[b]Westeros, the Riverlands, Fairmarket[/B]

They rode through lush fields where the corn, wheat and barley were growing steadily in their own hues of green. Onion fields, patches of pumpkins, cabbages and all sorts of lettuce, neatly separated by hedges of low loose stone walls, showed the promise of a bountiful harvest in due time. A patchwork of fields and pastures spread out from either side of the road. The farmers and farmhands ceased their toil, stabbing the dark rich soil with their tools as to lean on them so they could watch the newcomers pass. The land had been rolling gently, alternating between woodland and hills.

Calder had dressed for the occasion, for now he had his four-hundred men at his back; it was no longer required to travel in a clandestine manner. His plate-armour was embossed, and had the Frey sigil on the breastplate, the metal itself treated with special techniques so the paint and colours were [i]inside[/i] the steel, rather than painted over it. As lord, it was important that his suit of armour represented his wealth. Thirty household knights rode behind him, the towers of the twins decorating their surcoats, shields and –of course- the pennants they held aloft. Behind the knights came the footmen, rows on rows of spear and pike-men dressed in mail and leathers, and men-at-arms with heavier mail carrying shields and swords. Files of bowmen and crossbowmen followed, the bows carried in front of them so they would not get stuck behind something. A party of twenty mounted sergeants, wearing boiled leather and splinted greaves, guarded the rear of the column.

Ser Tom Fishbone rode a few steps behind the man in heavy plate so they could speak while showing Lord Calder Frey led them. His sigil deviated from the blue towers on pale silver of the Freys, for he was merely a Frey on his mother’s side. The skeleton of a leaping fish showed on his surcoat, in white on sable, the shape identical to the Tully’s trout. Tom mocked his father, Lord Janos Tully thus, for the Lord of Riverrun had only been involved with his conception and nothing more. He had got the name Ser Tom Fishbone because of it, and he felt slighted by his natural father.

“When will you wed, uncle?” He asked candidly, for he was one of the few whom Calder tolerated speaking openly without aggravation.

The road curled over a hill with a rocky outcropping. As they passed the jutting stone formation, Calder answered. “As soon as possible. Lady Joan was not present at Riverrun when we concluded our agreement, your father and I.”

Tom felt a pang of anger when he heard ‘your father’. He did not consider him as such, but it was the truth and no amount of denial would change that.

“We are already bound by blood,” Calder continued, whetting Tom’s desire to belong to a family, “but now we will even more so, for it is your half-sister I shall marry. That will make us brothers.” While Fishbone was a capable man, and loyal, he was hardly as cunning as his lord and master. Calder’s ruthlessness was inspired by intelligence and not cruelty, while Tom tended not to see the wider picture. His focus on the job at hand was admirable, but it threatened to inhibit him from making long-term plans. Fishbone was useful though. [i]For every task a tool[/i], Lord Frey thought.

While the Lord of the Crossing had agreed to marry his liegelord’s eldest, he had no intention of sitting around idly and wait for the ceremony. Who knew when Joan Tully would show up? The rights to Fairmarket were his, and he intended to collect.

Fairmarket was nestled along the Blue Fork, halfway to where the river joined with the Green Fork. Its source laid north-west in Hag’s Mire where small streams of melted silver passed through the ruins of Oldstones and eventually formed the river. On the north bank of the town stood several stone houses and the odd manse of local landed gentry, with a septry and the common grounds nearby. Other buildings were mostly constructed out of wood and clay, some with flint roofs but more with thatch. Three water-mills had been built along the riverbank, and their great wheels were turning, creaking with the ceaseless motion, grinding grain into flour. The outskirts consisted of shanty daub-and-wattle houses and hovels.

“No moat?” Tom remarked surprised.

Calder sucked in his breath through his teeth. The only fortification of note was the holdfast adjacent to the wooden contraption Fairmarket considered a bridge. “And a sorry excuse for a bridge,” Lord Frey complemented. “This will wash away whenever there are heavy rains.”

The armed and armoured procession entered the decently sized town from the north. Calder Frey and his small escort had passed through Fairmarket on their way to the Twins to join up with the contingent of Frey-men led by Fishbone. As such, he led them straight towards the holdfast and sent Ser Rickard Charlton to the opposite bank with a hundred men.

Lord Frey glanced up at the squat holdfast as they drew up in the market square. Fortunately its size was deceptive. While only being four stories tall above the ground, there were two levels below ground consisting of vaults and cellars. Unfortunately, the stonework was abysmal. Erected close to the river, meant that humidity seeped into the underground rooms, water leaking through the mortar. That was one of the first things on Calder’s list to change about Fairmarket. The holdfast itself was erected in dark and grey stones, topped with a pinewood roof from which banners hung.

Calder and Tom discerned the glint of sunlight on the metal tips of bolts and arrows that were trained on them by men behind the slits in the turrets.

“What is the meaning of this?” The voice of an old man standing in the single entrance to Fairmarket’s holdfast lashed across the cobbled square. A sword hung at his belt, and he wore simple clothing. The door ajar behind him was of oak and iron, and two men-at-arms with spears stood beside him.

“I am Calder Frey, Lord of the Crossing,” he shouted back, his attitude firm and confident. Some smallfolk had gathered round, their faces showing a mix of interest, excitement and fear.

The old man crossed his arms in front of his chest and spat through the gap of his teeth. He was still strong in spite of his age. “And I am castellan of this here tower. What’s a Frey got to do in Fermarkt?” An old grey fox, he was, and a local at that judging from his way of talking.

“Lord Janos Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, my future father-in-law has invested in me the rights to Fairmarket and its environs. I am Lord of the Crossing and Lord of Fairmarket.”

Doubt crept onto the man’s leathery face. Why had he not heard of this? Was this a trap? What was the Crippler playing at?

“Do you doubt my word, ser?” Calder shifted in his sturdy saddle, his destrier snorting. “I have the papers to back up my claim.”

The old fox scratched his silver stubble. “Nay, that won’t be necessary m’lord,” he muttered as he descended the stairs. The men-at-arms at his back relaxed visibly. “Rather not have trouble. It’s not as if I’ve got the men to stop you either way.” He spat through his teeth again. “I served Lord Osrick well, and Janos Tully after him. I wager I can serve ye too.”

“Better to accept an unexpected ally than turn him into an enemy,” Fishbone suggested.

Calder nodded. “Just so, Tom. Does not mean we have to trust him, though. I will need you to keep an eye on him and the local men-at-arms. We will pay them good silver. You will be in charge after I leave, until Franklyn or Benfred arrives. I will leave instructions.”

Tom nodded. “As you say, my lord,” he replied before riding off shouting commands. “Get that Tully banner down to make room for Lord Frey’s sigil. You!” Fishbone pointed a gauntleted finger to the old castellan. “See to it.”