Sarella
When she returned to Sunspear, or more likely the Water Gardens, she would have to have a little word with her father and her uncle about Ned Stark and how fast he could move. She'd wondered a bit about the ravens that had been coming and going from Castle Black. As they thundered down the road South she realised with a start that Lord Stark was going to drive them on a brutal pace.
They galloped a for a long time and just as she was starting to think that they were going to exhaust the horses she saw the first waystation ahead, or that was what Lord Stark called it. As they each transferred from a blowing horse to a fresh one she realised that it was going to be a long day of hard riding ahead.
It was. They swapped horse for horse, they rode and rode, Lord Stark with his direwolf loping effortlessly by his side. Every now and then she would vanish into the woods to each side and return with a bloodied muzzle, so she was keeping herself well fed.
The humans in the party fell upon their meal at noon with gusto, amid much muttering at the pace, but none complained when Lord Stark kept up the same pace in the afternoon. Waystation to waystation, mile after mile Southwards.
Ned Stark was a man that Father would have to respect. He moved at a pace that would make even Father worry.
And on they went. As they rode he heard snatches of conversation from the others. The Gift, they said and then later the New Gift, was truly coming back to life. Fields were being tilled, cottages inhabited, mills repaired, firewood collected.
The North prepared.
They slept that night in an old holdfast just South of the Southern border of the New Gift, and as she slumped into her blankets she made a note to observe the others very carefully when she awoke. She needed to. When the call to wake came in the morning she ached in all kinds of places, but she made a point of watching the men and how they moved. Men were men and men complained about their balls a lot after a lot of riding. They walked a bit differently too and she made sure that she moved and grunted and grumbled the same way.
Gerion Lannister of course eyed her movements with a small smile, whilst Allarion Lannister… well he was not looking at her at all, or trying not to.
Not that she cared.
No.
Well, maybe. He had nice eyes. Not that she could stare at him. Others might think oddly of her, thinking as they did that she was a he.
The second day was just as hard as the first, waystation to waystation, blown horse to fresh horse, galloping endlessly. The third day found them in the woods North of the Long Lake and she realised dazedly that they were moving at a truly brutal pace. She was in pain now, a lot of jolted pain through every limb, every muscle.
Fortunately at the top of the Long Lake they embarked onto a ship, which meant that they could rest. Tyrion Lannister had a liniment that was in great demand and she could tell that the Wildlings were especially exhausted. There couldn't be many horses, real horses, North of the Wall and she could tell that the poor bastards were not used to such riding. She also noted that Robb and Jon Stark were quite solicitous to the women, even if they were aware of the odd roll of the eyes from them – and, when the Starks' backs were turned, the burning gazes.
Father would have laughed his head off at everything.
As they sailed South everyone relaxed and slept a lot, even the direwolves. She napped briefly and then she woke up and started to sketch what she had seen on some parchments. This was important, she had to draw what she had seen. The Wall. The Black Gate. Wights. And… the Others.
That had been a fight that she had felt for quite time afterwards. Never had she felt such shame at being unable to fight as hard as she knew she could, because she didn't have anything apart from her daggers. Lovely weapons, well balanced and easy to use. Also useless against wights. And the Others. All she could do was stand there and then hamstring any passing limbs.
For a Sand Snake it had been humiliating.
She had started with some charcoal sketches and then inked over the final ones. The Nightfort. The Wall. One of the wights. And the Other that had come closest to her.
It still haunted her, that creature. The wights – well, she'd seen dead bodies before. A moving dead body had been horrible, but she could live with that. The Other though… The way that it moved had been inhuman, the way that it had looked at her and the others, as if they were nothing but flyspecks.
Father needed to see these. Father needed to understand what was coming. She stared at the sketch. Was it good enough? Would Father believe her tale, of all that she had seen? Would Uncle Doran? She sighed and then stared at the trees that were on the banks of the lake in the distance. The ship was moving faster than it had earlier, thanks to Gerion Lannister having a word with the captain and then resetting the sails a little.
"Not bad," said a voice behind her and she jumped a little before repressing a curse. "Quite a good likeness." It was Lord Stark himself, who sat down next to her. "Gerion Lannister had a word with me back at the Wall. About who you really are."
Ah, shit. She had been afraid of that. "I am Sarella Sand," she replied in a low voice. "Daughter of the Red Viper. Please keep it to yourself Lord Stark, at least until Winterfell."
He nodded, before leaning a little closer. "Why are you here in the North?"
"My father sent me. Lord Dayne came to see my uncle at the Water Gardens, where he met my father as well. He said that he was headed North, to Kings Landing first to get his son, and then Winterfell, to answer the Call. He knew that he was dying, but he had to go and… and he bore the sword Dawn."
Lord Stark stared at him in some shock for a moment, before closing his eyes for a long moment. "Now that's a sword I know all too well. I remember Lord Dayne vaguely from the tourney at Harrenhall, but he was not at Starfall when I left Dawn with his sister." He seemed to think deeply. "Did he say if his son was the new Sword of the Morning?"
"I don't know. Perhaps. Father just said that things were moving that he did not understand. The Stony Dornish are sending what they can to the Wall, but they cannot explain why, or at least Father did not understand. Combined with the fact that the Glass Candles in the Citadel can be lit again… well, I ended up on the fastest ship I could find."
Lord Stark absorbed this and then nodded slightly. "All help is appreciated. Now that you have seen what lies beyond the Wall what will your father do? Dorne and the North are not exactly close after the Rebellion."
She sighed. "Father bears no ill-will to you or the North. In fact he respects you for doing what you did for your sister and your murdered family. He understands the importance of family. But he and my uncle need to know what lies behind this all, why the Stony Dornish are coming North, what the Call is. I was sent to the North to find out information. That is all."
The Warden of the North stared at her and then again at the sketches. "Then these are important. Talk to Mance Rayder, he's a fine sketcher, or so I am told. The more you can tell Sunspear the better. And at Winterfell you can talk to quite a few people."
"King Robert will be there?"
"Aye, he will. Lord Stannis, his Hand, as well."
And with that Lord Stark stood, nodded and strode off to the other side of the boat, where he sat next to the huge form of his sleeping Direwolf and then fall asleep himself.
They sailed on, through the night and most of the day, until they reached the southernmost part of the lake, where a jetty was waiting and what looked like the start of a large village constructed from stone and wood. There were fresh horses there and she didn't have to supress a wince as she mounted, along with the others, and then started down the road that had been laid through the Wolfswood. Straight West they galloped, heading for the Kingsroad, changing horses at way points again and again. Day merged into day, sleep taken at waypoints or holdfasts along their path, the sleep of exhaustion and not a little pain. The Direwolves seemed to be holding out the best, with the three Starks and the Greyjoy boy taking care of theirs, but there were drawn faces on all the men and women by then.
"One day," she heard Mance Rayder sigh to the other Wildlings, "We'll all be proud to look back on this trip and say that we were there on Ned Stark's Great Ride, South from Castle Black. By then we'll have forgotten the bloody pain it cost us all." And then he'd frowned and started humming snatches, and it was then, she suspected that he'd started to make up a song about it all.
On they rode, with Tyrion Lannister's liniment all but running out, until eventually they crested a rise on the Kingsroad and saw, on the horizon, the tips of the towers of Winterfell.
"At last," Lord Stark said with what was half a sigh and half a laugh, before spurring his horse on again. "Winterfell!"
Brynden
The Twins loomed ahead of their party and he suppressed a sigh. He remembered Walder bloody Frey all too well. Hoster had called him the Late Lord Frey because of his tardiness before the Ruby Ford and all knew that the old bastard had never forgiven his brother for the all-too-true taunt.
And now they were approaching the place where he squatted, like an ancient weasel on a bulky chair. At least the party was not flying Tully colours – that would get them admitted, albeit reluctantly but with an audience with Walder Frey sneering at them all. Instead they rode behind the banner of a white tree with red leaves on a green background, the banner of the Green Men.
It was a banner that had not been seen for many years and it seemed to cause no small amount of confusion as they waited in the rain by the gate by the Southern side of the Twins. He'd raised his hood like they all had and as the rain dripped off the brim in front of his face he hoped that it would hide his identity.
After what felt like an age the gates finally creaked open and they rode in to discover a small group of men waiting for them. Some were guards, but he recognised the leading man. Ser Stevron Frey looked older and little more careworn than the last time he had seen him, but the heir to the Twins was still straight of back and sharp of eye, because he recognised him at once.
"Ser Brynden?" He looked over the party in some confusion. "I did not know that you were with this party. The guards did not recognise the strange banner."
"We are travelling to the North, from the Isle of Faces," he replied. The Green Man was hanging back in the party, seeming to look around with a combination of interest and what might have been sadness. "The Green Men are abroad again." A gesture at the men and women around him got some short sharp nods directed to Ser Stevron.
This information caused the eyes of the eldest son of Walder Frey to widen for a moment, before flickering slightly with thought. "Ah… Green Men? From the Isle of Faces? There are strange tales about that place."
"There will be more tales. The Green Men have answered the Call."
A man in the distinctive leather cap that the Freys seemed to favour had emerged from a side door and was approaching to one side. "Lord Frey wants to see them," he barked at Ser Stevron, who stiffened a little and then fixed the other man with a look of carefully hidden contempt. "He wants to know who rides under such an unknown banner."
Ser Stevron smiled a slightly pained smile. "It seems that you will have to talk to my lord father."
Brynden nodded shortly and then dismounted, leading the others. As they secured their horses in the stables he jerked his head at Brienne. "Stay close to me in there," he muttered. "It's going to be unpleasant."
She frowned, confused. "You expect treachery?"
"No," he replied in a low voice pitched at her ear only, "I expect discourtesy. Walder Frey is close to his ninetieth year and is unpleasant, sarcastic, rude and prickly to any slight, real or imagined, to his family. You are a woman in armour. He will cast aspersions like petals on the wind. Be prepared."
Brienne stiffened a little. "I shall," she replied. "Thank you for the warning." He looked at her and then nodded.
The Great Hall of the Twins was just as he remembered it to be, large, dark, gloomy and full of weasels. At the head of the room was a table and at that table, sitting in a huge chair with tower carvings, was Walder Frey, who looked as if he was about to drop dead from old age. There was a goblet of wine in one hand and his eyes darted from side to side, as if he expected assassins to sneak out from the shadows. The moment that he laid eyes on Brynden he sat up and glared at him.
"The Blackfish! What are you doing, riding under such a strange banner?"
"Father," Ser Stevron started to say, "They claim to be from-"
"Did I give you permission to speak? I asked the Blackfish over there!"
"As Ser Stevron was about to tell you, we are riding from the Isle of Faces. Under the banner of the Green Men."
There was a muttering from the assemblage of weasels, but Walder Frey just sat there, his pale face working slightly as he looked at the Blackfish and the others – and then he threw back his face and let out a toothless bray of laughter. "Ah," he said eventually, "Blackfish, you do amuse me. Does Lord Tully know that his renegade brother has gone mad? Green Men abroad indeed… naught but lies and legends. They do not leave their island."
It was fortunate that the other Green Men had been warned by him earlier, as otherwise they would have bristled a great deal. As it was, Lord Frey was glared at quite a bit. Not that he cared.
"The Green Men are neither lie nor legend, Lord Frey," said a voice behind him, as The Green Man stepped forwards. Something flashed through the air – a coin, no, a token that landed heavily on the table in front of Walder Frey. "The token for our passage. As was agreed many years ago."
The Lord of the Crossing reached out with a slightly palsied hand and picked it up. The moment he saw what was on it he paled and then thrust it away from him. "No," he said after a long moment. "That's… that's not possible. That token… my father told me about it… but no. The Green Men do not leave their island." And with that he shoved the token away.
Brynden sighed and sensed that Brienne was stirring irritably next to him. This drew the attention of Walder Frey, who openly looked her up and down before smirking obscenely at him. "Ah Blackfish, finally settled down have you? Look at her, ugly as a fishwife! You should have come to me instead, I could have found a granddaughter of mine. If you like them… young that is."
The horrible old man cackled at his own words, with some of his progeny joining in, whilst others, such as Ser Stevron, closed their eyes and winced. Brynden grabbed his temper by the scruff of its neck and stuffed it back inside him, but something must have shown on his face given the fact that Walder Frey paled a little. As for Brienne she tilted her head back a little and looked down her nose at the Lord of the Crossing as if he was nothing more than slug.
"So this is what House Frey has become. In thrall to a laughing dotard who thinks that he's being funny by being discourteous to his guests." The Green Man took a long step forwards and it might have been Brynden's imagination but for a long moment the candles and the fires seemed to burn lower. "Your father would have been ashamed of you."
Walder Frey squinted at the Green Man. "And who in the Seven Hells are you, hmmm? You're old and tall and you claim you knew my father?" He spat wetly to one side. "I see that the Blackfish has gathered a company of fools around him. And who are you?"
"The Green Man."
The old man at the table gaped for a second, before laughing wheezily. "Liar. They don't leave their fool island. Who are you really?"
Large hands pulled the hood up, so that the antlers came into view. "The Green Man. Yes, I knew your father. I remember the first time I laid eyes on you. I wasn't impressed. I think that I wanted to throw you down the nearest well. It was at the marriage of your sister to Lord Ambrose Butterwell at Whitewalls."
A silence fell. Walder Frey was staring at the Green Man, staring at him as if he did not know who or what he was. "Impossible," he quavered. "That was more than 80 years ago."
"I am the Green Man," came the implacable reply. "The years touch me a bit differently from you. I remember you. Snotty nosed, rude and dirty." He sniffed in disgust. "Nothing really changes, does it?"
Walder Frey was almost cowering in his chair. "Who are you?"
The hood came back down. "I was once Ser Duncan the Tall."
There was an astounded silence, and then a combination of muttering, laughter and shocked comments filled the air. Stevron Frey was staring at the Green Man with a look that combined shock with hope for some reason.
"Impossible," Walder Frey mumbled. "You're dead. Dead since Summerhall. Died in the fire there. Dead."
"I was bunt, but I lived." The Green Man unrolled his sleeve and showed the horrific burns on his arm. Silence fell again. Walder Frey swallowed thickly and then, just as he seemed to be rallying a bit there was a hammering at the doors to one side and a guard slipped in, escorting a man dressed in black. Brynden blinked. He knew that man.
"My Lord," quavered the guard, "Your pardon, but this man of the Night's Watch arrived on the North side of the Twins. He demands to speak to you at once."
"Damn it!" Walder Frey roared weakly. "Night's Watch do not demand anything of me! What do you want, black crow? Men? Coin? Food? You'll have nothing from me, not with this Call nonsense roiling the smallfolk!"
Brynden glanced at the bloody man dismissively and then stepped forwards. "Yoren isn't it? I've seen you at the Bloody Gate many times."
The man in black smiled and nodded at him before stepping almost formally up to the table. "Lord Frey, I am Yoren of the Night's Watch. I am sorry for disturbing you at this moment, but I was charged by the Lord Commander with showing as many lords as possible… this." And with that he placed a cloth covered square on the table, before backing away. "Proof, my Lord. Proof of what we at the Wall will be facing. The head of a wight."
A susurration again. The word 'lie' was in the air. But all eyes were on Walder Frey. He was sitting in his chair, a shrunken husk of a man whose eyes were darting between the Green Man, Brynden and Yoren. With one shaking hand he then reached out and pulled the cloth. Under it was a cage. And in that cage was a severed head. A head with rolling eyes and a mouth that opened and closed and hissed.
This time there was horror in the susurration, as men and women shrieked and pulled away from the cage. Yoren watched this calmly, whilst Brynden noticed that Brienne merely blinked. The Green Men did not react at all, which was interesting.
As for Walder Frey… he had gone as white as a sheet. And then blood seemed to flush into his face. His mouth opened and closed for a moment – and then one side of his face went slack and there was a sudden stench of urine as the man pissed himself, before his eyes rolled back in his skull and he collapsed bonelessly in his chair.
As various Freys screamed and leapt towards the chair Brynden suppressed a smile.
What a tragedy.