After The False Spring - The South

[Emmon Frey]

The Bastard and the Black

"Who are we even looking for?" Whalon had asked, wetting the tree trunk with a steady stream of yellow piss. A growing puddle was forming amongst the roots, pungent and putrid. You must stop drinking the cheap stuff, Alyn thought, smelling his friend's work from several feet away.

"Bugger if I know," he replied, turning from his own sour work to regard his friend, "you know Black Walder's told me nothin' as usual." Alyn, much like Whalon, had been summoned before dawn and told to prepare for a hunt. Gods only knew what sort of hunt would require the chainmail shirts they had been ordered to wear but Walder had insisted on it.

Alyn was one of Walder's men. Black Walder they called him, so named for his violent temper and to distinguish him from the countless other Walders who resided at the Twins. All of them were named for their liege, Lord Walder Frey. Serving Black Walder was a hard task, grim work for a grim knight, but it beat working the fields.

"Besides," Alyn continued, arms folded as he waited for his companion to finish, "it's Walder Rivers leading the party and you know he never says nothing to the likes of us. Hardly ever says a word at all, or so I hear. You know it must be something important if his lordship's put him to work."

"Too many bloody Walders if you ask me," Whalon snorted, shaking out the last of Old Walder's cheapest vintage. He was only a young man, a kinsman of the Charltons who swore fealty to the Crossing, and his arrogance, Alyn decided, would be the boy's undoing. Yet ever since he had joined the garrison, several months past, the two had formed a bond. Alyn would guide him, he had decided, and try to keep the boy in the favour of Lord Frey and his brood.

"Each as dangerous as the last," he replied with a smile, hoping to still Whalon's tongue. No easy task.

"Oh, I'm sure," was the response, when at last the rangy youth turned back towards him. He was still fastening up his breeches as they walked towards the track that led back to the campsite. It was evening, the sunset sky slashed with crimson, and already there were shadows creeping amongst the trees. It would be an hour or two before nightfall but it would not pay to tarry so far from the others. Alyn paced in silence but there was no quieting Whalon.

"You think one of the old man's son's been humpin' his wife?" the lad asked with a smirk. He was being much too loud for Alyn's liking. "Doesn't seem the sort to want to share his things and her ladyship's got a nice pair on her."

"I think you should be quiet," Alyn replied, stern and humourless. Careful, boy.

"Oh, come on, Al, you must admit to it. For a Crownlander she's not half bad." Whalon was giggling, gesturing unseemly shapes with his hands. "You can't tell me you wouldn't."

"Lady Frey is with child now and you should speak of her with a little more respect."

Whalon, smirking again, finally took the hint. A raven crowed in the trees above, his call answered by a hooting owl. Leaves rustled on their branches, so green and lush. It would be a long summer. Mercifully, their walk continued in silence for several moments until the youth found his voice again.

"I tell you what I think..."

"Be quiet." The two stopped dead in their tracks. The voice did not belong to Alyn. Behind them, a vision in black save only his surcoat, stood a man that Alyn knew only too well. Walder. Oh, you stupid bloody fool, Whalon, Alyn thought, head bowed for the man he was sworn to.

Walder, hand upon the dagger on his hip, was staring at the youth with a look that could tame a wolf. The contempt was palpable but when he finally did speak again it was with a voice that betrayed none of his usual temper.

"I've been looking for you, Alyn," he said at a growl. There was blood on his surcoat. Alyn did not know if it was fresh. "My uncle has commanded that we break camp. There has been a sighting five miles south of here. We must move."

That is all he said. With one last withering glare for Whalon, Black Walder moved past the two of them and back towards the campsite. Perhaps he had not heard what Whalon was saying? Alyn prayed, for the boy's sake, that was true. Clearly, something more important was playing on Walder's mind. He was soon out of sight and the pair were alone once more.

"We still don't know what we're looking for, though," Whalon sighed. Alyn turned, shoving the lad hard against a tree by his throat.

"Oh, you silly, silly boy," he snarled. He hoped Whalon saw only the anger in his eyes and none of the fear. "Are you trying to get us both hanged?" The boy fought back, pushing Alyn aside with a remarkable strength.

"Get your bloody hands off me, Alyn," he snapped, a look of youthful indignation on his face. "I didn't say a damned thing." Whalon looked ready to strike the elder man and Alyn was bracing himself for a clout. The boy finally thought better of picking a fight and stormed off in a sulk. "Go bugger yourself," he called out Alyn, as he followed the same path had taken Walder back to the camp.

***

Sometime later the pair were back on their horses. Some of the other lads sensed a certain tension between them but made no remark. They had too much respect for Alyn and too little for Whalon to care. A score of them were waiting to ride on but a halt had been called by Ser Walder Rivers. The bastard knight had manoeuvred his horse up to the crest of a hill and was flanked by Black Walder and Ser Hosteen Frey. Hosteen loomed over the pair of them, tall and imposing.

"I understand there has been some questions about the nature of our hunt," Bastard Walder called out, his voice a growl. It was said that Bastard Walder resented his bastard status and hated everyone who was not. To be certain, the man was looking at those in his company with a most disdainful sort of glare. Black Walder, Alyn noted, was looking at Whalon.

"I see no harm in telling you now," the bastard continued. "We are hunting the biggest prey of them all: dragon, with a snarling she-wolf at his side. The Crown Prince has taken Lord Stark's daughter and fled to Gods only know where. There have been rumours of sightings around the Riverlands."

These tidings immediately set the men to talking, drowning out the quiet knight upon the hill. Walder scowled, visibly irked that the prattling of his men should interrupt him. He muttered something to Hosteen at his side.

"BE QUIET." The booming voice of the biggest Frey was like the snapping of a tree trunk. The men were silenced in an instant. Bastard Walder was free to continue.

"We shall not rest until every inch of my father's land has been upturned. If Rhaegar is found, we shall all become very rich men." Oh, wisely done, Alyn thought to himself, immediately noticing the greed and ambition in the faces of the young men who surrounded him. Theirs was now a hunt lifted straight from the stories of old, tales of knights and dragons and maidens.

"But we must break into smaller parties if we are to cover more ground. Ser Hosteen shall command the twenty downriver and I shall take you ten." The knight gestured in the direction of Alyn and those closest to him.

"Walder," he added, motioning to Black Walder at his side, "will take you ten." Those surrounding Whalon bowed their heads in obedience but the young lad did not appear entirely pleased by the decision. Black Walder was still looking at him. The Freys always take their toll, Alyn thought to himself with a touch of sadness. He wondered if he would ever see the boy again.

"We move quickly!" And with that the bastard's speech was over.

Thundering hooves in the mood, accompanied by shouts of excitement and the clank of armour. Alyn took a firmer grasp of the spear in his hand and prayed, then moved to follow Ser Walder Rivers. The hunt was on.

[Emmon Frey]

The Maid

An Ironman? Had her father lost his wits? The maiden still found it hard to believe that his lordship had promised her to a man of the Isles. They remained demons from the old stories, from a time when the Hoares ruled all throughout the Riverlands with an iron fist, and she could not imagine what would possess her father to grant her hand to one of those savages.

She had long dreamed of the day when her father would find her a suitor. She was no fool, of course, and she did not truly expect a handsome knight to whisk her away on the back of his destrier. More than likely it would be a son of House Charlton or Haigh, those knightly families sworn to her sire, or a man who could further the interests of the Freys beyond the Riverlands.

But an Ironman? And a Greyjoy at that? The thought terrified her to her bones.

"Tyta."

She turned, startled by the sudden voice behind her. It was her brother, Lothar, standing in the threshold of the chamber she shared with a number of the other ladies of the house. Unfortunately, at this moment, she stood alone. She felt herself shiver again.

"Sister," Lothar hissed, limping towards her on his twisted leg. 'Lame Lothar' the others called him, but he was the sharpest of all of her father's brood. Tyta was of the opinion that her brother was the favourite of all their father's sons, though she never as much admitted in the company of their kinsmen. The men of the Twins might share the same name but they were all, to a man, ambitious and cunning. Lothar was the most cunning of the lot.

Her brother, she knew, pined to be named Steward of the Twins. He was never likely to inherit and, being a cripple, he would never be a famed warrior either. But he could be their father's right hand in all things, master of the household and all who dwell beneath the roof, yet for now Lothar served merely as cupbearer. Other men would find shame in being a man grown and still pouring wine but Lothar, she knew, saw that as a path to greater things.

He was breathing heavily again, having exerted himself in climbing to her chamber.

"I am loath to intrude upon your evening, sister, but father desires you in the great hall. He has asked me to summon you."

Tyta said nothing. She loved her brother as she loved the Twins. Yet like the castles she called home, Lothar could be frightening and intense. When he looked upon her with his close-set eyes she felt herself grow crimson in the cheeks, before lowering her head to avoid his gaze. He laughed.

"Trust our father," he told her, placing down the folded garment he had held within his hands. "He would never put you in danger."

She did not quite believe that.

"He wants you to wear this," he continued, gesturing at the folded garment beside him. Tyta moved, hesitantly, to inspect it. Once unfurled, her mouth fell agape.

He truly has lost his wits, she told herself.

***

She knew Lord Frey was speaking somewhere in the hall but all she could hear was her heartbeat. It pounded like a drumbeat in her mind, boom doom boom doom boom doom, pounding again, pounding and pounding and pounding.

Yet she saw nothing. The veil was drawn over her face, shrouding her from those in the hall. For a moment she felt faint, before realising she was merely holding her breath. She dared not move, speak or breathe, but a hand pushed her forward gently into the midst of the hall. All eyes were upon her, his eyes, but she did not see them.

"And this is my daughter," she heard Father say. His voice carried out across the hall. "Heh, you will notice there are lumps in all the right places. Her mother was a good old tumble. Of course they breed 'em strong at Raventree Hall. Strong and fertile, heh. What say you, Greyjoy?"

Boom doom boom doom boom doom.

"Show me her face."

Tyta once more felt the air sucked from her lungs as Lothar pulled back the veil. There he stood, a bullock of a man, a vision in iron and steel with an axe that could break the back of an aurochs. A brute, a savage, an Ironman. Victarion Greyjoy nodded his head.

I am cursed, Tyta told herself, as tears welled in her eyes. Her family, in their dozens, muttered amongst themselves in the gallery as Victarion and his companion shared a glance. She was deaf and blind to them all. I am cursed, I am cursed, Seven save me.

[Emmon Frey]

An open letter to the lords of the realm.

My lords,

Hear me now, in sight of Gods and men, that the tragedy of Riverrun was not the work of House Frey. Any suggestion to the contrary is simply absurd.

So many young men, young lords and young princes of the blood, have fallen by acts of cowardly sabotage in recent months. Men sent to their graves for a folly, long before their times, consumed by their own ambition.

Not a single one of them was felled by a man of my house.

How quickly you descend upon my family! My peaceable family who have kept their swords sheathed and unbloodied as the great lords of this realm have torn it asunder! And now you turn your tyranny to us, with little more that hearsay to justify your actions?

We are builders of bridges at the Twins, not burners of halls. We do not cut the throats of girls in their beds. I echo the words of Lord Greyjoy in hoping his son can be brought to face true justice in the capital. If any members of my family are then proven to have played a part in this foul deed, they too must face the consequences of their actions.

Until this day comes, I will do all in my power to protect my people from the madness. You march your armies upon the Twins at your own peril.

Lord Walder Frey

[Emmon Frey]

LAME LOTHAR

The brothers had gathered for a council of war. Nigh on a score of men, young and old, had gathered in the main hall of the Crossing where his lordship was sat in the high seat; only Stevron and his son Edwyn were notable absences.

Lothar, stood at the right hand of his father, had never held much of a voice in such matters but Father would insist on his presence. An idle hand groped one of the twin, wooden towers carved into the back of his father's seat.

"Bastard Walder continues to gather half our levies in the field," Hosteen growled, the contempt in his voice scarcely hidden beneath his beard. The man was still dressed for battle, ready for the moment when the Northmen would begin throwing themselves against the wall, with a massive warhammer held within his big hands.

"The half that remains," Hosteen's younger brother Danwell put in. He was seated alone in the gallery where the rest of the family would gather for formal occasions and matters of state. Danwell was a new voice amongst the councils but he seemed shrewd enough, Lothar thought. "Lord Erenford has made to join Lord Tully," he added with a sigh.

"The heron grows greedy, heh," Walder sneered, a wandering hand groping the breast of the serving girl replenishing his winecup. As she flinched, the Lord of the Crossing laughed. Lothar frowned but made no objection; Lord Walder had never abided the chastisement of his children. Does Father even care that we are surrounded? he wondered. Even the gravest matters would often be set aside for the sake of his father's lusts.

"Traitors, traitors the lot of them! Erenford has long wished for me to take one of his gets to bed. How quickly the men of the realm forget their place when they sniff out an opportunity."

"We should capture him and we should hang him from the battlements," brother Walton helpfully put in, pounding one fist into the palm of the second. Hosteen sniffed, Lord Walder laughed and Lothar shook his head. If that was the height of their plans, Lothar told himself, then they were all truly doomed.

"Lord Stark remains outside," Hosteen continued, fingers wrapping the iron haft of his hammer. He scratched his beard with his free hand and lowered his head, seeking answers to their plight amongst the rushes strewn across the floor. Was Lothar's brutish brother nervous? There was a frightful thought.

"The Late Lord Stark is capricious with his vows and his honour," Father mused, dismissing the serving girl with a slap to her rump. He took a sip of the wine, shifting his watery eyes to his third son, Aenys, in the midst of the hall. "The Wall is ever so far away. We should be glad he wishes to dine with us ere the coming hour, when the Night's Watch remind him of his duty, heh. What of his forces?"

Aenys, grey-haired and lean, had remained quiet until now. He was stood by the grand table in the center of the hall with great leather maps unfurled across the wooden tabletop. Above the proven warrior Bastard Walder, his own heir Ser Stevron, or the wicked Black Walder, Lord Walder valued Aenys the highest when it came to matters of war.

His son and squire, Aegon, was seated at his side.

"If they plan to starve us out," Aenys said in his customarily calm voice, "time is on our side. Our men brought in what they could from the early harvest before the Northmen came and the river us beneath remains a strong source of fish. We will have to ration our supplies accordingly, of course."

Lothar felt a "but" coming, and proved to be only wrong in word.

"However," Aenys continued, "if it comes to an assault, the odds are stacked against us. From what I have seen, Tully and Stark have thirty-thousand men outside our keeps. We have a tenth of that number, if even that. Half their men will die before we fall, but fall we will. That we allowed ourselves to trapped at all was a greivous fault."

"They say Lord Stark plans to place Roose Bolton in command of the Northern forces," young Aegon added. Lothar felt a shiver run down his spine. The Boltons had a reputation and every man in the hall knew of it. Hosteen spat to the floor.

"Perhaps the time has come to consider terms," Aegon whimpered, lowering his gaze to the maps on the table before him.

Nobody said a word. The boy is smarter than he looks, Lothar thought, catching sight of his Lord father's smile in the corner of his eye. Aenys, gruff and unyielding, cast his son a most reproachful glare.

Lord Walder climbed to his feet.

Though an old man, Lothar's father remained spry enough when the occasion demanded it. With winecup in hand did he shuffle down the stairs of the dais towards the table, a whistling wheeze escaping his clenched teeth as he walked. They all watched him: Lothar, his brothers, the serving girl, the guardsmen posted by the doorway at the far end of the hall.

Lord Walder Frey seldom rose for anything in his dotage and his sons were rapt by his every movement.

He placed a withered and spotted hand on the shoulder of his grandson, and smiled his weaselly smile. Aegon dared to meet his grandsire's eye, while Aenys simply watched in stony silence.

As Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, buried his silver cup deep into the face of the boy.

Blood, wine and tooth spilled across the floor and Aegon fell with a thud. His father, wide-eyed and maddened, glanced to Walder with a look of utter astonishment before falling to his knees to help his stricken son.

"WE DO NOT SURRENDER," Walder roared, his voice echoing up high amongst the rafters. Lothar felt his breakfast turn in his stomach and he knew, by the looks in the faces of all his brothers, his kinsmen shared his sudden trepidation. The serving girl fainted but no man moved to aid her. All eyes remained on their father.

Lord Walder suddenly appeared old and frail once again, and he summoned Danwell from the gallery with a raised hand. The young man obeyed, tentatively, offering his arm for their Lord father to take.

"Lothar, Hosteen," Walder said, his voice little more than whisper. "Join me."

And the Lord of the Crossing retreated to his solar, followed closely by his sons. Lothar did not dare a glance to his fallen nephew as he passed him, red wine staining his shoes.

[Emmon Frey]

THE MOTHER

Bethany wept as the babe was placed in her arms. The birth had nigh on killed her but it was all worth it for this one moment. A girl! Finally, after three sons, the Lady of the Crossing finally had a girl to call her own.

The nurse at her shoulder placed a hand on her arm.

"Lord Walder has commanded the girl be named Lysa," she said with a gentle smile.

"A beautiful name," Bethany replied. Months of living in confinement, away from the quarrels of the castle and the lands beyond, were finally over. Tears of joy slashed across her cheeks.