nothing more than to seize Frey by the throat and choke the life out of him with his own hands.
Cunning, soulless creature, standing there and smiling like an innocent girl.
“How would you feel about staying a little longer at Riverrun?” Edmure pressed.
“I can’t.
Much as I might wish to.” “The northmen and river lords are still gathering.
We expect to march within a few days.
What’s stopping us from traveling together?
I’d enjoy the company on the road to the Twins.” “A flattering offer.
My thanks for the honor.” Lothar’s voice had grown more careful now.
Had he felt the trap closing?
“Unfortunately my lord father’s orders are clear and leave no room for argument.
I must set out tomorrow morning.” “A pity.
A pity that I must insist all the same.
I’m afraid you’ll have to accept my offer instead.
You and your men will be remaining at Riverrun.” “What is this, Lord Tully?” A tremor ran through Lothar’s voice.
Was that confusion, even for a moment?
If he was preparing a betrayal, he would need to tread carefully now.
Lothar might well suspect that Lord Edmure had learned something.
“This is…
an outrage.” “An outrage?
Hardly.” Edmure laughed, warm and easy.
“You remain an honored guest, free to move about as you please.
Within the castle walls,” he added, a touch louder.
“I don’t like how this has turned out.” Lothar stopped, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the parapet.
He carried no weapon; if he’d had so much as a dagger, Edmure would have called the guards before the conversation even began.
“What do you think you’re doing?” “What do you mean by that?” Edmure was openly enjoying himself now.
Frey hadn’t seen this coming, and it plainly showed.
He’d clearly believed himself the one steering this conversation, and now the ground had shifted under him.
Edmure watched, with real satisfaction, the twitch in Lothar’s hand.
“By the way, the Twins haven’t forgotten I’m their overlord, have they?” “Of course not.” Frey recovered himself a little and played the part well, feigning convincing outrage at such a ridiculous suggestion.
“All the more reason, then.
You should feel honored to keep your overlord company.
You’ll remain my guest of honor, and so will Rivers, and the rest of your men.” “King Robb Stark…” “Won’t help you here.
This has already been decided.” Edmure wasn’t in a hurry to show his full hand, or to let on just how much the situation had shifted.
“And I’m well within my rights to handle my own affairs.” “Impossible!” Lothar took a step back, his shoulders meeting cold stone, and dragged a hand across his forehead.
“My father will be furious.
House Frey insulted, yet again!” “I consider it an honor.
Live at Riverrun, breathe the fresh air, drink good wine, sleep on soft featherbeds.
Is there anything better to be found in times like these?” Edmure never said the word hostage.
He and Frey both understood each other perfectly well without it.
It was a risky move, no question.
When Robb and the Blackfish found out, they would be furious.
Let them be.
He had no intention of traveling to the Twins, and none of releasing his prisoners either.
Let Frey believe his stay here was only temporary, that it would end once the rest of the lords had gathered and set out together for the Twins.
Old, shabby, weasel faced Walder Frey had two dozen sons.
At a glance, it might seem he wouldn’t grieve much over losing two of them, especially since Rivers was only a bastard.
But the old man wasn’t entirely without sentiment where his children were concerned, and he thought highly of Lothar in particular, clever enough to be named castellan of the Twins in his own right.
There was a real chance, then, that the Lord of the Crossing would weigh the risk carefully before doing anything rash.
“I intend to marry one of your father’s daughters.
Fair Walda, Roslin, or Arwyn.
Let them come here, and I’ll choose whichever seems most fitting.
We’ll hold a fine wedding, I promise you.
Write to the Twins and tell them so, Ser Lothar.
Maester Vyman will send a letter of his own.” Lothar looked furious and afraid all at once, the feeling buried deep in his small, wary eyes.
He tugged at his beard and cast a longing glance around him.
Just beyond the wall lay open country and freedom, so close, and yet entirely out of reach.
“I’ll write the letter,” Frey said at last.
He had the sense not to waste breath on empty threats or useless gestures.
Whatever else he was, the man had a good mind.
“But I won’t forget this.” “I’m sure you won’t.” Edmure stepped closer and, lowering his voice, added, “Harrenhal answers to me alone.
Not to Robb Stark, and not to Ser Brynden Tully.
If we come to an understanding, you might find yourself in line for it.
Why not?
I have a soft spot for clever, farsighted men.
How does that sound to you?” The sudden shift left Frey off balance, genuinely rattled.
He’d walked in believing himself in control, certain he could outmaneuver Edmure with ease.
Instead he found himself, unexpectedly, a hostage, and in the very next breath offered a magnificent gift.
The thought that gloomy, mighty Harrenhal might one day be his was the kind of thing that could turn any man’s head.
And, at last, Lothar understood he was being treated not as an enemy, but as a friend and ally.
He would work out for himself, of course, how much truth lay behind the words and how much lie was folded into them.
But everyone knew Lord Edmure Tully for a simple, straightforward man.
And the old warning about Greeks bearing gifts had never made its way to Westeros.
Edmure walked Lothar down to his chambers himself, a mark of favor.
He and his bastard brother were given fine rooms and would want for nothing, nor would their men.
Their movement through the castle, though, would now be limited.
And naturally, such honored guests would be watched closely.
“Don’t take it personally, Ser Lothar,” Edmure said as he took his leave.
“You understand that in a matter this important, I need to be certain Harrenhal goes to someone reliable, and above all loyal.
Riverrun needs a new vassal it can trust completely.” Playing the fool to the hilt, he added, with an air of great solemnity, “My father always told me as much.” Edmure had no intention of handing Harrenhal to any Frey at all.
A castle and lands like that were worth far more than a marriage promise, and he’d only ever given his word on the marriage.
As for the rest, he’d only hinted.
Mind you don’t choke on such a rich morsel, Frey.
No doubt you’re already dreaming of power and everyone’s respect.
You’re clever and cunning, but greedy too.
And you won’t be able to help yourself, you won’t be able to pass up the chance to become Lord of Harrenhal, one of the greatest castles in all Westeros.
Your own greed will keep you from noticing the gift is poisoned.
You’ll become, whether you like it or not, the very man who splits the ranks of House Frey wide open.
“I’m no prophet, Ed, and I couldn’t tell you what it all means.
But that comet scares the life out of me,” Marq Piper admitted.
He tipped his head back, let out a low whistle, and spat off to one side.
The conversation with Lame Lothar had taken place at the very top of the keep, and now Edmure brought Marq and Karyl out onto the balcony just behind his private chambers.
It jutted out in a triangular shape, like the bow of a ship.
Overhead stretched a sky scattered with countless stars, visible now only through gaps in the drifting clouds.
Cutting across them moved the comet, its red tail burning bright enough for the whole world to see.
The night was warm and quiet.
Dark water lapped softly almost beneath their feet, lulling and peaceful.
The balcony off Edmure Tully’s private chambers faced south and offered a fine view.
A little to one side, the Tumblestone flowed into the Red Fork.
The water looked cool.
Cicadas sang somewhere below, and some night bird cried out in the distance.
Scattered lights burned on the far bank, here and there, in the villages around Riverrun where not everyone had yet put out their candles and hearth fires for the night.
Edmure knew well enough that the rainy season had properly begun in the Riverlands.
But tonight the sky had cleared a little, and the weather had turned kind enough to give them a beautiful night.
It had been a full day.
The conversation with his cherished family, and then with Frey afterward, had drained him thoroughly.
Edmure felt as worn out as if he’d spent the whole day hauling stone by hand.
And come morning, the Blackfish, or King Robb himself, would learn what had happened, that the Freys were now forbidden to leave Riverrun.
There would be a storm over it, no doubt.
A great deal of shouting.
Well, it would give him one more chance to talk some sense into the Stark boy.
Edmure had plenty to say to him, and plenty still to work out between them.
He’d accomplished a great deal.
Not everything had gone the way he wanted, but he now stood on entirely different footing.
He was a true river lord now, not some pitiable vassal of the King in the North.
Robb Stark had asked him to marry a Frey daughter.
Robb Stark had asked him to keep fighting, to help retake the North.
Robb Stark would have asked for a great deal more besides, if only his mother and the Blackfish hadn’t gotten in the way.
Even so, this had been a real victory.
And now, offended with the whole world, Robb had left the castle and was somewhere among the northmen camped beyond the walls.
He’d had a tent pitched out there, and taken his wife and the Blackfish with him.
Catelyn Stark, though, had stayed behind in the castle.
She was dining in her private chambers.
Edmure had given the order to keep an eye on her, just in case his beloved family had any unexpected ideas.
“It’s all trifles, my friends,” Edmure said quietly.
He wasn’t too tired to reach for the jug and pour more wine into their goblets.
A pleasant looseness settled over him, the kind that came after a job well done.
“The signs in the sky come and go on their own.
It’s only us, in our vanity and our pride, who try to read our own futures into them.
The universe doesn’t care one bit about troubles or about whatever’s happening in Westeros.
All of us, even the greatest kings among us, are far too small to matter to the stars.” “Ed, you’ve never talked like that before,” Karyl said, taking a slow sip of his wine.
In the darkness his eyes barely caught the comet’s glow, and the birthmark on his cheek had faded into shadow.
“What’s come over you?” “I’ve had…
visions, of a sort.
Several nights running now.
Dark, frightening dreams.
Afterward, it’s hard to stay quite the same man.” “Dreams?” Piper grinned, scratching at his knee.
“The maesters would call that foolishness.” “So a comet in the sky is worth taking seriously, but dreams aren’t?” A faint, sad smile crossed Edmure’s face.
“In these dreams, I’ve seen something of what’s coming.
It’s ugly enough that I have little wish to repeat it.” “Tell us anyway,” Vance said, stretching his legs out in front of him.
At Edmure’s order, servants had carried a small round table out onto the balcony, laid with roasted meat, cheese, herbs, and wine.
This was how he meant to mark his first small victories.
And he’d wanted his friends here for it; he needed them, and it was with them that he intended to accomplish everything still ahead.
“I’d love to hear it,” Piper said, laughing.
“The war will go on, my friends, and we river lords will bring nothing from it but pain,” Edmure said, thoughtful now.
He’d been wanting, for some time, to open up a little, to let them in on the changes in him and lay a new foundation for how they saw one another.
This was his chance to shift their opinion of him for good.
“Frey will betray us.” “Old bastard!” Marq swore, without much surprise at all.
“And you betrayed us too, Marq,” Edmure added, sadly.
“What?” His friend choked on his wine and coughed in surprise.
“Yes.
You betrayed us,” Edmure said, and got up to clap him on the back.
“And Karyl swore his sword to another lord.
I betrayed you both, and most of the other lords besides.
Everything fell apart.
The North collapsed.
Riverrun fell.
The Kingslayer plucked it like ripe fruit off the branch.
King Robb was killed.
The Freys and the Boltons went over to the Lannisters.
Every one of you, all at once, forgot what a sacred oath was supposed to mean, forgot what true loyalty looked like.
The Riverlands are already ravaged, but what’s coming will turn them into a smoking graveyard.
Thousands of dead will lie across the fields and roads with no one left to bury them.” Trying to sort right from wrong in how it had all played out felt like an impossible task.
Yes, some people were traitors by nature.
But others had only ever tried, with everything they had, to save their children and their homes.
How could anyone truly condemn people like that?
What was a man supposed to do when his king turned out to be a complete fool, digging his own grave over and over?
Loyalty said stand by him and die at his side.
Common sense, and the instinct to protect one’s own children, said otherwise.
And when the little ones cried and reached for you, could you really let them die for the sake of an oath?
Everyone’s path was their own, in the end, guided by whatever conscience and heart told them to do.
Though a man shouldn’t forget honor either, or the lack of it, when weighing that choice.
Edmure told them a little of what was coming, carefully, just enough to leave a real impression.
He knew that if even a fraction of it came true, they’d come to trust him in a way nothing else could earn.
He spoke slowly, careful not to seem like a madman or a fanatic on one hand, while still leaving room, on the other, for something that felt almost like the hand of the Seven at work.
He scattered just enough intriguing detail that his friends couldn’t simply let it go.
They pressed him with questions, about his own future, about the fate of their houses and castles.
Did he believe in his own dreams?
And, in the end, what was to be done about any of it?
He didn’t have an answer to that last question.
The conversation trailed off on its own, and the three men sat for a while in silence.
com/Hezzario