Ever since Emmon Frey saw the castle in the distance, he trotted his horse forward without stopping. His army, on foot, begged for respite, but he would not hear it. He had already stabbed two men for attempting to rest as an example for others who dared to.
As Seagard approached closer to his force of one thousand men, Emmon could not resist counting his chickens. “Death or otherwise, this will be a glorious battle, Ser Hosteen,” he murmured to himself, licking his lips. Hosteen was always the better knight between them, and Emmon had not forgiven him for that. But today, he thought, his army was bigger and Hosteen did not have the men to withstand a siege.
“We must conquer this castle quickly, my Lord,” Perriane said on her horse beside him, breaking his thoughts. “The men are getting restless.”
“They may be starving for all I care,” Emmon sniped back, yet quietly enough for them to not hear. “As long as they can wield a sword, it’s all the same to me.” Don’t think I don’t know what you are planning, sister. He knew Perriane since they were fed by the same wet nurse; he would be disappointed if she were not plotting his untimely demise. Emmon had made some arrangements himself. Two can play at this game, sweet sister.
As Seagard came closer, Emmon and his army’s pace dwindled to an eventual halt. For normal reasons, this was so no stray arrow could pierce them through the eye, but today it was more out of shock. For Emmon and Perriane and all their men could see, hanging on the ramparts of Seagard, the rotten and lifeless corpse of Ser Hosteen Frey.
There was movement behind him. When Emmon turned, an arrow was pointed at his head from beside his horse. He wore Frey colors. This is my own man. He turned to look at Perriane, only to see another arrow slice through her eye, this one from the castle. Mutely, she fell to the snowy surface. Her horse fled.
Men now marched out of the castle, but not in battle formations. They were few, perhaps only a hundred, but Emmon’s army did not move to attack them. They stood in uncertainty, not knowing what orders to follow. Some unsheathed swords but did no further.
The bearded man’s arrow was still aimed at Emmon. “You don’t even know who I am, do you?” the voice said, gruff and entirely unfamiliar. “You do not even know your own men.”
“We have no quarrel with you,” a voice from the hundred men said, as they approached them casually. “I see men here I remember. I see Patrek Mallister, a man forced to march to his own castle. Isn’t that you, Lord Hoster Blackwood? I know you would rather hold a book in your hand than shield. What are you doing, pledging your swords for the Frey who wants nothing but war?”
This voice was instantly recognizable. Emmon looked in his direction, hoping he had misheard, but it was not to be. It was, unmistakably, Brynden the Blackfish walking from Seagard.
“Attack!” Emmon wanted to shout, but the arrow aimed at his head kept his mouth honest. The man with the bow spoke now, more to Emmon’s army than to him. “Many of you may not recognize me now, but I still remember most of you. Father always told me to understand the people I must, one day, serve as lord to.”
Edmure Tully?
“They imprisoned me,” continued Edmure, “and they tortured me, but none of it took away my obedience, and neither should it yours. After the Red Wedding we kissed Walder Frey’s feet, bony and stinking of piss, but never did we want to. Walder was a tyrant and his legacy will be madmen like Emmon Frey. Look where they have left us on the cusp of winter!
“Do you still want to play pawns to kings, lords and ladies in their never-ending game of thrones?” Edmure lowered his bow, taking away the fear of death from Emmon’s eyes. “If I had my way we would all be at the Twins, preparing for winter, but I trust my people,” he said, tossing his bow and arrow to the ground. “I leave these Freys, for they must be known by their denomination alone, to you,” he said. “If you wish to crown him your lord, the choice is yours. None shall interfere.”
There was stunned silence. Then one man – Hoster Blackwood, was it? – stepped forward. He went up to Edmure Tully, sword in hand, and buried it in the snow underneath him. “I was taught to follow no other lord but Tully,” he said, “and today I will do my duty. If the Iron Throne recognizes House Frey as the Lord of Riverrun, fuck the Iron Throne! I will only stand for the man in front of me, Edmure Tully, the King of the Trident!”
The quiet was brief. Soldiers, eager to leave the Freys, eager for the march to end, all joined in – King of the Trident! Emmon sat in dismay, hearing a chant he always wanted heard for him yelled for someone else. An infantryman grabbed him from his horse. That was, Emmon knew, to be expected, yet it did not stop him screeching for mercy. The mercy never came.
*
End of episode – S07E06 will be published on Sunday, 5th August 2018, 8:30 am GMT
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