The King of Winters

Chapter-111

One of them slipped behind the flap of the tent and came out after a minute. Ser Ryman came stomping from the tent in company with a straw-haired slattern as drunk as he was.

This Frey was a thickset man with a broad face, small eyes, and a soft fleshy set of chins. He was so round and so drunk that he couldn't even kneel properly. Argella suspected that he wouldn't be able to get up if he went down to one knee, that is if he managed to do it without falling down upon his face.

Ser Ryman found his voice after a moment. "Your grace," he said, bowing his head instead. His breath stank of wine and onions.

"It seems as if I have interrupted you in the middle of something important, ser." Argella eyed at Ser Ryman's whore.

The fat Frey smiled sheepishly. "Your grace, I-"

Argella stopped him with a flick of her finger. "I came here to see how good the defence of these lands are going?" She looked around at the armed men who'd gathered around Frey. "I was told that you are in charge of the defence of the lands south of the river."

Ser Raymun smiled, perhaps proud of the position Argella thought. "I am, your grace," he said. "And you have no reason to worry about. No Targaryen scum will come anywhere close to these lands, not while I, Ser Raymun Frey is in command."

Argella nodded, amused at his sense of false judgement. The man was not just a fool, but a proud fool it seemed. And there was never a worse mix than that. "Tell me ser, does the village of Springveld come under your father's domains?"

Ryman Frey squinted his eyes as he thought hard. Then he made a sound that might have been a laugh. "My father rules over huge swathes of land your grace. It is too hard to remember every village that comes under it. There must be at least a dozen villages under the name of Springveld, I'll warrant."

Argella hit him. It was a full faced blow delivered with her right hand. The force of it sent Ser Ryman's head jerking backwards. "You have a large form, ser. I only hit you in your cheek, such a small space of skin that you'd have no doubt missed it. You did miss it, did you not?"

The Frey soldiers of Ryman were either very brave or very foolish as they almost drew their blade. Her own men bared their steel, Ser Trent foremost among them. "Uh-huh," he said placing a shielding hand in front of her, "it'd be a shame to cut down our own allies, ser. But if you presume to threaten my queen I would have no choice but to send you all back to your father as corpses." Ser Trent pointed his sword at Ryman. "The question now is, will I need to step over your corpse on my way to the North?"

"She hit me," Ryman Frey complained, shaking in anger.

"She is your queen, ser," Ser Trent said. "Now tell your men to back off or you'll be the first one to die here."

Ryman looked as if ready to burst into tears. His soldiers took a look at her escort and stayed their swords at where they were. Only the bastard man she'd seen earlier had not drawn his sword, Argella saw. But his silence was more dangerous than the blustering of Ryman Frey and the swords of his entire army.

Frey rubbed his cheek where she had hit him and shrunk away from her when he saw no choice of victory. "Your grace, I-"

"You have a fat head, Ser Ryman, and a thick neck as well. Unfortunately you are not so blessed with your brain. It's better to have it off with such an empty head."

Ryman Frey went to his knees. "I have done nothing . . ."

". . . but drink and whore. I know."

"You can't . . ."

"I would keep quiet if I were you." Argella watched the man turn white. A sot, a fool, and a craven. The Freys are done if this one gets to become the Lord of the Crossing. "You are dismissed, ser."