LEORIC CADE
Fall of the year 299 after Aegon’s Conquest
The Crag, seat of House Westerling
, Edrik Mutt roared above the din of the feast, his booming voice carrying throughout the modest hall of the Westerlings. The visibly drunk northman swayed as he did so, falling over to general laughter.
“And to the Queen in the North!” another man shouted, though Leoric could not tell who through the thick smoke that drifted in the room. The Crag was not well circulated with air, its walls being more rock than stone, and the hall had been filled up with the hearth’s smoke for days now as it hosted the lords of the North. Though many found the fortress to be a miserable rock, damp and and stuffy, Leoric found himself remembering fond memories of exploring the caverns below Castle Tarrow walking through the Crag’s caverns. The nostalgia was a small, much needed comfort. There was far too little of that these days, he reflected as he huddled silently at his place on the banquet table, silently watching the proceedings.
“Why are you so melancholic, my lord?” Ser Barth Urbans, the freerider sitting beside him, asked. “This is a day of celebration. The Young Wolf’s won every battle in this war, and the Westerlings are now on our side as well. When we march again, we may even be able to take Lannisport. It seems to me this war is all but won.” Leoric looked up from his untouched drink- he had sworn himself off wine for years now- and looked to the large knight. The Urbans was a large man with a piggish, but earnest, face. He was well and truly drunk, that much was apparent.
“I wish I had your certainty, Ser,” Leoric answered in a tired voice. “But the ravens speak of misfortune, not victory. The Ironborn have Winterfell… and more of the North is falling with every dispatch, it seems. And today’s news of the Blackwater would indicate that the rose has thrown its lot in with the lions.”
Another figure on the other side of Ser Urbans, the bone-thin and cold as winter form of Ser Nichat, leaned against the table. “Not to mention that Lannisport will not fall to our ragged host,” the old knight interrupted in a raspy voice. “We did not have the strength before the Crag, and we will not have the strength on the morrow.”
Ser Urbans snorted, accidentally knocking over his cup of wine in the process. “The lion’s curled up in his den like a frightened hare, and for good reason. We’ve got the young wolf leading us, and we’ve smashed every army we’ve fought. Mark my words, as long as His Grace leads us, we can’t lose.”
A woman came up from behind them and put a hand on the knight’s shoulder. “I'm sorry, m'lord, but you look tired. Would he like to accompany me to somewhere more… discreet?”
Ser Urbans grew a grin the size of his face. “I'm no m'lord, m'lady, but of course I will see you safely away from this rabble!” He got up, winked in Leoric’s direction, and staggered away, weighed down by drink and the woman at his arm.
The lord sighed. The woman was probably one of the camp followers that had accompanied their army for so long; or perhaps she was a servant in the Crag who’d found that bedding wolves was good coin. Women of their repute had multiplied in the castle since they’d made it their base of operations, while waiting for His Grace’s recovery from the wound he had suffered in taking the fortress. Though he did not begrudge their need to make a livelihood, they spread disease, chaos, and rowdiness among the rank and file. Just that day there had been a brawl between a group of Umber and Hornwood men over a particularly attractive camp follower. They’d been sitting idle for too long: bored soldiers would take any excuse to cause mischief, and it would not be long before the subjects of their carnal desires instigated bloodshed.
“These whores seem to be breeding like rodents,” Ser Nichat observed drily, as if sensing Leoric’s thoughts. The old man moved to Umbers’s now vacant chair, seemingly amused. “I am surprised that my lord hasn’t indulged in this newfound bounty. Surely a proper lord such as yourself could find a maid even in this castle of orgies.”
Leoric frowned. The hedge knight’s barb bothered him more than it perhaps should have, partly because it was true: the camp followers had rapidly learned that this lord was not a client. In truth, he had not been with a woman for two years, since Ena had died. Though he had not been particularly fond of his second wife- she had been an entitled shrew who cared not a whit for anyone who didn’t share her last name- it hadn’t felt right to pursue other women afterwards. He sometimes wondered whether it was his fault that his wives had died, if it was some sin of his that brought death to those around him. And he’d never gotten over his suspicion that a prostitute had poisoned his father during Robert’s war; consorting with those of that profession was a recipe for disaster, and the pox.
“I am to be married, Ser, as you well know,” he said only, reverting to a simpler explanation. “Sarisa Swann waits for me still at Castle Tarrow. I haven’t the desire to dishonor her that these others have for their own wives.”
Nichat chuckled softly, pulling on his beard, clearly not deceived. “A betrothal is not a marriage. Until your cape goes on her back, My Lord is free to deflower every girl in the kingdoms for all the Seven care. And besides,” he continued, bringing his voice down to a conspiratorial whisper, “if his Grace can bed and wed a whore, why shouldn’t those of us without crowns do likewise?”
He’s drunk, Leoric realized. Not visibly like Ser Umbers had been, but drunk all the same. He curled his fist on the table, glancing around to see if anyone had heard what the senile fool had said. “Not a whore, a Westerling, and now the Queen,” he corrected the knight calmly. “And I’d watch that decrepit tongue of yours, Nichat, if you’ve any desire to keep it. His Grace is young, and perhaps marrying the girl was unwise, but-”
Nichat laughed audibly this time, wheezing. “But? You of all people should know what Walder Frey will think of ‘but’. Bad enough to injure his pride by deflowering a western lady, but to then break the betrothal like this? I hear His Grace has been arguing with jolly Black Walder all day. But no, I’m sure I’m my tongue is the one that is, ah, in danger.” He got up and walked away, still laughing in his grating rasp.
Leoric left the feasting hall, troubled. As he heard the shouts of merriment vanish behind him, the freerider’s words nagged at the back of his mind. He had to admit that it was a certainty that the Freys would take offense; he’d served their family all his life as a bannerman to the Twins, and he’d learned that the Freys had the unenviable combination of pride and lack of respect from their peers. The other great houses looked down upon them for being relative newcomers in Westerosi politics. Lord Walder resented their elitism more than anything else. And he could hold a grudge longer than anyone else in Westeros.
As he walked down the dank hall, the sound of torrents of rain echoing from outside, he was taken by surprise as a door smashed open with a loud crash, almost hitting him in the face. Two men stalked out of the room, both wearing tunics boasting two upright castles.
“My- my lords of Frey,” Leoric managed, taken aback. “I take it you weren’t at the feast?”
Ryman Frey, the larger and considerably more stupid of the two, snorted angrily. “That bitch’s feast? The northern savage’s feast? I think not. We’re leaving, my Lord. Gather your men. If this bastard of a Stark wants to bed his whore, we won’t continue to fight his war, he’ll see. He’ll regret the day he made a fool of a Frey!”
Leoric frowned. “Leave, my lord? Leave the war? Should we not wait for word from Lord Walder before taking such… rash action?”
“Lord Walder would have me skin the dog’s pelt off his miserable skin.” Black Walder spat out the words like venom, a look of murder in his eyes. “He had the nerve to threaten my life for objecting to this travesty. My great-grandfather already sent us word to leave if the wedding was consummated, and here we are." He looked at Leoric, who hadn't moved. "The heir of the Crossing has given you and order, Lord Cade.”
The two made an uncanny duo, Leoric found. Ryman was fat, ugly, and the gods had seen fit to make him look as stupid as he was. Seven save them all, Ser Ryman was the future Lord of the Crossing and Leoric’s own liege lord, now that old Ser Stevron was dead. One had to restrain themselves from laughing at his imbecility. Then, next to him, was his son, Walder Frey, Black Walder Frey, and no sane man would laugh at him. Ever since old Stevron had died, Leoric had found that it was the son, and not the father, who held real power among the Frey forces here.
After a moment, Leoric bowed stiffly. “As you wish, my lords. I’ll inform the men we’ll be returning to Castle Tarrow; I’m certain they’ll be pleased.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next morning, before the sun even rose, the Cades left the Crag, marching with the rest of the Frey host as the last drops of the last night’s storm fell. Though it felt as though they were abandoning the other riverlords, after some time he had to admit he was not displeased by the thought that he was done with the war. Nearly four hundred Cade men had marched south under the wolf’s banner, most being illiterate peasants who had never seen the world beyond their farmsteads. Now, a mere two hundred marched back, the rest lost to battle, disease, and desertion. Though the men complained about being cheated glory and pillage, he could tell by speaking with them that they were just as tired of the killing as he was, and desired nothing more than to return to their homes.
As they crossed into the Riverlands, the devastation became more and more apparent. After they passed through Riverrun, the land slipped into a charred wasteland, with nary a home unburnt or maid unspoiled to be found. Crossing the Red Fork, they encountered a raided village filled with mutilated corpses tied to stakes. He was not a squeamish man, but even he struggled to contain his bile at the sight of the mangled cadavers. At Ser Walder’s command, they took buried the corpses and continued on northwards.
After crossing the Blue Fork, he requested permission to lead his men back to Castle Tarrow. Ser Walder seemed annoyed, but gave his permission. “Keep your men on leash,” he answered curtly. “My great-grandfather might well have need of you before long.” Goodbyes were said, and the Cades split off from the rest of the host, making their way west following Garend’s Fork, the small river on which Castle Tarrow sat. The terrain became rougher as they ventured, but they made good time, and it it was not long before Leoric saw the shape of Castle Tarrow on its hill in the distance, overlooking the Fork and all the land for miles around.
He gave the order for the host to make camp for the night, and descended from his horse. He looked to the distant castle, his mind filled with apprehension. They’d sent a raven ahead of them to warn of their return, yet still he couldn’t shake his anxiety at what he would find in his home. He trusted the capabilities of his bastard brother, Raymun, as castellan, but from what news maester Illric had sent him things had been eventful in his absence. First his betrothed, Lady Sarisa, had arrived in the middle of wartime, and from what he’d been told her presence was somewhat awkward: neither a Cade nor a proper guest, the servants at the castle were reportedly unsure whether to consider her a master or a guest. Even that surprise was nothing next to the unannounced and uninvited appearance of a girl claiming to be the daughter of his uncle, Alder Cade. He was skeptical of her legitimacy, his uncle having not been seen since his elopement. He recalled his father’s rage on hearing of it; he had beaten the stable boy who’d given Alder a horse half to death, and declared that he had no brother. Even if she was not lying for status, was she truly a Cade, having never set foot in Castle Tarrow? He had given instructions to accommodate her temporarily until he returned, but now that he was back, he’d have to settle the matter once and for all.
Part of him wanted nothing more than to turn back and never set foot in the old ruin again. The other wanted to take his horse and ride for it at once, and never leave its walls again. He sighed, and went to sit by a campfire.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A raven arrives in the study of maester Illric in the keep tower of Castle Tarrow. Placating the raven and taken the scrap of paper, he reads its. It is a short and curt missive from Lord Leoric, sent from Fairmarket a few days ago, indicating that he'd be arriving at his castle in a few days time. By now, the maester knew, his lord should be arriving at the castle within the next day.
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