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Game of Thrones: House of Black Dragon
Game of Thrones: BLOODTHIRSTY BASTARD
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Unlike the nearly extinct Arryns, the Lannisters had more branches than anyone could count. Joffrey could throw a rock and hit a cousin eight times removed.
House Frey was a different kind of prolific.
Thanks to old Lord Walder's decades of tireless "plowing," they had produced dozens of separate branches.
In a land that practiced monogamy, the man had taken eight wives and fathered so many sons, grandsons, great-grandsons, bastards, and bastards of bastards that they could have formed a small mountain of people.
So the death of a few Freys meant nothing to most.
But Stevron Frey took it very seriously. He had been the heir for sixty years.
Sixty years! Long enough for a man to go from crying newborn to gray-haired elder.
He had three wives and three sons.
The middle son, Aegon Frey, was a simpleton. The youngest son's claim was far down the line.
Now that Stevron could feel his own end approaching, he had pinned every hope on his eldest son.
But that eldest son and his eldest grandson had both been taken. The second grandson's fate was unknown.
If anything happened to them, his younger brothers, nephews, and cousins would strip their branch bare.
Fortunately, nobles still observed a few courtesies.
When you captured an enemy's heir, you usually kept him well fed and comfortable. The winner collected ransom money. The loser paid to get his people back.
Some lords with a sense of honor even allowed captives to be released on parole before the ransom was paid, so they could go home and raise the coin themselves.
Guest right was taken seriously.
"It wasn't a noble house that took them," Joffrey said, scratching his chin and nodding for Stevron to keep reading. "They call themselves the Nameless Brotherhood."
The letter came with a finger wrapped in a scrap of cloth bearing the Frey twin-tower sigil. The cloth had probably been gray-blue once. Now it was soaked dark brown with blood.
The message was blunt.
If the wolf cubs or the trout didn't get out, the Brotherhood would send one finger a day. When the fingers ran out, they would start on the toes. When the toes were gone, they would send whatever was left.
Stevron's mouth fell open and he began to wail. "My son! My boy!"
"Your Grace, my lords, I beg you—find a way to save them!"
The old weasel's grief was so theatrical that the other nobles turned their faces away and covered their mouths with their sleeves.
Their shoulders shook violently.
Good-hearted Lord Jonos Bracken rose, lips pressed tight, and walked over to Stevron. He patted the man's shoulder and spoke the expected words.
"Be strong, old friend."
His hands, however, were already hauling Stevron to his feet and steering him toward the tent flap.
The moment the curtain fell, the remaining lords exchanged knowing glances.
Greatjon Umber grinned wide. "I was just about to comfort the poor bastard myself, but Jonos beat me to it. The man's got a heart of gold."
"Doesn't he?" Jason Mallister added. "House Bracken has always been quick to help a neighbor in distress—even when that neighbor's seat is a hundred miles away on the other side of the Red Fork."
A wave of suppressed laughter rippled through the tent.
From the frozen North to the southern deserts, House Frey's reputation was known to all.
A jumped-up toll collector's family thought they could sit at the same table as houses a thousand years older?
Ha.
Good riddance.
Everyone knew the situation was hopeless.
There were no real bandits in the Reach.
The letter hadn't even said where to find the captives. It was pure intimidation.
And it had been written on fine parchment. Real outlaws would have been lucky to scrawl their demands on tree bark.
Greatjon's fists cracked as he clenched them.
"Your Grace, let me take some men and rip the heads off these so-called brothers before they cause more trouble behind our lines."
"No need," Joffrey said, shaking his head. "We can't move the main army. Send out a few scouts to learn what this Nameless Brotherhood actually is."
"Besides, if you leave now, who's going to lead the first assault on the city?"
Greatjon laughed twice and sat back down. "Can't have that, Your Grace. I'm staying right here."
Eddard tapped the table lightly with his fingers. "This is almost certainly Randyll Tarly's doing."
"He gave up the Unnamed River line too cleanly. He wouldn't have left without planting a few thorns in our rear. If it were me, I'd have left men behind enemy lines as well."
Lord Mathis Rowan cleared his throat. "Your Grace, the Reach has never had any serious bandit problem. This group must have appeared very recently."
"What?" Greatjon's eyes widened. "Are you saying we caused this? That our arrival—"
The tent fell silent.
Every lord lowered his gaze.
We all see what's happening. Why say it out loud, you oaf?
The truth was obvious.
Westerosi soldiers were the same everywhere.
Eddard, Randyll, and Stannis kept tight discipline, but even they could only control what happened right under their noses.
Farther away, who knew what their men were really doing?
Joffrey clapped his hands, cutting off the argument before it could start.
"It's late. Everyone get some rest."
The next morning, thin mist hung over the Mander.
All the way from Bitterbridge, Joffrey had seen only muddy, winding stretches of river. Here near Highgarden the water suddenly widened, clear and slow, sparkling in the early light.
Too wide.
Wider than the Blackwater, and completely empty of bridges.
No floating bridge could be built either.
On the march Joffrey had tried to collect boats, but every village along the way had either sunk theirs or hidden them.
Eddard had worked hard and managed to bring only a few dozen from Goldengrove.
Fortunately there were no large forests nearby, but they could still build simple rafts.
Better still, the allied army was upstream, so they didn't have to worry about Renly sending fire ships downstream to smash into them.
Greatjon stood on the bank, finished pissing into the river, and bellowed at the men behind him, "Get your heads out of your asses! Anyone who falls in is swimming the rest of the way—no one's fishing you out!"
The northerners roared their answer and kept working without pause. Rafts slid into the water, sending up great sprays.
The first wave across was three thousand northerners. Their job was to secure a foothold on the far bank and hold the crossing until the rest of the army followed.
If Lord Mace had any courage at all, this would have been the perfect moment to strike—half the enemy force still in the water.
But Mace didn't dare.
At the same time, Jonos Bracken led the Riverlands troops across the Unnamed River and pushed southwest, sweeping villages and outposts as they went, driving straight for the coast road.
Cut that road and Highgarden's link to the western Reach would be severed for good.
As for the force that had been sent toward Bitterbridge earlier, it had already pulled back, leaving only a few scouts and a small garrison to keep the defenders busy.
The rest were marching south through the night to link up with Jonos and form a northern arc around Highgarden.
Eddard and Joffrey kept the remaining ten thousand men in the main camp as a reserve, ready to reinforce either bank at a moment's notice.
Under that kind of pressure, Mace had completely withdrawn into his shell. His ten thousand men didn't even send out a single scout.
Joffrey stared across the river at the white castle and felt a strange weight in his chest.
Highgarden.
He hadn't expected to reach its walls so quickly.
He wondered where Jaime was right now.