The Twins, Present. Day One.
Once when I was really little, I pulled a tablecloth out from underneath three jugs of wine. Needless to say, the result was awful. There wasn't any point in running and hiding because it would have been clear to anyone exactly who was responsible for the mess, so I just sat there like a good little boy and waited for Mother to come in so I could explain to her how I flooded the room with Dornish Red. I don't actually recall the verbal lashing she gave me for it, nor do I recall the punishment I got because of it. But I'll tell you what I never forgot: the anticipation. Waiting for your comeuppance is never an easy task. Especially not when you know you sort of completely deserve it. I'm not sure how this correlates to sitting down with Walder Frey, but I swear it's the feeling I always get around him. Like I'm about to get my comeuppance.
Walder Frey is skinny, nearly toothless and living proof that we may not be alone in the universe after all. His hobbies include drinking, scolding, drinking, scowling, drinking, smacking his lips, drinking, pumping his meat into anything with a hole to receive it, drinking, and staying hydrated. He doesn't like to move from his seat nor does he ever give anyone a reason to doubt that he will die of anything other than wine poisoning. His last words will most likely be either 'tits' or a call for a refill.
Did I mention that he drinks?
Such a man has very little in the way of redeeming qualities, but I can say that he does—at the very least—comprehend basic values. His children and grandchildren are his most valuable assets, occupying that space in his heart right between the part that lusts for women and the part that lusts for wine, a bit north of the part that lusts for gold. Family is important to this man and you can't help but feel like a man who places such value upon his kin can't be truly terrible after all.
"Children and grandchildren," he says. "Were born to obey. They are life's most valuable resource. More valuable than a whole valley full of gold or all the Lannisters in the world is a well married son or daughter."
What an excellent chap.
But let's not be too quick to assume the worst. Before I write this man off as a cold social climbing bastard, let's recall one crucial point: he fathered Israel Frey, and any man who can pull that off must clearly know what he's doing. After all, it takes real skill to raise a girl this clever. But of course Walder Frey, being Walder Frey, doesn't seem to notice whatever he managed to do for her as far as her quickness is concerned. He prefers to pride himself on her other achievements.
"Of course she had a son!" he says loudly. "She's a Frey girl! They can get the job done right the first time!"
To this I respond by following the example he set for me.
"More wine," I say, holding my goblet out for a refill.
Walder is already polishing off his second jug full of the stuff, and if the fact that he isn't even slurring yet isn't a clear enough indication of how much time this man devotes to soaking his innards in overdue grape juice than I can't help you. I wouldn't mind this, it's just that Ned is sitting on his lap, gurgling and making little sucky noises with his mouth to distract himself.
"We should give him a taste," Walder says, looking down at his grandson. "Prince Ned want a taste? You'll like it, little one."
"I think he's a bit young for something that strong," I say.
Please don't give my seven month old baby anything coming out of a Dornish crate.
"Young? Nonsense!" Walder says, waving me off. "Waldron was drinking milk with rum when he was four months old! Look at the chap now!"
We turn and look across the dining hall, where Waldron walks straight into a wall. He shakes his head, looks around, dusts himself off and turns to the left, evidently unaware that he is facing a corner and therefore walking into—what do you know?—another wall.
"Sharp young man," I say. "Ladies must love him."
"Not too many he can get his hands on around here lately," Walder says. "Most of the brothels are emptying out for the monthly cleanings so none of us has got too many choices anymore unless you count the girls in here and what do we look like to you? Lannisters? We can keep our hands to ourselves, thank you very much. Raised by human beings to act like human beings."
"Indeed you were."
"How's Izzy holding up in Winterfell?"
"She's doing tremendously. No one can hear her name but to sing praises about her."
"I knew she could do it. I knew she could make them love her. Anyone of my girls could have done the job, you know. You want a good queen? The only good ones are the Frey girls. Sure, Mormonts are pretty and Manderleys give plenty of sons, but you want a combination of all the best? You come here. You come right here. No equals in all seven of these rattrap kingdoms that can match my girls for looks or sons or wits. Such a clever bunch of girls."
And our eyes are drawn down to the many tables in the hall. Israel sits with her sisters tonight. She thought it'd be awkward and boring if she had to spend her first night back in her childhood home dining with her father. I don't blame her.
"Terribly clever," I agree.
"And so affectionate," Walder adds.
Israel is seated between the pretty ones. I can't recall their names. Reema and Delia, I think. A tall one says something, and another reaches over and then soon the whole hall can hear the echoes of maybe six different arguments going on at the same time.
"Give that back or I'll scratch your eyes out!"
"You're just jealous because he only smiles at me!"
"There's always one stupid one that can't stomach a little sheep stomach."
"How much blood can you swallow before your head starts to get funny?"
"I'll feed you your teeth!"
"Terribly affectionate," I agree again.
There's no option. Raising a hope of disagreement might end in my untimely death. King in the North or King in the latrine pits—there's no stopping these people from tossing my corpse into the river.
A very hairy, very sweaty arm pit scratches the back of my neck as an arm drapes over my shoulder.
"Welcome back to the homebase, oh dear brother bear!" says the lump of flesh, bone, and rum that might once have been Garner Frey, but has now become a part of the ecosystem I call the North Tower of the Twins. You'd be surprised how strong such a wreck of a man can be.
"Great to see you again…brother," I have to choke out the last word because to tell you the truth I'm hesitant to be referring to any of these people as family. It's always going to be one of life's greater mysteries how a girl like Israel Frey could have come from amidst such strange people.
Olyvar runs through the hall screaming like a madman. Someone's set his sleeve on fire and he can't find anything non-flammable to put it out with—all the liquids that are available in the room are only going to make it worse. Garner cracks up. His breath reeks of rum and ale and…chicken? And it's been a long time since he's bathed properly. I look over at Walder, but my heart stops when I see him dip his finger into his goblet and give Ned a taste of the wine on his finger.
"I think it's past his bedtime," I say, not sure if I should just dive in and save him or if that might offend Walder. It's hard to tell with these people.
"Bedtime? Huh. Awfully funny for a prince to have a bedtime," Walder says.
"Well, he is just an infant."
"None of my children ever had a bedtime, if I recall correctly," Walder says. "The boys or the girls. Did you ever have one, Y'Grace?"
"Well…not exactly…"
"Well, it's settled then! We'll let the little prince drop when he drops!" Walder stands Ned up on his lap and bounces him up and down. "You hear that, little prince? You get to stay up all night with me! Won't that be fun?"
Ned just stares at him. His eyes find me, and I swear a seven month old baby is looking at me right now asking me what the fuck is going on. And I swear I have literally no answer. So after a while Ned looks back at Walder, who sort of gives him no choice but to seize his attention by bouncing him again with a half-toothless smile, so Ned gives him a toothless smile of his own. And he throws in a giggle for good measure, the clever little boy. But it's not an amused giggle. It's sort of a nervous one, filled to the brim with confusion and what the fuckness. And if there is ever going to be a moment in my life where I'd be inclined to say I'm a failure as a father, then this will probably be it.
Olyvar's screaming goes on for ten minutes until they finally subside, and someone nearby tells me that he has run all the way to the river to douse the flames. Two unidentifiable young men hang by their legs from the rafters, and Waldron discovers that it is humanly possible to remain standing upright after drinking an entire barrel of mead.
"I'd say it's been a successful night all around," Walder says with a satisfied expression, looking out at the madhouse that has become the dining hall. Israel and the girls sit happily at their table, so engrossed in the threat of tearing each other's hair out that they don't actually notice what's unfolding around them. That, or it's too commonplace for them to care.
"Indeed," I say.
Waldron empties another barrel, and this time he falls asleep in it. He's too big to move, so we elect to just leave him in there. The unidentifiable brothers are safely lowered from the rafters, and by safely I mean one breaks his collarbone and the other breaks both his arms. Olyvar comes back soaking wet and a crayfish is clinging to his shoulder but we're all too freaked to tell him so. Mother just looks at me with this face of quiet resignation, and something about her gaze tells me I'd be wise to adopt her attitude. Maybe I should. I mean…Israel came from this family, right? So there must be some good in them. I mean—everyone gets a little cooky when they celebrate. I can't sit here and judge these people for being wild party animals when only a year ago Ser Holland gave the entire great hall a strip tease. Uncle Edmure still tosses silver coins at him sometimes. Let's try to be fair here. So remember the positives, Robb. Positives only.
Israel Frey was raised here. Those two dangled from the rafters for north of an hour before their heads got woozy. Waldron can drain two barrels of mead. And now my son is drunk.
"He likes it!" Walder says. "Don't you, boy-o?"
Ned hiccups.
The fact that all of this produced Israel…it's impressive, truly. In a way that's really not so much impressive as it is just sad and disturbing.