Redemption of the Dragon

Act 1 – Survival · Chapter 20: The Wedding

The Freys welcomed them with wet smiles.

That was how Tor put it, and no one improved on it.

Rain had fallen through the morning and left the camp outside the Twins shining with mud, torchlight, and puddles that caught the grey sky in pieces. Frey men waited along the road in cloaks dark with damp, their badges showing twin towers, their faces arranged into courtesy. They called out welcome. They pointed men toward ground already marked for tents. They had fires ready, barrels waiting, carts of bread under canvas, and servants moving through the muck with more haste than joy.

It was more than Tom had expected.

That did not make him trust it.

Greatjon Umber rode at the head of their column like a man entering a hall already certain the benches would hold his weight. Smalljon rode near him, laughing at something one of the Frey outriders had said. Or mayhaps laughing because he had decided not to let the Frey see him do anything else.

The nobles went inside.

That, too, had a shape everyone understood.

Robb Stark. His mother. Greatjon. The river lords. The high captains. Men with names that opened gates and earned seats near fires under roofs. They crossed toward the bridge and the walls of the Twins while the rest of the army settled where common soldiers belonged: outside stone, under sky, in mud, close enough to hear music if the wind chose kindly.

Tom watched the noble column pass through the gate.

He saw Greatjon turn once and lift one huge hand toward his men. The Umber men roared approval. Smalljon grinned like the night owed him drink. Then they were gone into the Frey hall, swallowed by torchlight and stone.

"There go the dry men," Tor said.

Jory sat his horse beside him, cloak hood drawn low. "There go the watched men."

Tor looked at the walls. "Aye. But dry."

Tom looked from the gate to the camp.

"Set fires," he said. "Keep lines clean. No one wanders alone."

Pate groaned. "It is a wedding feast, Captain."

"Then no one should mind having friends nearby."

Donnel gave a low laugh. "That sounds almost cheerful."

"I am festive."

Tor slapped Tom on the shoulder. "He is. Look at him. Joy made flesh."

Willam snorted before he could stop himself.

That eased something.

Not much.

Enough for men to begin making camp.

The ground given to Greatjon's men lay near a line of low wagons and a ditch that had been dug badly, then abandoned when it filled with water. Frey servants brought more rushes than usefulness. Bolton men were camped not far off, pale cloaks darkened by rain, flayed man badges catching firelight when they moved.

Tom noticed that.

So did Jory.

No one said anything.

There were too many things a man could notice and still do nothing about.

By dusk, the camp had found its noise.

Men who had marched too long remembered that they liked each other. Old companions drifted together across fire lines. Harl Tanner arrived with two men Tom half-remembered from the Green Fork and a skin of ale that tasted like sour apples and old boots. Pate found Donnel and Willam and began arguing that western beer had more pride than sense. Mikken had already inspected the nearest wagon wheel and declared it a crime against trees.

Garrel appeared out of rain and shadow carrying a Frey sausage in one hand.

"Did you steal that?" Jory asked.

"No."

Jory waited.

"I rescued it," Garrel said.

"From whom?"

"From being eaten by someone worse."

Tor took half of it before Garrel finished speaking.

Garrel looked offended, which was brave for a man with only half a sausage left and Tor standing beside him.

Osric came later, shook water from his cloak, and sat at the edge of the fire without greeting anyone. That was his greeting. Willam passed him a cup. Osric drank, made a face, and drank again because the second wrong taste offended less than the first.

For a while, it was almost good.

Not safe.

Good.

There was a difference, and men who had lived too long without either sometimes mistook one for the other.

Music drifted faintly from the Twins when the wind turned. Pipes and strings, blurred by stone and rain. Men cheered when they heard it, though they could not hear enough to know whether the tune deserved cheering. Someone started a northern song near the Umber fires. Someone else ruined the words. That made the song louder. Small fires became larger fires. Barrels opened. Bread passed. Salted fish. Boiled onions. Thin stew made better by hunger and worse by Frey seasoning.

"What do you think they are eating inside?" Pate asked.

"Swans," Donnel said.

"Have you eaten swan?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"Seems like the sort of bird lords would eat to spite smaller birds."

Tor nodded solemnly. "I would eat a swan."

Jory looked at him. "You would eat a saddle if it smelled of gravy."

"A good saddle."

"No such thing."

"You wound me, brother."

Jory's mouth softened.

Just a little.

Tom saw it and looked away before either man noticed he had.

The rain thinned to mist. More ale came. Frey boys carried it in and out of the firelight with faces too blank for boys at a wedding. Bolton men drank less than others. That was not odd by itself. Bolton men did many things less warmly than other men.

Still.

Tom watched one of them tip a cup against his mouth and swallow nothing.

He looked for Jory.

Jory had seen it too.

"Mayhaps he dislikes the ale," Tor said.

Tom had not realized Tor was watching.

"It is bad ale," Pate said.

"Bad ale still counts."

Harl leaned closer to the fire, his grey beard beaded with damp. "A man who will not drink at another man's wedding should at least look ashamed."

That earned a few laughs.

Not from Jory.

Not from Tom.

The mood shifted by inches.

No horn. No shout. No clear sign that any man could point to and say there, that was when the night turned. It was smaller than that. Frey servants stopped lingering near northern fires. Bolton men began standing more than sitting. The music from inside the Twins changed, or mayhaps the wind changed and made it sound thinner. Men who had been laughing too loudly began blinking slowly, cups loose in their hands.

One of the Umber men fell over.

At first, men laughed.

He was large and drunk and had been singing at the wrong fire for half an hour. He dropped sideways from a log, hit the mud with a wet slap, and rolled onto his back with his mouth open. Someone cheered. Someone told him to sleep beneath the stars like a proper northman.

Then Willam stopped laughing.

"His eyes," he said.

Tom looked.

The man on the ground stared up at the rain with blood running from the corners of both eyes.

Not much.

Enough.

The fire popped.

No one moved.

Blood gathered at the man's lashes and slid down into his beard.

"Poison," Jory said.

The word was quiet.

It still seemed to reach every man near the fire.

Tor stood.

So did Tom.

Across the camp, a Frey man drew steel.

Then the night opened.

It did not begin everywhere at once, though later men would remember it that way if any lived to remember. It began in pieces. A shout near the horse lines. A scream by the wagons. A table overturned. A northern man trying to stand and finding a knife already under his ribs. Bolton men stepping into firelight with spears lowered. Frey axes rising behind men who had been handed cups a moment before.

"Shields!" Tom shouted.

Too late for shields.

Not too late for hands.

Men grabbed what was near. Knives. Cups. Brands from the fire. Half-buckled swords. A spear leaned against a wagon. A stool. Donnel caught a Frey man by the throat and drove him backward into the fire so hard sparks flew up like orange rain. Pate took an axe haft on his shoulder and stabbed the bearer in the thigh with a eating knife. Willam fumbled for his spear and nearly lost his hand to a Bolton blade before Osric put an arrow through the man's cheek from three paces away.

Tom drew steel.

There was no line.

No center.

No command large enough to fit the thing happening around him.

Only patches of men trying not to die.

"To me!" he shouted.

Some heard.

Some could not.

Harl struck a Frey with a cooking pot and then killed him with a sword taken from the man's belt. Garrel vanished under a wagon and came out behind someone else. Mikken roared once, not words, and broke a Bolton shield with his maul. Fires went over. Tents collapsed. Men slipped in mud, blood, ale, stew. The music from the Twins kept playing.

That was the worst part for one breath.

Then there were too many worst parts.

Jory was off his horse now, sword in hand, back toward Tor. He fought narrow and clean, every motion tight around old pain. Tor fought like a man trying to become a wall. Frey men came at them from the wagon line, three at first, then more behind.

"Left!" Tom shouted.

Jory turned.

Too slow.

A Frey axe came around from behind him, low and mean, meant for the side of the neck where mail did not sit right.

Tor stepped between them.

The axe hit his back.

It made a sound Tom would remember if he lived long enough to hate memory.

Tor lurched forward.

Jory made a noise that was not a word.

The Frey tried to pull the axe free.

Jory killed him.

Not cleanly.

Not like Jory.

He struck the man across the face, then again when he fell, then again when there was no need except that the need had moved somewhere deeper than sense.

"Jory!" Tom shouted.

Tor turned with the axe still buried high in his back.

His face was pale around the mouth.

He smiled.

It was a terrible thing.

"Still ugly?" he asked.

Jory reached for him.

A Bolton spear came from Tom's right.

Tom saw the point too late.

Tor did not.

He slammed into Tom with one shoulder and knocked him hard into the mud.

The spear meant for Tom went into Tor's belly.

For a moment the world held still around the shaft.

Tor looked down at it as if offended.

The Bolton man grinned.

Then Tor grabbed the spear with both hands and pulled.

Not away.

Deeper.

He hauled the Bolton man forward with it, step by stumbling step, the shaft sliding through him until the man's grin became fear. Tor's knife came up under the Bolton's chin.

Once.

The man fell.

Tor stayed standing.

Tom tried to rise.

His hand slid in mud.

"Tor!" Jory screamed.

That was Jory's voice, but broken open. Tom had heard men scream under blades, under fire, under horses. He had never heard Jory make a sound like that.

Three Bolton men came at Tom before he could find his feet.

He got one knee under him.

A boot struck his ribs and drove the breath out. A spear haft cracked across his shoulder. He rolled, caught a glimpse of pale cloaks and dark mail, then brought his sword up in time to turn a short blade away from his face. Another blow caught him above the ear. Light burst white behind his eyes.

He stabbed low.

He hit someone.

Not enough.

A shield smashed into his mouth.

The taste of blood came hot and copper-sharp.

Tom fell onto his back.

Above him, the camp had become broken pieces of fire and steel.

Bolton men moved among northern fires. Frey men cut down men too drunk or poisoned to stand. Umber voices roared and died. Someone shouted for Greatjon. Someone shouted that the gates were shut. Someone shouted for the king. Someone prayed to gods old or new and got no answer Tom could hear.

Tor was still standing.

That was impossible.

He stood bent around the spear in his belly, axe wound black across his back, knife in one hand. A Frey man came near him and changed his mind. Tor took one step toward Jory.

Then another spear struck him in the throat.

The point came out dark.

Tor's eyes widened.

Jory reached him before he fell.

Or tried to.

A mace caught Jory in the shoulder with a wet crack. He crumpled sideways into the mud, one arm folding wrong beneath him.

Tom tried to shout.

Nothing came out but blood.

The Bolton men were on him again.

One kicked his sword away.

Another drove a knee into his chest and pinned him in the muck. Tom reached for the knife at his belt. A boot crushed his wrist. Something struck his face. Then again. Then lower, against the ribs, against the belly, against the side of his head.

He saw Tor on the ground.

He saw Jory beside him.

He saw firelight in puddles.

He saw a Frey banner hanging limp in rain.

He saw the Twins above the camp, dark and high and closed.

The blows kept coming.

Tom's body stopped answering.

Someone said, "This one still breathes."

Someone else said, "Not for long."

The music played on inside the walls.

Tom tried to move.

Could not.

The world narrowed to mud against his cheek, blood in his mouth, and the shape of Tor's hand lying open just beyond reach.

Then even that went dark.

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Disclaimer: Frostfyre is a non-commercial fan fiction project inspired by a Realm of Thrones campaign for Mount & Blade II: Bannerlord and set in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. All rights to those original settings and characters remain with their respective owners.