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GOT Chapter 79: Banquet at the Twins
🕑 Added 2025-08-18 03:07:40 +0000 UTC“And I say that old man’s grown senile!” “Is his head filled with nothing but the muck dredged from the bottom of the Red Fork? What fool id
“And I say that old man’s grown senile!”
“Is his head filled with nothing but the muck dredged from the bottom of the Red Fork? What fool idea was it to send that useless son of his to block the enemy?”
“To block them at their very gates, no less?!”
“And now what? Not only has that damned Edmure Tully been taken alive by Tywin, but he’s being used to force the old man into surrendering Riverrun!”
The more Robert thought on it, the angrier he became, cursing until his mouth ran dry.
Yet even so, his rage found no relief.
Eddard Stark rode in silence, listening to the King’s tirade, his weary face shadowed with a gloom that would not lift.
Kal Stone led his men guarding the King, eyes fixed straight ahead, as if hearing nothing at all.
At his side, Jon Snow copied his manner, riding at a trot behind Kal, his longsword hanging askew from his belt against the saddle.
Just then, a small mounted party approached, bearing the crowned stag banner of Robert Baratheon and the direwolf of House Stark.
“Your Grace,” one of them reported, “Lord Walder Frey awaits you outside Riverrun, together with his sons!”
Since Kal had taken up the King’s personal guard, he no longer served as the army’s scout and pathfinder.
And besides, this was war—there was no need for a half-trained man like him to carry out such tasks anymore.
And parties like this, scattered around the host, were not just a single small group.
They constantly patrolled the lands within several kilometers of the army, reporting back at any moment with news of the road ahead.
When word came that Lord Walder Frey had already ridden out to greet them, the King shut his foul mouth at last, and at once exchanged a glance with Lord Stark, who turned his eyes back with unspoken understanding.
“Your Grace, Lord Walder Frey is here to welcome us—”
Faced with the King’s glance, Lord Eddard offered the reminder.
But at his words, King Robert only gave a cold snort.
“Late as ever, that Lord Frey. Hmph—”
“His liege lord is trapped by Tywin Lannister in his own castle, gnawing on mudfish, and this old goat still has the leisure to ride out and meet me!”
Hearing Robert’s displeasure, Eddard Stark rubbed at his brow and, weary at heart, tried to soothe him in a low voice.
“Your Grace, now is not the time to speak of such things—”
“I know, damn it. This time the old man won’t be hiding behind anyone else’s arse. I’ll see him march with us, with all the forces of Riverrun at his back!”
“Or else—!”
Robert well understood the meaning behind Eddard’s words, but the anger smoldering in his chest would not be put out. Even so, he knew this moment was not like any other, and so he left the threat hanging, unfinished.
Hearing that, Eddard at last let out a breath of relief.
He gave a small nod toward the guards riding beside them, then turned back toward Robert, adjusted the cloak on his shoulders, tugged at his horse’s reins to slow his pace, and deliberately dropped back half a step before speaking.
“Then let us ride on, Your Grace. Since Lord Walder Frey himself comes to greet you, we must not show discourtesy.”
...
The Walder Frey that Kal saw was an old man seated on a stool, bald, toothless, his skin sagging and withered like tree bark, but with eyes as sly as a weasel’s.
Compared with his title as Lord of the Crossing and lord of the Twins, he looked nothing more than a lecherous old man, his face covered in dark brown age spots, making no attempt to hide his treachery.
Facing the visit of the King and Lord Eddard Stark, though his body barely moved upon the stool, his face still lit up with a smile of delight as he welcomed Robert and Eddard.
At his side, Kal noticed no fewer than twenty or thirty young men, all dressed in similar garb.
Clearly, this style of attire was meant as a sign of the Freys of the Twins.
And standing just behind him, closest of all, was a girl who still looked little more than a child. He introduced her himself—his eighth wife, Jeyne Enford, sixteen years old. She was plain-faced, small and frail, with the look of one suffering from malnutrition.
She stood behind her husband, eyes hollow, her pale face giving her a weak and feeble air.
The pleasantries between Lord Walder Frey, King Robert, and Lord Eddard Stark did not last long, for neither side had much interest in them.
After exchanging only a few necessary words of courtesy, Walder Frey led the King, Eddard, and a small escort into the Twins.
As for the rest of the Northern host, they were all temporarily quartered on the flat lands north of the Twins.
Now this army had no choice but to camp and rest, for after such a long forced march it was not only the men who were exhausted—the beasts of burden in the train were near collapse as well.
Thus Lord Eddard Stark, for the time being, decided to follow the Freys’ arrangements, set the army to camp, and then accompanied Walder Frey into the castle.
To welcome the two of them, Walder Frey had prepared a sumptuous banquet.
After the ritual breaking of bread and sharing of salt, granting the rights of guest, the company entered the great hall where the feast awaited. Even Kal and the others ate of Frey’s bread and salt.
Once seated at the high table, Robert only picked at a few bites, washed them down with a swallow of red wine, and then tossed aside his knife and fork. He turned his head toward Lord Walder Frey, who still sat upon his little stool, a soft pelt of some unknown beast draped across his knees.
“You ignored the summons of your liege lord. That means you must be well aware of the situation in the Riverlands—”
“Lord Walder Frey, I want you to tell me everything I need to know!”
Walder Frey, who had been sitting there chuckling and prattling about trivial matters, was not surprised by the King’s bluntness.
Hearing the King’s demand, he too set down his knife and fork, and waved for his new young wife to refill the wine cups of himself, the King, and the Lord Stark.
Then, under the increasingly impatient gaze of the King, Lord Walder finally raised his cup and looked at him.
“Yes, because of my old age, my reflexes are no longer as quick as the younger men, and so this time I did not manage to answer Lord Hoster Tully’s summons.”
“But I suppose I should count myself fortunate that my ‘legs’ were not swift enough—after all, I did not send my children off to die, nor let them become ‘hostages to be used against my liege lord.’”
At Walder Frey’s sharp-tongued reply, Eddard Stark hurried to take over the conversation before Robert lost his temper.
“Lord Frey, I think everyone understands your situation. His Grace the King does not blame you for it,” Eddard said loudly, setting down his knife and fork and swallowing a bite of fish. “It is only that His Grace is anxious to learn the state of the war.”
Glancing at Eddard Stark smoothing things over for Robert, Walder Frey only chuckled. He lifted his cup, sipped leisurely, then set it down again with calm composure before looking at the King and Eddard.
“Of course. I would consider it an honor.”
Walder Frey’s face was full of sly smiles, making him look all the more like a cunning weasel.
...
Kal, as one of the King’s guards, also sat at the feast, though his seat was further down from the King and his companions, where Frey’s children played host to them instead.
Compared with the two or three dozen Freys Kal had seen outside the castle earlier, there were even more here.
Over a hundred members of House Frey, men and women alike. With a single glance Kal could not even tell which were Walder Frey’s children, and which were his knights or retainers.
The rest of the company he could distinguish were the Northern lords and their retainers, who had joined the feast afterward.
But these men could not be bothered to waste time with Frey’s brood. Most simply kept their heads down, intent on devouring the food before them.
After all, on the long march south, fine meals had been rare.
Kal, after casting his eyes briefly over the hall, said nothing more and bent to his own plate.
Jon Snow, however, at his side, drew attention.
Whether from lack of hunger or simple curiosity overruling appetite, he held a spoon in his hand but spent his time gazing around the hall, eyes wide and restless, as though everything he saw was a marvel.
“If you’re hoping to choose a wife from among them, I’d advise you to pick carefully,” Kal murmured in warning, lowering his voice under cover of sipping his soup.
“From what I know, Lord Frey’s daughters are not renowned for their beauty. You’ll need a sharp eye to discover inner charms instead.”
As Jon Snow’s master, it was Kal’s duty to correct and guide his squire when he strayed.
But Jon only looked at him in confusion, not understanding why simple curiosity should suddenly mean he was expected to take a wife.
He opened his mouth, then hesitated, and finally asked in puzzled innocence: “But, Ser Kal… aren’t those girls all looking at you in the same way?”
Jon Snow did not understand what was wrong with what he had done.
For it was just as he had said—throughout the banquet, at the very same long table, even at the table opposite, the eyes of the girls were mostly fixed on Kal Stone’s face.
Even in places he could not see, the men were also sneaking curious glances at this tall, broad-shouldered man who stood out like a crane among chickens, even as he sat with his head bowed.
Yet before Kal could think of how to answer Jon’s question, Kossi, who had been quietly watching the exchange, leaned in with a grin and gave him a playful nudge.
Pointing proudly at Kal’s face, he whispered to Jon, “That’s because our boss is handsome!”
“If you grow a bit older, and shave off those few scraggly hairs on your chin, maybe then some girls will start staring at you too!”
As Kossi’s teasing fell, the rest of the mercenaries, who had also noticed this all-too-familiar situation, joined in with smirks, crowding closer to make sport of Jon as well.
“You’d better start by playing with a few women first!”
“Trust me, aside from the rare one who likes soft little things like you—sweet as melting sheep’s milk pudding—most women prefer a man who’s firm and forceful!”
“Strong!”
“Hard!”
“Get it?!”
“Hahahaha…”
Well, after this round of “crash-course learning,” Jon finally realized where the problem lay.
And so, with no small measure of sorrow, he understood it was all the fault of his knight’s face.
His habit of looking curiously around at everyone else—well, that did seem to be rather impolite.
But compared to that, the way women looked at men—especially when many women looked at a handsome man—was more of a discreet privilege.
