The realm readies to make their journeys home and here I sit broken. Stark had gone northwest with his princess to nanny the ironmen at Sea Dragon Point, the sight of the white dragon doubtless enough to push any cold monsters up into the mountains or else true north for fear of his wroth. Everyone else at Winterfell was planning on clinging to the royal family's skirts as they meandered south to White Harbor. Save perhaps the wild men. The Free Folk and the Dothraki will do no clinging, I expect. He shook his head. Minding savages was no affair of Jaime's. He leaned creakily out of his chair to toss another log on the hearth, wincing as he sat back.

"Could have got the lad to do that." Bronn said from behind him. Leaning up against the wall, no doubt.

"Omer says I've got to move so I don't lock up."

"And what if you fold like a lily in a hailstorm?" Jaime ignored him. Pride kept him from following the others to dinner and Bronn had drawn the short stick in keeping an eye on Jaime. That doesn't mean I have to humor his dark jests.

"I'm not coming along so quickly as Omer would like, but I don't mean to be left behind wrapped in my swaddling while the rest push on to White Harbor."

"Nor should you, how would that look? A golden lion lapping milk from a dish, you'd never hear the end of it." Bronn said bluntly. "Should you make it that far, what then, though? You'd merely be pasted together and freezing your arse off at White Harbor rather than Winterfell. At least this place has Singers about it." And that's part of the problem. Once the Others' madness had passed, it had become plainer by the day there was enough of a gap between men proper and the smaller race that Jaime had quickly grasped they were best left to their own devices. They'll not mind having seen the last of men in great number, particularly those sooner to send a prayer the way of the Seven than the old gods. The dragons would be at White Harbor as well, more than enough of a deterrent to keep the cold monsters away.

"Let me reach White Harbor alive and with my senses. A man ought fill one privy before he starts pissing in another." Bronn snorted.

"Aye." Jaime took a breath and gripped the chair with his hand.

"I don't think so." Bronn said, quickly moving over to take the bulk of Jaime's weight with his left arm over a shoulder.

"I thought you weren't a Lannister toady." Jaime said.

"If I let you go down to the hall alone, I'm getting thrown out a window with one hand." Bronn replied. Ah, a Tarth toady then.

There was much bustling in the corridors that had been most absent in the days prior. People readying for the push to White Harbor, I'll wager. Or else making ready to follow should the all-clear reach Winterfell. The hall was as packed as ever, fewer people sitting only making room for more people to fill the space to standing. One of the few empty spaces on the benches was to Brienne's immediate left, Jaime gingerly weaving through the crowd to reach the westermen. Taking little umbrage at having to budge up to make room for Brienne of Tarth, he noticed.

"No chastisement at my moving about, my lady?" Jaime asked.

"If I thought it'd do the least bit of good, I might bother. As it happens, you've fewer wits than the average dead man." she replied, slicing up a hot plate full of venison before sliding it in front of him.

"My thanks." Jaime said. After all, a man who can't wield cutlery let alone arms proper had best show a little courtesy. He contented himself with eating for a time, but the people that filled the hall were too much of a distraction for him to lose himself in a hot meal, or even the mulled wine to follow. Lord Selwyn was with the Valemen this morning, deep in conversation with a half-there Yohn Royce. "What is Lord Selwyn up to?" Jaime asked.

"Lord Royce's last remaining son died in the battle. I daresay Father is trying to bring him 'round to the bright side of having living daughters still." Jaime pursed his lips. Lord Selwyn's name died the day his little boy drowned. His remaining hand set down his fork, found his chin. Or did it?

"If you would, might we have a word or two? Lord Royce as well, I think." Brienne looked nonplussed but dutifully turned to the knight beside her. Jaime started when he realized he was looking at Ser Dewys, sporting a fresh shave and the first wash he must have had since King Robert had reigned. Ser Dewys nodded, stood, and let an empty mug fly. The mug bounced neatly off Lord Royce's back, Lord Selwyn whirling around dumbfoundedly to find Ser Dewys waving the two of them over. I'd have taken a courteous word, Jaime thought uneasily. Shows what you know, ser, he answered himself. Who'd hear you in this riot?

"How does this morning find you, my lords?"

"Had I a household to worry about, mayhaps I'd be quite of sorts. Word of White Harbor has spread from a hundred mouths to a hundred ears, my lord, and who can resist wondering what might come after?" Lord Selwyn said, seeming not at all reluctant to throw possibilities out for Lord Royce to consider. It's a shame he hardly seems in a considering mood. The man had gone into himself, holding court within his own mind and showing the world a blank, solemn face.

"Well, without a map in front of me I can only conjecture, but it seems to me the Vale lies south of White Harbor." Jaime said. "We'll get precious little done dumping ourselves all over the shores of the Bite, though. Better we go 'round, and perhaps make port at Gulltown." Assuming it's still there. "It would do us some good too to take Runestone, I think. That way if something goes awry at Gulltown, the port's populace can hide behind your walls." Not that walls will do any good if what comes calling is more than a few dead men washed up on shore. Talk of Runestone seemed to shake Lord Royce a bit, but only a grunt was forthcoming.

"Dangling my castle in front of my nose will do you little good, Ser Jaime. Once I am gone-"

"-one daughter or other will no doubt need filling the considerably large shoes you leave behind. But I'm a little hesitant to deal you off so quickly, Lord Royce. Harrold Arryn may be the lord paramount of the Vale, but he's barely off the teat compared to a man of your experience in times of peace as well as war." Royce blinked.

"Where else ought Lord Arryn be but in the Vale?"

"Oh, he may return in time. Or mayhaps it's his son or grandson who does the returning, if the job is so long in the doing. The dragons will want to go further than Gulltown, at any rate. Those afraid to venture out from under their wings will no doubt continue after them, and your Young Falcon will not suffer to be left behind with the sorefoot merchants and fishermen tired of wandering. I was three-and-twenty once myself, my lord."

"You are the lionman." A gruff voice pulled Jaime off the greyhairs before him to behold a savage clad in what looked like garb he'd pulled off corpses from half a dozen different lands. Recently shambled back from hunger's door.

"Jaime Lannister, called the Kingslayer by some." Jaime told him.

"Shagga, son of Dolf. Shagga has heard that Tyrion, son of Tywin has fallen." One of Tyrion's famed hill tribesmen.

"So he has. I do hope Shagga, son of Dolf found time and wine both to drink to his memory." The man solemnly stooped, took Jaime's cup in hand, and raised it.

"Tyrion, son of Tywin." he said before he emptied the cup in a single gulp.

"As for me, I can only thank you for keeping Tyrion out of trouble so much as you were able."

"Shagga has spoken with the other Stone Crows, and they with the other clans proper. The Mountains of the Moon are too dangerous by far to return to, even with the Halfman's gifts. Better to follow Jaime Lannister south, as shadowcats might follow in a lion's wake." Not if he's the sorry bastard I saw out on the moor. He was about to shrug and tell Shagga that more axes were always better than fewer when he noticed that the high table had filled. The king had the queen in his lap, setting her to giggling fiercely with a kiss on the cheek. Ser Bonifer had the prince for the moment, the other Hastys bustling about him like bees 'round a flower. The others had found their seats as well (the top of the princess' head visible as she mucked about behind the table) and their world spun on, save for the iron dragon clinging to the back of the queen's empty seat. Its eyes were affixed on Jaime, a pair of black opals split by bright glints. Aemyxes, Jaime remembered. His name is Aemyxes. He shook himself and turned back to Shagga.

"No one is much in a position to turn down a few extra-" He stopped abruptly. "You were with them when they came through the Neck." What was visible of Shagga's face beneath his beard paled.

"Aye." Jaime thought a moment. "The brass I like, the stupidity I don't."

"The lionman does not need to worry for Shagga, son of Dolf. Nor for the Stone Crows. We will not go back there."

"That's not what I mean. Anyone hard enough to make it through the Neck, even aided by crannogmen, I'd sooner have shadowing the dragons than myself." The color returned remarkably quickly to Shagga's face. Or is that wine? "I can hardly set knights and lordlings to following them about the realms, the pace would kill a soft lowlander. Not a man of the hill tribes, though. If you can take the Neck, you can take anything Westeros has to offer." The chieftain swelled up with pride.

"Shagga will follow the dragons from the wolf-den as he followed them to it."

"Good. I don't want courtly sorts sticking to them, I can find half a hundred uses for men who know their way about a solar and none of them involve being near the dragons. The men and women who'll stay on as their accompaniment will be some of the hardest in the world, I daresay, and you lot are that and more." He whacked Shagga on the shoulder with all the force he could put into his good arm, surprised not a whit when the man forewent even a grunt. "There were others as well. Seek them out and tell them not to get comfortable. Nobody in the service of the royal family's like to be, with wings to keep in sight."

As Shagga dashed away to alert the others, Jaime felt something like a pea bounce off his temple, looking to spot Bronn glancing his way. Now what? The sellsword knight cleared his throat, unheard in the countless voices filling the hall, and loosed a thoughtless glance a few seats past Jaime. Leaning forward slightly (and wincing for it), Jaime saw that Varys' own bowl of stew had not been touched, nor the wine before him tasted. Quite in contrast to all the people around him eager to get on to White Harbor (and Wyman Manderly's larders, perhaps) Varys looked a pale shadow of himself. And that's no fit face to show the realm when they're trying to eat. Jaime had seen his share of war and more, and with war came soldiers and the business of knowing them. More than once he'd seen pale faces and lost appetites take days, even weeks to return to normal after the last of the battles had been fought. What dropped in on us was more than just the chaos of battle. It's hung heavy in his mind since the night he first learned that such things existed. Broken bones took merely setting and time, but a broken spirit? I suppose it would do me good to ask just what in balls he asked his admirer, but then again, the less we speak of it the better off he'll be.

Jaime thought about flinging a pea Varys' way in turn. Given how knit up I am, I'm unlikely to handle a spoon so deftly. I wonder if Brienne might humor me? He sent word down the bench for Varys to find a place closer. If I rope him into some new mischief maybe he'll come around. If food and drink won't do it, secret may. 'What wouldst thou know' indeed. He shivered despite the heat of the hall and started when he felt a hand close around his own.

"Apologies, my lady. Someone passed me a cup of that Dornish viper piss." He squinted at the table, making a show of having lost track of which cup it had been. "At least Lord Wyman's cellars will have wines one doesn't need to hold one's breath to keep down."

"Watch what cup you sip from, then." Brienne told him. Were she truly irked, she'd be looking at me.

"Has someone else caught your eye?" Jaime jested.

"One of the stableboys keeps looking your way." Jaime duly looked to the far wall, a thousand faces looking a hundred different ways and none particularly forthcoming.

"Freglyn." he said, the lad appearing at his left elbow at once. "How fares the Rowan girl?" "She's awake, ser, but she doesn't talk much. Er, at all. I think maybe the noise of the battle…"

"Not to worry, Omer will set her to rights. Do you see the lad Lady Brienne is talking about?"

"Aye, ser." Freglyn nodded. Well, if he can spot a squirrel in the tree branches, who's to say he can't pick a face out of the throng? "Go tell him to join us this evening." Freglyn nodded again and disappeared. Brienne gave Jaime a bemused look.

"Since the Stillwood lad can't be found, I'm down a squire." Jaime explained.

"And there are half a hundred fitting squires waiting in the wings among your own westermen." she replied. Eager to squire for Goldenhand the Just, maybe. A lad who sees the broken, crippled Kingslayer as a straw to grasp warrants a second look. Jaime spent the rest of the meal looking for anyone else who might be worth taking on, Bronn pointing out a young man possessed of Lannister curls and a cocksure attitude, though absent the haughtiness that clung to every member of House Lannister's shoulders like a golden cloak. Or so I've heard it described, I can't imagine whatever they might mean.

"Clear the way there, cart of apples coming through." Bronn said as Jaime limped his way through the crowd to catch the man before he left the hall. Green eyes as well. The man was not ignorant about what Jaime was about, either.

"Ser Jaime." he said, sweating somewhat in the torchlight.

"If you ever chance to visit King's Landing, do take care not to bed a girl named Marei." The man stared at him, and then coughed.

"Marei. Aye, ser, I'll take that to heart." he said.

"What's your name?"

"Donnel. Er, Sweet Donnel Hill, ser. I was…of the Night's Watch, until the Wall came down."

"Hill, is it? And I thought you were a Pyke." The man flubbed a laugh and a snort together between his lips before he comported himself. "Are you situated, Donnel Hill?"

"No more or less than most any man at Winterfell, ser."

"Well, should you want for a nice muddy hole to get bemired in, do call on me." Donnel Hill nodded.

"As you say, Ser Jaime." Letting Brienne ease him from the hall, Jaime wondered if perhaps, looking hard enough, he might find more kinsmen elsewhere in the world.

"The man had the worm-lips, didn't he?" Bronn asked as Brienne sat Jaime by the hearth, popping with the addition of a fresh log.

"And you're half a joy to look at, are you?" Jaime asked in reply. "Worm-lips or no, best not let disaster strike." Given that the gods are a bunch of giggling children, had I not told him he'd surely have been led to Chataya's by the nose. While a knock sounded at the door, Jaime looked to Brienne. "Will you not sit, my lady?" She turned pink.

"Is it entirely fitting?" He frowned.

"Quite right, I forgot to ask the Others' opinion." By the time Freglyn brought the other lad in, Brienne had taken a chair beside Jaime. With hair like a bird's nest and a face covered in dirt, he might be anyone.

"Ser Jaime. My lady. I'm Watt." he said, nodding to each of them.

"Well, whoever you are, you're no common-born urchin." Jaime said, the boy's face going pale. Jaime gestured to a lost-looking Freglyn. "Common lads proper don't get much in the way of courtly lessons. More the "I hope I get a pheasant today and nobody ships me to the Wall for poaching" lessons."

"Aye, that sounds more like how it's been, ser." Freglyn said. The other lad blubbered on for a bit before he regained command of himself.

"Never mind the chewing on your tongue. I doubt whatever you've got stuck in your throat's half so bad as you think it is." Jaime told him.

"That depends on whether you think the Starks have put the Red Wedding behind them, ser." Though Jaime heard Brienne moving to look his way, he did not reciprocate, merely pressing his lips together.

"More's happened in the last year than has in the last century. The Starks have more to worry about these days than a stableboy with a pinched chin." I never thought I'd find myself looking so hard at a Frey, but here I sit.

"Watt, you called yourself." Brienne said.

"I did, my lady."

"You've not much of a northern cast."

"No, my lady. Only a northman's bone-tiredness." Yes, because this has all been an afternoon in the sun for the rest of us.

"You're doing well enough as is, Watt. Why leave? The Starks will need stableboys and grooms besides in the days to come, no one would look twice at you. Remain Watt for the rest of your days, knowing you'd never be guessed for anything else." The lad fidgeted in place.

"It's cold up here, Ser Jaime. And with direwolves about and dragons besides, I doubt the Starks to come will want for horses quite so much as you suppose. Even if they didn't concern themselves with the doings of yesterday, that doesn't mean some brute won't fill my belly with steel to curry favor with them, even misguidedly- and there's more than steel to in northern hands."

"Where might you go then, Watt?" Jaime asked. "It isn't like you can traipse back to the Twins and start charging for a crossing."

"I'm as done with Tullys as I am with Starks. This wild white wilderness is theirs and they can have it, and as for river lords, well, the way I hear it you're not a river lord unless you have hide that could blank a crossbow quarrel and jaws strong enough to drown a bull. Watt's a name that's treated me well, aye, but by birth I'm Walder Frey, son of Jammos. Called Big Walder then, but I might well be Only Walder now."

"Mmm." Bronn murmured from his corner.

"An opinion, Ser Bronn?" Jaime prompted.

"Well, it seems to me the knightly sorts ought have squires, and I've fought too many bloody battles in your name or your brother's to go fetching things for myself."

"Right on both counts, though if you're the 'knightly sort', I'm the kingly sort." Jaime answered. He turned back to the Frey boy. "As it happens, you aren't the only Walder left. My cousin Red Walder's father Emmon was one of your own father's older brothers." Much older, if I can half figure it. Born thirty years apart, or near enough. The Walder before him wrinkled his nose.

"Once I heard my father tell a story about a farmer who was so busy planting he never spared a thought on his crops once they'd sprouted."

"I believe it." Jaime told him. A story, my hand. Walder Frey might have tried to raise a few decent sons instead of letting his wretched brood run rampant all over the riverlands. "Never mind the days past and the dead buried. You'll squire for Ser Bronn going forward, and keep your name to yourself until we've sailed from White Harbor." He thought a moment. "You'll keep the company of westermen as well, and stay out of sight as much as can be managed until we're somewhere the direwolf banner does not fly." Walder nodded solemnly.

"As you say, ser."

"Excellent. Always wanted someone I could order around." Bronn said, looking pleased. This Frey might have a bit of Old Walder's weasel face, Jaime observed, but there's a middling ability to be grateful for what grace comes his way. It may be he amounts to something after all.

The howling began. That will be the moon poking through the clouds. Jaime had no ear for telling one note in the chorus from the next, but he could hear the beast that the years had made of the youngest Stark boy even clear across the castle. That will give even a cold giant pause, the thought that at any moment a wave of teeth and claws might crest over the moor. And I thought Robb Stark's wolf a sight. Jaime remembered the Young Wolf well. Grey Wind, his wolf had been. Though the youngest of the brood bore the same Tully coloring and perhaps a similar look, there was no hiding the beast within.

"I'd like nothing more than to have leagues between me and them." Walder said.

"And I'd like nothing more than to talk to my lady mother, but I imagine it's rather awkward where she is as is. No need for me to sidle in as though I were late to dinner." Jaime said wryly. He turned to Freglyn, who looked little more at ease. And that only on account of his lack of Frey blood. "I'll want Omer on hand for the journey to White Harbor, if only to confirm I've bought it before the lot of you toss me on a bier." Jaime told him.

"Aye, ser. Omer and a torch." He said, before heading into the corridor to find the maester.

"You're not going to die." Brienne said, getting up with rather more grace than Jaime could muster himself.

"I'm afraid it's not up to me, my lady-"

"Your opinion on the matter is moot, Ser Jaime. Maester Omer has already opined that you're unlikely to die if you haven't already, as I believe Ser Bronn may have mentioned, and any who would seek your end has me to mince words with. I do not need Oathkeeper to wreak blue havoc, as you're well aware." Jaime gave a rueful smile.

"With respect, my lady, I was fresh out of chains and half-blinded by daylight."

"And about as able to do the trick again as the average sack of onions. Might be just now you feel like keeping quiet, before she hauls you back to the hall over a shoulder." Bronn said, grin wide as it was insolent.

"If I feared I'd be recognized, that might be enough to have me shutting my mouth." Jaime replied, standing with some trepidation. "Enough whispering sweet nothings to each other. We might leave any day and blinking sleep out of our eyes won't much improve the journey." He said. And I am done with missing the scant days at Winterfell that remain us lying on a table a hundred paces from the realm at large.

Jaime woke the next morning stiff and full of pins, but there was no shooting sharpness as he sat up and even his shoulder was not howling fit to woo a direwolf. Though that could, of course, change on a whim. When something moved beside him, he was surprised at how unsurprised he was to find Brienne of Tarth groaning softly as she pulled the blankets he had surrendered over herself.

"What, no blade between us for honor's sake? My lady, what would the septon say?"

"Just because you're well enough to take to a bed doesn't mean I have to give it up at the same time." Her voice was muffled, but her words were clear beneath the thick wool.

"Meantime I'd sooner have my lady in my company when I go to breakfast, I fear I'll fare poorly should I let Bronn play nursemaid."

"You'll fare poorer still if you push on to White Harbor. What's a few more weeks spent in Winterfell, ser? A few months?" Brienne asked. Jaime slipped his hand over where hers was beneath the blanket.

"Were it only me, I might consider it. But we've still far more people here than the castle can reasonably provision indefinitely, and if someone of some note suggests moving on, at least a few might consider it and thus free Winterfell of mouths. White Harbor has the bounty of the sea, as well as Gulltown beyond it. Mayhaps that's as far as we make it, but we won't know until we try." We'll not win back Westeros cooped up in one of the Starks' spare chambers. Brienne didn't seem convinced.

"When will you make your proposition to the others? The westermen may follow you, but there's no guarantee the rest will follow suit." Jaime snorted.

"I'll simply stand before them and tell them I want to put more distance between us and the Land of Always Winter. I doubt I'll hear much in the way of dissent on that score." he replied. "And I've had my fill of sitting on my arse. Any more of this and I'll have to change House Lannister's sigil from a golden lion to a stone one."

I'll be where I sit for a good few hours, Jaime thought, so I best pick the most comfortable seat. Rather than lose himself among the westermen (pleased as he was to see they were not objecting whatever to Brienne among them) he sought out where the crownlanders had made spaces for themselves. A merchant here, a hedge knight there he half recognized. Most of these people will be from King's Landing itself.

"Ser Jaime." Someone greeted him, Jaime wincing when he went to turn. His annoyance at the nagging pain got shoved aside when he saw Renfred Rykker looking his way.

"Last I heard, you had a horse blasted out from under you. Just how far has your luck held, my lord?"

"My wife and children stayed below during the battle, so all they got from the Others was a hellish scare." He seemed reticent to say much further. "Pardon me, Ser Jaime, but I must keep myself well clear of whatever you might get up to. I don't want to miss anything, but my lady wife would murder me."

"And you'd more than deserve it, my lord. At most, you'd be asked to keep Duskendale going much as you had before I found you in your dungeon solar." Perhaps without the threat of Cersei's wrath hanging over your head. Lord Renfred's relief was palpable, but it was hard for Jaime to keep his focus trained on the man with the iron hatchling's gaze flashing his way, neck craning off the queen's shoulder while she admonished him. Perhaps it was a timely wince, perhaps it was a trick of the low light in the room, but Jaime fancied the dragon's eyes slipped over to the westermen briefly before they found Jaime again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Just what are you on about? The orange hatchling could not have been acting more a proper dragon, he and the snow princess devouring anything that happened to fill her plate as Tormund Giantsbane laughed himself a proper Lannister red. The blue female was no doubt underneath a helm or lingering beneath the table, too large now to fit down a drinking horn. If indeed she's here. The sun has risen, and that means she's gone to ground. At least, that was how Freglyn told it. What kind of dragon prefers to linger beneath the earth, coming out only once the sun's gone down to chase the dead?

"Nephew, are you not going to introduce your kin to Lady Tarth?" Aunt Genna had waded (rather deftly, given her size) through the breakfast crowd to loom over Jaime expectantly. I have better things to do than puzzle out the doings of a few new-hatched dragons. We've more than a few people better suited to such a task. Out from behind her peeked a girl of eight or nine Jaime half-recognized. And that more from her golden locks and green eyes.

"Ser Jaime." she greeted him, cheeks going red. At least you didn't stumble over your own tongue, child.

"Cousin. Have you seen Ser Steffon yet? It would do him good to know some Swyft blood besides his own saw today." His aunt's mouth curled.

"Meantime it would do you good to make certain some Lannister blood sees tomorrow, ser."

"Waiting for the moment, if you like. Janei, do be a dear and get word to the queen that the iron hatchling staring at people hardly makes one feel welcome in the hall." Janei's green eyes went wide. "Go on. Her Grace isn't one to bite a young girl's head off for wanting a word. She was one such herself, once…and to someone my age, still is." Janei didn't seem particularly inspired, but to her great credit she began to bustle toward the royal table. "Oh ho, rather more Lannister blood than Swyft, hm? Uncle Kevan would be proud." Genna snorted.

"It's well Dorna's brother lives. Imagine wasting such potential as Janei possesses on Cornfield. A lion ruling a chicken coop, the farce writes itself." The Swyft arms showed a blue chicken upon a yellow field. Her head turned back toward their countrymen. "Now, Lady Brienne is a different sort of blue, don't you think?" More than think, my lady aunt, I rather know. "You needn't dance around her, my sweet. You're not massing ranks or calling men to arms any longer."

"There are men my age with sons grown near to manhood." Jaime said.

"And men twice your age wed to girls young enough to be their granddaughters, grey done men who father children they will not see out of swaddling." His aunt retorted, not impressed. What I would not give to have this talk with mine own lady mother. "I heard one of your knights somehow sniffed out a new squire, one with a curiously pinched chin."

"He did, at that. Or so I've heard."

"Hang 'heard', Jaime. Have you forgotten there's more than one Walder at Winterfell just now?"

"Now who's dancing around the issue, my lady? If you want me to take your son on as a squire, I must tell you I have a unique gift for careening into most every pile of manure placed in my path." No matter how I swerve and steer to avoid them. "We'll not return to the Rock for a good long while at any rate. I happen to be down a squire at the moment so it wouldn't be too much trouble to take Walder on, but I'd like rather more to have you near at hand to mind our kin for the journey to King's Landing…and our days spent in the capital too, aye." While Genna led Janei Brienne's way, Jaime let Bronn know they would shortly be joined by yet another Frey squire.

"Well, with a Walder each for you and I, at least we'll get a laugh or two out of watching them try to work out who's meant to do what." he said, loading up his spoon with peas…and quickly shoveling them in his mouth when Brienne chanced to look their way.