Following Daven, a frail man of about sixty approached us. He had virtually no chin, but a prominent Adam's apple, and he gestured nervously with his hands.
He looked frankly pale against the backdrop of the huge and lively Daven. In addition, from constantly chewing sourleaves, his lips and teeth were stained a bluish color.
"Your Majesty," the man said quietly, diligently averting his eyes.
"This is Ser Emmon Frey," Daven announced loudly in a voice that carried far and wide, then laughed for some unknown reason. With renewed interest, I looked once more from head to toe at the man who was the husband of Tywin and Kevan's sister, Genna.
"And this is Ser Ryman Frey and his son, Ser Edwyn," Daven continued, introducing the other lords.
Ryman was a short, round-faced, extremely well-fed man well over forty. On the approach to Riverrun, when Jaime had been describing all the people of note to me, he characterized him simply as "dull as a cork." His son Edwyn was a pale, thin man of twenty-four. Jaime laughed, saying the boy suffered from constipation. That was his nickname—Eddie the Constipation—both for his physiology and because he preferred to hide in the nearest fortress and lock all the gates the moment he saw the enemy.
The last to approach us was a taciturn, stern warrior in gray clothes, his surcoat embroidered with a coat of arms—two towers on a blue field, crossed diagonally by a red band. This was Walder Rivers, bastard son of Walder Frey, and Jaime remarked that "he alone is worth all the Freys, living and dead, sound and crippled."
After making the necessary introductions, we mounted again and continued on our way. Daven, riding between Jaime and me, briefed us in short, precise sentences, telling us about the state of the army, morale, the condition of the besieged, and other details.
The camp greeted us with noise and stench. I doubted that anywhere in Westeros the matter of soldiers' latrines was approached seriously or thoughtfully. Here, many had simply never heard such a word as sanitation.
A huge crowd gathered to stare at us. Soldiers stood along the road and bowed as I rode past. We moved through the camp, first passing the gambling dens that lined the roads. For ordinary soldiers, these were simple closed wagons. For those with more coin, there were tents. For the most influential men, there were real, spacious tents.
Then came the encampments of individual knights, squires, mercenaries, archers, carts, field smithies, and kitchens, and of course the numerous merchants—where would a large army be without them?
All of this was arranged separately and did not mix; one could clearly sense that the camp had been laid out and planned by a confident, steady hand.
Tents stood all around, along with trebuchets protected by moats and fascines. Closer to the castle walls, the moats were deeper, fenced with a palisade that prevented the besieged from making sorties.
We were led to a huge red tent, where we were met by Lady Genna Frey, née Lannister—a stately, heavily overweight woman with an impressive bosom, well over fifty years old.
"Your Majesty," Lady Genna curtsied. She moved confidently and independently.
"I am very pleased to finally meet you in person, Grandmother," I said with a smile to my relative, about whom I had heard many good things. The other Lannisters invariably spoke of her wisdom, prudence, and authority.
After all the necessary formalities, Lady Genna did not stand on ceremony and allowed herself to hug me and kiss me on the cheek.
"My dear, I remember you like this," she said with a smile, spreading her large hands slightly. "And now look how tall you've grown. You're the spitting image of Tywin. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Thank you, Grandmother," I accepted the comparison as a compliment. "No, no one has."
"It's time for a snack, Your Majesty," Daven suggested. "The table is already set, and it would be an honor for all of us to share a meal with you." He turned to his servants and began issuing orders. His voice boomed throughout the camp. There was a lot of this man in every sense; his nickname suited him perfectly.
There were more than twenty people at the table—the most noble lords and knights who had arrived with us, along with Daven's people and the Freys. The dinner was noisy and cheerful. Daven alone would have been enough, but Aunt Genna was not much quieter, and together they laughed so loudly at times that horses in the distance whinnied in alarm.
Emmon Frey remained silent for most of the meal, timidly glancing at his wife, who paid him almost no attention.
Ryman and Edwyn Frey tried to contribute something intelligent and useful whenever possible, but few people listened to them. At the table, they sat beside Lyle Crakehall, who was a distant relative of theirs.
I was slowly beginning to acquaint myself with the local realities and to understand what each of the numerous lords represented.
Jaime spoke only with Daven, Genna, and, to my surprise, Walder Rivers. Genna asked me about the situation in King's Landing and about the health of my relatives.
"How is Tyrion? Is Tywin still angry and refusing to see him as a proper son?"
"It seems their relationship is changing, but unfortunately things are still difficult," I said with a shrug.
(End of Chapter)
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