The dungeons still stank of death.
As if imprisonment were not enough, Lord Walder Frey had made him suffer the ignominy of smelling him die. There were no torches here – deliberately, he knew – which meant Ser Edmure Tully did not see the captive in the cell in front of him. Neither could he speak with him – the prisoner was well gagged, unable to utter a syllable. Or were there two? He would never know.
They died within days of capture. This was possibly years ago. No one bothered clearing out their corpses, perhaps on Lord Walder’s commands himself. Despite the time that had passed, the stench of death had never disappeared. Edmure was grateful for that. Every breath he took was a reminder on the vengeance he owed his friends of Frey.
He knew he was kept alive for Tully name alone, although it had been years since he stopped asking what would happen next. Edmure was numb to it. His long wavy hair was a tangled mess, dancing on his shoulder blades, while a massive beard covered his face, making him unrecognizable. All he could do was wait – wait for his moment, wait to exact revenge on all those who wronged his family.
The door opened and Edmure’s heart skipped a beat. He had lost all track of time here, yet knew it was too soon for supper. The man held a lantern and the fire was in Edmure’s eyes, yet he recognized the voice as soon as it spoke.
“Still alive, heh?”
Edmure felt his fists clench, albeit weakly. He wants me to beg, he said to himself. I will not give him the satisfaction. He could see Lord Walder’s face clearer now, thin, droopy eyes, a leering smile, the flab underneath his chin. “Heh, I see you now. It must be you. There is no one else in the dungeons, see.”
Edmure moved closer to the bars of the cell, looking right into Frey’s grey eyes, promising himself never to flinch. Lord Walder hardly noticed his grit. He went on. “Awful, was it not… the Red Wedding? Do you remember it? Do you remember the death of your sister, of your king?”
“Yes.” Tully’s reply was hoarse. He had not spoken for days.
There was an edge to Lord Walder’s voice now, it uncharacteristically rang across the dungeons. “You are the last of them. What can you do, heh? Can you dare fight those who did this to you?”
Edmure was past diplomacy. If I die, so be it. Better die begging for vengeance than for mercy. “Dare set me free,” he said, “and I will rain seven hells upon your family with as much as a tourney sword. Starting with you, my Lord. How does slicing your throat ear to ear sound, if it please you?”
“Sounds good,” Frey said, unmasking himself. “But I’ve already done the second bit for you,” the girl underneath added. “You’d best get onto the first.”
There was a click, and Edmure’s cell swung open.
*
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