Walder Frey is dead.
Ser Jammos Frey knew that even being the thirteenth son of late Lord Walder, distant in the line of succession, would not save his life. The old man’s body hanging limp on the ramparts of the Twins signaled bloodshed between Frey brothers, all desperate to be crowned the next Lord of the Trident. Ser Jammos had no interest in being lord, so he, with his stepbrother Ser Jared Frey, fled the Twins with the meager forces Jared could muster.
The pair were on their way to Seagard, a castle not many leagues south of the Twins. Sixty sworn men followed them in formidable winter, low on food, low on sleep. “Who do you think killed him?” Jammos asked Ser Jared, firstborn son of Walder’s second wife.
Jammos tried to keep the chill from his voice, but Jared was good at sensing fear… and great at tormenting him for it. “I can guess,” he said, his grin malicious, enjoying knowing what his stepbrother did not. “It is the same man we are to meet at Seagard. Maybe he did it to become the next Lord of the Trident. Maybe he will do you the same. After all, these sixty men are sworn to me. What use does he have of you?”
Jared let Jammos wallow before chuckling again. “Relax, brother. Once we reach Seagard, I will see to it Ser Hosteen Frey makes good use of you. Too much Frey blood has been spilled.”
And there is more to come, Jammos could not help but think. Lord Walder’s death was the beginning of battles with no end in sight. He could not even remember which Freys were still alive. There was him and Jared, marching to Seagard before snow could stop them. There was Ser Hosteen Frey, the knight of great repute, garrisoned in Seagard. And there were the three Freys currently holding the Twins – Ser Emmon Frey, heir to Lord Walder, his sister Perriane and their cocky nephew Rhaegar Frey, the fool wearing a dragon’s name.
Emmon held most of the forces, but Ser Hosteen was the better commander. Instead of pledging fealty to Emmon, Jared had convinced him to turn to Hosteen instead. “Emmon was a favourite of Lord Walder. It is said they hatched the Red Wedding together. Do you really want to ally yourself with such a plague?”
Their men were tired, Jammos knew. So was he, but Jared gave them no choice. When one of them complained, he told them, “You want to rest? Feel free. If we need meat, so will we.” Jared was not tired, but it seemed like he was the only one. Jammos was ready to collapse near a tree and let snow bury him.
Tired bodies, tired minds… it was no wonder few heard the hooves charge down upon them. If they had reacted quicker, perhaps they could have put up a fight. Instead, Jammos watched with horror as their men were cut down with ease. Most of them yielded before the men. Some were eager to die: they lazily drew swords before mercifully being stabbed in the heart. Jammos wished to fight, but found his legs to be made of stone.
Jared never gave in easy. Jammos saw him slash the legs of a horse and kill its rider. He saw Jared duel two swordsmen at once, gash one’s throat. He saw Jared trip over snow bright as blood. He saw three hooded riders dismount from their horses, walk toward the fallen Frey and lay their swords in him. As Jared lay dead, one of the hooded men saw Jammos. Before long, they were walking toward him like omens of death. Jammos was too tired to fight.
Death was preferable.
The men removed their hoods. Before Jammos stood Ser Emmon, his face bearded, scarred but grinning. Beside him, his nephew Rhaegar was visibly pleased to have blood on his sword, while Lady Perriane stood beside them both, fidgeting with her gold chain. She looked different in battle gear, yet even with her black hair hidden behind winter wear, was unmistakably beautiful.
“Brother,” began Emmon, somewhat cheerily, “it looks like things are not going well for you. Maybe it can, if-”
“We want to know Hosteen’s battle plans,” Rhaegar interjected. “That, or your life.” He pointed at his bloody sword.
In spite of everything, Jammos could not help smile. Rhaegar Frey was never good at negotiation. “Would if I could,” he said wearily. “But Hosteen only trusted Jared with such plans. I know naught of it.”
“The hard way, is it?” started Emmon, his smile waning. He drew his sword but was interrupted again, this time by Perriane. “I doubt he lies, my lord,” she said. “Hosteen is too smart to share secrets with him. Jammos is the worst of us Freys. He does not even deserve your blade.”
Jammos was grateful for Perriane. If not for her, the Frey army would not have left him, deserted in the middle of the woods, ripe for death. Exhausted, Jammos found a tree not bathed in blood to rest under. He imagined the dreams he would see.
*
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