A Storm of Swords - George Martin

“I left her at Riverrun, my lord. She was too weary for more travel, as we told Ser Ryman.”

“That makes me grievous sad. I wanted to behold her with mine own weak eyes. We all did, heh. Isn’t that so, my lady?”

Pale wispy Lady Frey seemed startled that she would be called upon to speak. “Y-yes, my lord. We all so wanted to pay homage to Queen Jeyne. She must be fair to look on.”

“She is most fair, my lady.” There was an icy stillness in Robb’s voice that reminded Catelyn of his father.

The old man either did not hear it or refused to pay it any heed. “Fairer than my own get, heh? Elsewise how could her face and form have made the King’s Grace forget his solemn promise.”

Robb suffered the rebuke with dignity. “No words can set that right, I know, but I have come to make my apologies for the wrong I did your House, and to beg for your forgiveness, my lord.”

“Apologies, heh. Yes, you vowed to make one, I recall. I’m old, but I don’t forget such things. Not like some kings, it seems. The young remember nothing when they see a pretty face and a nice firm pair of teats, isn’t that so? I was the same. Some might say I still am, heh heh. They’d be wrong, though, wrong as you were. But now you’re here to make amends. It was my girls you spurned, though. Mayhaps it’s them should hear you beg for pardon, Your Grace. My maiden girls. Here, have a look at them.” When he waggled his fingers, a flurry of femininity left their places by the walls to line up beneath the dais. Jinglebell started to rise as well, his bells ringing merrily, but Lady Frey grabbed the lackwit’s sleeve and tugged him back down.

Lord Walder named the names. “My daughter Arwyn,” he said of a girl of fourteen. “Shirei, my youngest trueborn daughter. Ami and Marianne are granddaughters. I married Ami to Ser Pate of Sevenstreams, but the Mountain killed the oaf so I got her back. That’s a Cersei, but we call her Little Bee, her mother’s a Beesbury. More granddaughters. One’s a Walda, and the others . . . well, they have names, whatever they are . . .”

“I’m Merry, Lord Grandfather,” one girl said.

“You’re noisy, that’s for certain. Next to Noisy is my daughter Tyta. Then another Walda. Alyx, Marissa . . . are you Marissa? I thought you were. She’s not always bald. The maester shaved her hair off, but he swears it will soon grow back. The twins are Serra and Sarra.” He squinted down at one of the younger girls. “Heh, are you another Walda?”

The girl could not have been more than four. “I’m Ser Aemon Rivers’s Walda, lord great grandfather.” She curtsied.

“How long have you been talking? Not that you’re like to have anything sensible to say, your father never did. He’s a bastard’s son besides, heh. Go away, I wanted only Freys up here. The King in the North has no interest in base stock.” Lord Walder glanced to Robb, as Jinglebell bobbed his head and chimed. “There they are, all maidens. Well, and one widow, but there’s some who like a woman broken in. You might have had any one of them.”

“It would have been an impossible choice, my lord,” said Robb with careful courtesy. “They’re all too lovely.”

Lord Walder snorted. “And they say my eyes are bad. Some will do well enough, I suppose. Others . . . well, it makes no matter. They weren’t good enough for the King in the North, heh. Now what is it you have to say?”

“My ladies.” Robb looked desperately uncomfortable, but he had known this moment must come, and he faced it without flinching. “All men should keep their word, kings most of all. I was pledged to marry one of you and I broke that vow. The fault is not in you. What I did was not done to slight you, but because I loved another. No words can set it right, I know, yet I come before you to ask forgiveness, that the Freys of the Crossing and the Starks of Winterfell may once again be friends.”

The smaller girls fidgeted anxiously. Their older sisters waited for Lord Walder on his black oak throne. Jinglebell rocked back and forth, bells chiming on collar and crown.

“Good,” the Lord of the Crossing said. “That was very good, Your Grace. ‘No words can set it right,’ heh. Well said, well said. At the wedding feast I hope you will not refuse to dance with my daughters. It would please an old man’s heart, heh.” He bobbed his wrinkled pink head up and down, in much the same way his lackwit grandson did, though Lord Walder wore no bells. “And here she is, Lord Edmure. My daughter Roslin, my most precious little blossom, heh.”

Ser Benfrey led her into the hall. They looked enough alike to be full siblings. Judging from their age, both were children of the sixth Lady Frey; a Rosby, Catelyn seemed to recall.

Roslin was small for her years, her skin as white as if she had just risen from a milk bath. Her face was comely, with a small chin, delicate nose, and big brown eyes. Thick chestnut hair fell in loose waves to a waist so tiny that Edmure would be able to put his hands around it. Beneath the lacy bodice of her pale blue gown, her breasts looked small but shapely.

“Your Grace.” The girl went to her knees. “Lord Edmure, I hope I am not a disappointment to you.”

Far from it, thought Catelyn. Her brother’s face had lit up at the sight of her. “You are a delight to me, my lady,” Edmure said. “And ever will be, I know.”

Roslin had a small gap between two of her front teeth that made her shy with her smiles, but the flaw was almost endearing. Pretty enough, Catelyn thought, but so small, and she comes of Rosby stock. The Rosbys had never been robust. She much preferred the frames of some of the older girls in the hall; daughters or granddaughters, she could not be sure. They had a Crakehall look about them, and Lord Walder’s third wife had been of that House. Wide hips to bear children, big breasts to nurse them, strong arms to carry them. The Crakehalls have always been a big-boned family, and strong.

“My lord is kind,” the Lady Roslin said to Edmure.

“My lady is beautiful.” Edmure took her hand and drew her to her feet. “But why are you crying?”

“For joy,” Roslin said. “I weep for joy, my lord.”

“Enough,” Lord Walder broke in. “You may weep and whisper after you’re wed, heh. Benfrey, see your sister back to her chambers, she has a wedding to prepare for. And a bedding, heh, the sweetest part. For all, for all.” His mouth moved in and out. “We’ll have music, such sweet music, and wine, heh, the red will run, and we’ll put some wrongs aright. But now you’re weary, and wet as well, dripping on my floor. There’s fires waiting for you, and hot mulled wine, and baths if you want ’em. Lothar, show our guests to their quarters.”

“I need to see my men across the river, my lord,” Robb said.

“They shan’t get lost,” Lord Walder complained. “They’re crossed before, haven’t they? When you came down from the north. You wanted crossing and I gave it to you, and you never said mayhaps, heh. But suit yourself. Lead each man across by the hand if you like, it’s naught to me.”

“My lord!” Catelyn had almost forgotten. “Some food would be most welcome. We have ridden many leagues in the rain.”

Walder Frey’s mouth moved in and out. “Food, heh. A loaf of bread, a bite of cheese, mayhaps a sausage.”

“Some wine to wash it down,” Robb said. “And salt.”

“Bread and salt. Heh. Of course, of course.” The old man clapped his hands together, and servants came into the hall, bearing flagons of wine and trays of bread, cheese, and butter. Lord Walder took a cup of red himself, and raised it high with a spotted hand. “My guests,” he said. “My honored guests. Be welcome beneath my roof, and at my table.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, my lord,” Robb replied. Edmure echoed him, along with the Greatjon, Ser Marq Piper, and the others. They drank his wine and ate his bread and butter. Catelyn tasted the wine and nibbled at some bread, and felt much the better for it. Now we should be safe, she thought.

Knowing how petty the old man could be, she had expected their rooms to be bleak and cheerless. But the Freys had made more than ample provision for them, it seemed. The bridal chamber was large and richly appointed, dominated by a great featherbed with corner posts carved in the likeness of castle towers. Its draperies were Tully red and blue, a nice courtesy. Sweet-smelling carpets covered a plank floor, and a tall shuttered window opened to the south. Catelyn’s own room was smaller, but handsomely furnished and comfortable, with a fire burning in the hearth. Lame Lothar assured them that Robb would have an entire suite, as befit a king. “If there is anything you require, you need only tell one of the guards.” He bowed and withdrew, limping heavily as he made his way down the curving steps.

“We should post our own guards,” Catelyn told her brother. She would rest easier with Stark and Tully men outside her door. The audience with Lord Walder had not been as painful as she feared, yet all the same she would be glad to be done with this. A few more days, and Robb will be off to battle, and me to a comfortable captivity at Seagard. Lord Jason would show her every courtesy, she had no doubt, but the prospect still depressed her.

She could hear the sounds of horses below as the long column of mounted men wound their way across the bridge from castle to castle. The stones rumbled to the passage of heavy-laden wayns. Catelyn went to the window and gazed out, to watch Robb’s host emerge from the eastern twin. “The rain seems to be lessening.”

“Now that we’re inside.” Edmure stood before the fire, letting the warmth wash over him. “What did you make of Roslin?”

Too small and delicate. Childbirth will go hard on her. But her brother seemed well pleased with the girl, so all she said was, “Sweet.”

“I believe she liked me. Why was she crying?”

“She’s a maid on the eve of her wedding. A few tears are to be expected.” Lysa had wept lakes the morning of their own wedding, though she had managed to be dry-eyed and radiant when Jon Arryn swept his cream-and-blue cloak about her shoulders.

“She’s prettier than I dared hope.” Edmure raised a hand before she could speak. “I know there are more important things, spare me the sermon, septa. Even so . . . did you see some of those other maids Frey trotted out? The one with the twitch? Was that the shaking sickness? And those twins had more craters and eruptions on their faces than Petyr Pimple. When I saw that lot, I knew Roslin would be bald and one-eyed, with Jinglebell’s wits and Black Walder’s temper. But she seems gentle as well as fair.” He looked perplexed. “Why would the old weasel refuse to let me choose unless he meant to foist off someone hideous?”

“Your fondness for a pretty face is well known,” Catelyn reminded him. “Perhaps Lord Walder actually wants you to be happy with your bride.” Or more like, he did not want you balking over a boil and upsetting all his plans. “Or it may be that Roslin is the old man’s favorite. The Lord of Riverrun is a much better match than most of his daughters can hope for.”

“True.” Her brother still seemed uncertain, however. “Is it possible the girl is barren?”

“Lord Walder wants his grandson to inherit Riverrun. How would it serve him to give you a barren wife?”

“It rids him of a daughter no one else would take.”

“Small good that will do him. Walder Frey is a peevish man, not a stupid one.”

“Still . . . it is possible?”

“Yes,” Catelyn conceded, reluctantly. “There are illnesses a girl can have in childhood that leave her unable to conceive. There’s no reason to believe that Lady Roslin was so afflicted, though.” She looked round the room. “The Freys have received us more kindly than I had anticipated, if truth be told.”

Edmure laughed. “A few barbed words and some unseemly gloating. From him that’s courtesy. I expected the old weasel to piss in our wine and make us praise the vintage.”

The jest left Catelyn strangely disquieted. “If you will excuse me, I should change from these wet clothes.

“As you wish.” Edmure yawned. “I may nap an hour.”

She retreated to her own room. The chest of clothes she’d brought from Riverrun had been carried up and laid at the foot of the bed. After she’d undressed and hung her wet clothing by the fire, she donned a warm wool dress of Tully red and blue, washed and brushed her hair and let it dry, and went in search of Freys.

Lord Walder’s black oak throne was empty when she entered the hall, but some of his sons were drinking by the fire. Lame Lothar rose clumsily when he saw her. “Lady Catelyn, I thought you would be resting. How may I be of service?”

“Are these your brothers?” she asked.

“Brothers, half-brothers, good brothers, and nephews. Raymund and I shared a mother. Lord Lucias Vypren is my half-sister Lythene’s husband, and Ser Damon is their son. My half-brother Ser Hosteen I believe you know. And this is Ser Leslyn Haigh and his sons, Ser Harys and Ser Donnel.”

“Well met, sers. Is Ser Perwyn about? He helped escort me to Storm’s End and back, when Robb sent me to speak with Lord Renly. I was looking forward to seeing him again.”

“Perwyn is away,” Lame Lothar said. “I shall give him your regards. I know he will regret having missed you.”

“Surely he will return in time for Lady Roslin’s wedding?”

“He had hoped to,” said Lame Lothar, “but with this rain . . . you saw how the rivers ran, my lady.”

“I did indeed,” said Catelyn. “I wonder if you would be so good as to direct me to your maester?”

“Are you unwell, my lady?” asked Ser Hosteen, a powerful man with a square strong jaw.

“A woman’s complaint. Nothing to concern you, ser.”

Lothar, ever gracious, escorted her from the hall, up some steps, and across a covered bridge to another stair. “You should find Maester Brenett in the turret on the top, my lady.”

Catelyn half expected that the maester would be yet another son of Walder Frey’s, but Brenett did not have the look. He was a great fat man, bald and double-chinned and none too clean, to judge from the raven droppings that stained the sleeves of his robes, yet he seemed amiable enough. When she told him of Edmure’s concerns about Lady Roslin’s fertility, he chuckled. “Your lord brother need have no fear, Lady Catelyn. She’s small, I’ll grant you, and narrow in the hips, but her mother was the same, and Lady Bethany gave Lord Walder a child every year.”