January 10, 2015
Week 16, 281 AC
Whatever else went wrong with this trip, I have to confess that I find the Riverlands a region of immense beauty. Rich and green, nature's bounty, all that. That said, I hate how slow travel is. Horse riding is not something I am utterly fond of, and certainly not the comfort or speed of cars. It is a pain. The fields of the Lord Hoster's lands go on forever, and if it weren't for the soothing scenery, I would have tired of the road much before we reached the Twins.
I have never been overly fond of the outdoors, but camping here is alright. It is neither as pleasant nor as smooth as I would have liked, but it has a certain charm to it. While in the day they rode more silently than not, at night all the guards would gather around the fire and swap stories. Uncle Brynden and I sat with them and listened. Often he would be persuaded to share some of his own experiences; the more mature ones he could not have spoken in Edmure's presence. Sometimes he told the other knights past incidents when he thought I was asleep; I am certain eventually he found out I was overhearing but did not say a word.
War is a worse thing in Westeros than it ever was in America, I know that now. Everything is more intense here; the politics that surround the battlefield are complicated beyond imagination and the bloodshed and fighting creates more havoc than it should. The country turns into a playground where the toys are in fact sharp longswords and crossbows and battleaxes. Books talk of battle strategies and the behind-the-scenes manipulation of events, but they never speak of how the common people were made expendable in pursuit of victory. They never speak of the villages that were burnt; the innkeepers and farmers put to the sword for being a part of the lands of a rival. No man writes of the prostitutes that follow camp, the crofters' wives raped for pleasure or the hundred-odd poor babies conceived because noblemen, their knights and freeriders decided they wanted female company while they rested between two skirmishes.
Even days later I am still processing all his information. It took me time to look at Uncle Brynden the same way again, but I know that he is one of the better men. There is no use blaming him for what his subordinates may or may not have done. The truths of this world are now slowly, steadily seeping through. Still, I pray to every god followed here that I may never have to live through a war.
We stayed barely two days or so in Seagard on the way. It is a port town ruled by the Mallisters, of which I had already met Jeffory, the a younger brother of the ruler. Lord Jason welcomed us with splendour; when we gathered at the gates of the keep, it was as though half the household had come to greet us. It was overwhelming. I curtsied and smiled and even played with little Patrek, the heir, who reminded me so much of Edmure. Lady Mallister, a westerlander by birth, was the first real noble lady I met, and without doubt a gracious and eager host.
The distance between Seagard and the Crossing was nothing compared to that between Riverrun and Seagard. My relief at having finally reached the destination was washed out by the shock of the terrible welcoming we received. Uncle Brynden scowled and cursed and ranted about "the goddamn weasels", and I saw just how right he was when we were presented before Lord Walder Frey - yes, presented, as though we were the vassals and he the overlord. The man is a weasel-faced, foul-brained, lusty-eyed silly fool. Those words fall short of describing him, actually. His speech is slurred and cruel; his gaze is penetrating and concupiscent; his family is rowdy and snivelling. And enormous. As enormous as enormous can possibly get.
Uncle Brynden told me that Lord Hoster had once joked, "Walder Frey is the only lord in the Seven Kingdoms who can field an army from his breeches." And holy hell is it true. The man talks of having sex like eating food and has a legion of descendants by the last name Rivers (who are nothing like Shirei), not to mention his thousand and one children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He is the ultimate social media meme; a man so disgusting he could put every rapist on earth to shame.
I know now what Lord Hoster meant. The man has married off his offsprings to half the realm! It's no wonder really, not since the Riverlands and its neighbours clearly don't have enough brides and grooms for unmarried Freys. He's begun looking towards Essos now, too, what with a Symond Frey married to a Braavosi. I now have begun thinking, in spite of myself, that Hoster Tully is so much of a better father than Walder Frey ever will be.
Lord Weasel is currently on his fifth wife (fifth!), Lady Bethany, who feels like the best adult Frey around. She only recently gave birth to Olyvar, one of the boys the feast was conducted for. Her other sons, especially five-year old Perwyn, are a delight. Very different from the rest of their family.
The previous Lady of the Crossing was Lady Alyssa of House Blackwood, and her children are roughly my age. Morya is a year older while Tyta two years younger. I realised just how fortunate I was for not having been reborn a Frey when I spent time in their company - they chatter endlessly and pointlessly, go on and on about things of minimal consequence. All Morya talked about with me was which song I liked the most and which tourneys I had attended. It took everything in me to suppress my irritation and give them polite smiles as is expected of me.
Riverrun truly is a sheltered home. I had good company, good pastimes, a good environment to live in. The Twins is a wreck. It was not only the girls that frustrated me, mind you - Lord Weasel had put every boy in his family unmarried and above the age of twelve to woo me. Edwyn Frey (the heir's heir's heir), 'Black' Walder Frey, Walton Frey, and seven more besides. Even his illegitimate sons were following me around with hungry eyes. Had Shirei been with me, she would have cursed each of them and proceeded to prank them. Instead, my watchdog was Uncle Brynden (or Ser Blackfish, as everyone calls him) who never let me out of my site and threw vile glares at the overambitious boys who tried inviting me into their bed.
I wish I had never said yes to Ser Hosteen. A foolish part of me probably thought that Riverrun and the Twins would be similar and I would not actually mind it, but mind I did. It was the epitome of male supremacy and showcased just how bad medieval family dynamics can be. Spending a week here was, in my opinion at least, punishment enough for my past crimes or non-crimes. When I mentioned it to my uncle, he told me gently that Lord Hoster is not planning to send me out as a punishment as much as he is sending me out to learn more about the world I live in and to better his ties with whichever House he sends me to foster with.
A weird observation - every other person at the Twins has a name similar to Walder. Either that itself, or Walda (those two are the most popular by far) or something mutilated like Waltyr or Walden. You know what I mean. Uncle Brynden told me it is most likely a ploy to gather favour from Lord Weasel; so that he will give the parents of said Walda/Walder/Waltyr a better job or monetary help. He told me that the women of House Frey who marry out also name their children such, hence there is already a Walder Vance and a Walder Goodbrook somewhere in the Riverlands. Idiocy.
I will always hate how Lord Hoster sent Marq away, but a part of me now understands better why he did it. I think. Symond Frey is a 'spymaster' here, and according to Lord Weasel, he found out an "interesting" bit of news - that the third Whent son was courting the second Tully daughter. I felt so embarrassed and disgusted by the words the man used; asking me if I had "batseed" in me, or if the Whent boy had made me "moan like a bat". Uncle Brynden saved me with a rebuke, insult and threat thrown Lord Weasel's direction, who only laughed with his sons in response. I maintained that Marq and I are close as cousins should be. To that once more Lord Weasel cackled and joked about a bastard son of his who had "flushed his seed into his trueborn niece's belly".
Gods, how pleased I am to get out of there. The feast in itself was great, mind you, and the other nobility who attended were courteous and deferred to me and Uncle Brynden. Lady Goodbrook, Lord Vance of the Wayfarer's Rest Vances, Lord Mooton, Lord Lefford and Lady Smallwood all seemed quite nice. But I could barely conceal my excitement at leaving. Tyta Frey hugged me despite my never having really shown any affection for her, and Lord Weasel told me to "remember the name Frey every once in a while, heh." Walton Frey gave me a crooked smile that I think was supposed to be charming. Only Lady Bethany was the decent one - and five-year old Perwyn, who gave me the sweetest goodbye he could manage.
We are on the road again, in any case. Jeffory, who had accompanied us, left our group only recently - meaning we have just crossed Seagard. Riverrun gets closer and closer; Cat and Edmure and Shirei get closer and closer but thinking of them leaves an unsavory taste in my mouth. I scarcely fit in at the Crossing. I'd wager that wherever Lord Hoster plans to send me, I'll be as unhappy. I asked Uncle Brynden where he thinks his brother is like to foster me; he wagered the logical thing would be at Casterly Rock so that I can be better trained to be a good future Lady of the Rock and wife to Jaime Lannister. However, Lord Tywin is the Hand of the King and as such spends all his time away at the capital - meaning that I would have to serve one of his brothers. "I don't know if our dear Lord Tully would want that," Uncle Brynden said. "For him, it's likely Tywin or no Lannister at all."
I don't want to be a ward of Lord Tywin. No, I really don't. I don't want to be fostered at Casterly Rock. I don't want to marry Jaime Lannister. I don't know if I could ever really stomach it. I remember Cat saying that a woman doesn't need a husband to be happy, but whenever I close my eyes and think about this place Lord Hoster wants me to live in, all I can imagine is a desolate rock and an uninterested husband. I don't want it to happen. I know realities now; I know the kind of world I am in. But that doesn't mean I will be okay living like that. I don't want that future. I never will.
notes: Thank you for the reviews again. One of them mentioned the Free Cities; I assure you Lysa will find her way there eventually. She's gonna hold more power than she asked for post-rebellion. For now, we have Hoster's dealings with Tywin in the next chapter, and Jaime arriving at Riverrun in the one after that. I am heavily considering making this a series, with this specific story serving as an introductory prequel more than anything else. The next story will be a novella covering the Tourney at Harrenhal till when Lyanna disappears. Then perhaps a short collection of one-shots about life during the changed Robert's Rebellion? What do you say?