Appealing to Cersei's inner bitch was a tricky thing. She had been receptive to the idea of sticking other houses with "Freyspawn," as she labelled them. And she had played her part quite brilliantly with me in enticing the old pervert/homicidal maniac to play ball. A great, vicious joke to perpetrate on the stupid and unworthy; basically, anyone not named Lannister.

Unfortunately, for her fickle self, that meant co-existing, of sorts, with the low born, jumped up, greedy scum of Walder Frey's seed for the next month and more. That, her lioness pride would barely tolerate. Upon departure from the Twins, without the safety of the wheelhouse to retreat to those first few days, her snubbing of the ten "not-so noble" daughters of House Frey (three actual daughters, two granddaughters, three great granddaughters, and two great grandnieces) was quite blatant.

They were NOT to speak to her. They were NOT to look at her. They were NOT to eat the same food or breath the same air as her. They WERE to be constantly belittled for their lack of looks, poor fashion sense, smallfolk-ish sounding Riverlands' accents, horrible manners, and general stupidity. If Cersei were drowning, she'd rather die than accept a helping hand.

And to have anything to do with Myrcella? Ha! Dream on. Fifty lashes from the Hound to even think about it. Which was too bad for Myrcella, for even though she was five years younger than the youngest female Freyspawns, Arwyn and Zia, the young girl craved new female companionship than the same old same old of the last thirty plus days. Robert's traveling court did not lend itself much to youthful playmates.

However, being treated like shit was a thing the female members of House Frey were quite used to; so being ignored, yelled at, snubbed, and threatened were exactly the sort of waters Freyspawn were accustomed to swimming in. Not daring to show a whit of interest in the girls for any reason imaginable and unimaginable, for fear of Cersei's considerable wrath (I was still mounting my charm offensive after all); I at least was able to get a report on them once a day through my new squire, Olyvar.

He was another point of contention in the ever altering dynamic between scalding hot (both good and bad), lukewarm, and icy cold of the King and Queen. Despite all the obvious advantages being thrown Walder's way by the deal we offered him, the wrinkled old tit's pride would have scotched the thing if one of his ilk wasn't at least made a royal squire or a lady-in-waiting. There was no way in SevenHells that Cersei would have accepted a weasel into her service; and we both knew it. So I gracefully made the "sacrifice," laughing secretly to myself because Olyvar was who I exactly wanted as a middle manager on Team Robert. And did my "sacrifice" earn me any gratitude from the bitch, fuck no; just one more thing to complain about when she felt like trashing me.

Needless to say, the new come presence of all the Freyspawn in the royal party threw an immediate weasel sized wrench in my "romantic" endeavors. So after the first brutal turn down, the wooing of Cersei slipped to the backburner, which was ok with my tentative plans in regards to the "missus." It gave me reason to command pretty boy Lumpy to spend every possible moment with his cousin under the express order to do "whatever" it takes to keep her happy. Hopefully something useful for later application would start brewing there between the too beautiful cuzes.

The second day out of the Twins, I offered an apology of sorts for Cersei's bad behavior to the Freyspawn leadership committee Walder had assigned to accompany his marriage bait. That got a good chuckle out of the top weasel, and Walder's third son, Aenys, "Worry not, your Grace. We all well know Cleos' mother, the Lady Genna. Blood tells." Hosteen, the fighting Frey, and Symond, the Master Frey Whisperer, joined in their brother's laughter. Cleos wisely kept mum about the disparagement of his mum and his cousin.

The leadership committee was not all that I had hoped for. Walder had refused my request to have Ser Stevron come as the senior Frey representative on the grounds of my blatant desire to turn his heir against him. Likewise, I had put my very, very large foot down and forbidden Black Walder's inclusion amongst either the leadership or the marriage bait. All-in-all, they seemed pretty much the infighting, untrustworthy lot I had expected.

It took four days skirting the southern end of the marshy Neck to exit the expanse of Frey territory and rejoin the Kingsroad; where miraculously, the wheelhouse was found safe, sound, and promptly. Hooray, respite from Cersei. That night, around a blazing campfire over which huge hunks of freshly slaughtered meat were roasting, I had a little pre-dinner conversation with both the Freyspawn leadership committee and the ten most eligible House Frey bachelors; Seven help Westeros. Besides myself, the only non-Freys present were Joffrey, the Hound, and the useless Ser Boros.

"Whatever Walder told you to expect from this trip to the North, you can forget it," I announced loudly. This caused much shifting of bodies and exchanging of looks. "One or two of you might find an heiress. Or an unmarried, homely older sister with a comfortable situation in a fine holdfast. I'll do my best for any of you that bring me the scent of the hunt, I promise. But that is not why you are here with me."

"Then .. uh … why are here … uh … your Grace?" a neither old nor young Frey relative named Donnel Haigh asked hesitantly.

"Because no one likes House Frey, that's why," I declared bluntly. No one muttered a contrary peep. "Oh, you are tolerated because your house is strong. And there are those willing to take your lord father's coin when it suits their needs. And that is why you are here. I want the assholes in the Riverlands who aren't doing enough of their duty to see that House Frey has gained my royal favor. I want to scare them, I want to scare them into doing their duty."

"What duty … uh … is that, your Grace?" Ser Steffon, grandson of Ser Stevron, asked.

"Marriage and making sprogs, idiot," snapped Aenys.

"Lord Stark's wife is Catelyn Tully," Symond explained further.

The smarter ones of the lot nodded their heads in understanding at the closing of the circle.

"Now Lord Stark is my oldest and dearest friend. You will all be on your best behavior. Treat the women courteously. No disrespecting their Old Gods. No brawling. No stealing. No intriguing. No lying … within reason. If I hear of someone fucking this up, I will personally crush your cock and balls under my warhammer." That last bit was followed by a menacing glare passed all around the fire.

"What if we are insulted? Can we not defend our honor? I will not be slurred by any man!" Hosteen declared hotly, not bowing to my death stare. Bastard.

"You may demand satisfaction, but only to be done under the eyes of Lord Stark; and with his agreement, under the supervision of his Master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel. Note the Ser. If I think you are in the right, I will grant you the honor of having one of my white cloaks attend you as a Second. Satisfied."

Hosteen's dull face obviously showed the effort of thinking about what I'd said. A few moments of ponderous calculating later, "Yes, your Grace."

"Alright. Now, for those of you who play your parts well, if there is no sweet Northern honey pot for you to find a home with; I promise you a suitable post in King's Landing or the Crownlands when we return. No more living at the Twins under Walder's sufferance, if you so choose."

"What about our sisters, your Grace?" Ser Perwyn chimed in protectively.

"Honorably asked," I commended him. "I suspect we will have better luck finding a horny Northmen wanting some exotic Southern honey for a bride than we will for you sad lot," I joked amiably. They chuckled dutifully along like proper medieval sycophants used to living on the largesse of others. "Now as my wife has been a mean cunt to them, it might take a while longer to find positions out of her sight in King's Landing, but you have my word, we'll find a proper place for any unplucked rose." Very few of them were actually pretty enough to be called a rose. One said what one must.

Most didn't seem to give a fig to my answer, so score a point for Perwyn. Time to return him the favor and rattle the rest of the bastards. "Now you all know I've taken on Olyvar as my squire, so you can spy on me."

Mouths dropped or gulped. A few muttered unconvincing 'Nos.' However, neither Aenys nor Symond, the most senior and the most wily of the Freyspawn, so much as blinked at the accusation. Players. "Which is fine by me. I'd expected nothing else and would have been woefully disappointed in old Walder if he hadn't insisted. But there will be some rules around Olyvar. I don't want to see or hear every godsdamned one of you whoresons pestering him day and night. That'll just piss me off and I'll have to crush a bunch of you with my hammer. Understood?"

A bunch of weaselly faces nodded. Aenys and Symond still showed nothing.

"So pick one of you. I don't care which. He can stop by once a day and collect all the gossip. 'Who did the King get drunk with last night? Which girl's bum did he pinch? What lords has he been cursing in private?' Then its up to that prick to pass it along to Aenys and Symond first, and then to the rest of you bastards as he sees fit. Personally, I'd hold out for bribes, whoever is chosen. Now which of you useless cow's udders is it going to be?!" I challenged.

That got them hopping and shouting and cursing and even resulted in a few shoves. I let it run on for several minutes, enjoying the chaos as I drank from my wineskin. A score of foxes squabbling in a hen house with only one chicken. So good. I winked over at Joffrey, who seemed utterly confused by my approach to the weasels. "ENOUGH!" I finally bellowed. "You're all useless as tits on a gelding!"

I turned to face Olyvar where he stood at the outer edge of the flickering light cast by the fire's flame. He didn't look well. Attention was seldom sought in the Twins, cause it was almost always bad news. "Boy, which one of your house would you normally talk to the most." The shadows weren't enough to hide the nervous bob of his adam's apple. "The truth," I growled.

"Perwyn, your Grace," he acknowledged, anointing his brother and confirming the books' opinion of the young knight as one of the very few "good" Freys.

Excellent. I love it when a plan comes together. I pivoted to the nominee. "You're it, Ser. Any complaints?"

"No, your Grace," the young knight said quickly.

"Any of the rest of you?" I challenged with my loud, impatient Robert voice. There was sure to be resentment. I wanted to see if any were stupid enough to manifest it.

A weak chorus of "Nos" was the less than truthful answer.

"Good. Now Perwyn, I'll be sure to grab a hold of you on one of your visits and bribe you myself. Understand?"

He looked confused. "Nooooooo," he admitted.

"Even better. Have Symond explain it to you some time. Is that roast ready yet? I'm starved."

One of them, Alesander? Tobiat? I couldn't tell, so many of the weasels looked a like in the dim light, leaned forward and sliced into a thick piece of belly. "Almost, your Grace."

I licked my lips, took another sip from my wineskin, and then made one last declaration. "When we are in Winterfell, some lord will almost certainly try to bribe each one of you for information. Probably more than just one lord. Maybe even a lady or two. Let them, but only after the usual haggling over the price of it. Try not to tell them too much. If you can, say you'll get back to them with more. Then pass the news of who, how much, and what they wanted back to me through Perwyn and Olyvar. I'll be sure to double their bribe to you too, but don't be a cheap bastard and not give Perwyn and Olyvar a cut of it. Now serve me, I don't care how bloody the meat is, your King is hungry," I commanded.

"Father, I don't understand. You don't trust the Freys. You bribe them for their service, encourage them to take bribes from others, and then expect them to tell you the truth. They owe you fealty as King. You can kill them if they displease you. If they lie to you," Joffrey said, putting together several different but still related concepts he normally wouldn't necessarily have associated together. Of course, his voice had put the most emphasis on the killing part.

"I trust Ned Stark with my life. I trust Ned Stark with your life. I trust most Freys to do what is in their own best interests. Not all trusts are equal. But if you are clever, you can use both kinds of trust to your own benefit. Learn to tell the difference, Joffrey; it might save your life," I grunted.

"But you are King," he protested.

"Damn!" I'd stumbled as we walked in the dark back towards our tents. "Olyvar," I called to my squire. "Do you trust your family?"

"Uh, some of them, your Grace," he admitted warily.

"But you deal with all of them, right?"

"Yes. When I must."

"Even those you trust the least?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"And how do you deal with them?"

"Very, very carefully."

"The answer to every problem isn't my hammer or Ser Ilyn's blade or Aerys Targaryen's wildfire, Joffrey." Why did I bother? "Go to your tent and think about it before you fall asleep. We can talk more in the morning."

"Good night, father," the punk agreed reluctantly and then sheared off into the black with his Hound on his heels.

"G'night." At least the twerp hadn't asked me about why I'd called his mother a cunt. He'd probably tell her in the morning anyway, I thought with a resigned sigh.

I groaned in relief as Olyvar helped pull my boots off. My belly continued to pose a problem in bending over. The drink hadn't helped either. A little too much again. "Thanks," I muttered, closing my eyes. I felt good. So easy to just relax. So easy.

"Will there be anything else, your Grace?"

"Do you have any questions about tonight, Olyvar?"

"I … that is … no, your Grace."

"Too bad, you should. Don't be shy. Ask away. I won't bite," I prodded, cracking my heavy eyelids open and lifting my thick arms and hands behind my equally large noggin.

"What is it you want from me, exactly, your Grace."

"As much real trust as you can give me. Hopefully, as we get to know each other better, that will increase."

He nodded his head thoughtfully. "I'll do my best, your Grace."

How much. How much. How much. Patience. Don't swamp him yet. He and Perwyn and Roslin are the only Freys worth a shit. No, be fair. There are a fair number of competent ones. But this boils down to trust. "That's all I can ask, Olyvar. Big change this, for you. Have Tyrek and Lumpy been giving you a hard time?"

"Errr, Tyrek has been pleasant."

I chuckled. Good old Lumpy. The Battle of Blackwater Rush and his own incestuous guilt haven't beaten the arrogance out of him yet. And they never would. Excellent. Time to keep the tension going between them. "Well tomorrow when Joffrey gives us our "lesson", you can match up with Lumpy. Don't go easy on him. That would piss me off. Sleep well, lad," I wished, dismissing him.