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The arrival of Clay instantly silenced the somewhat noisy hall for a few brief moments. However, the hush did not last long. Soon, an elderly man, who appeared to be of a similar age, raised his cup and laughed heartily.
"Welcome, our guest—Clay Manderly!"
His words were quickly echoed by many members of House Frey. Some raised their cups, while others pounded the dark-colored long table with their hands in response, producing a series of resounding thuds that reverberated through the hall.
Lord Walder Frey extended a hand as dry and withered as old tree bark, gesturing toward a seat at the high table, signaling for Clay to take his place. Tonight, Clay was the guest of honor in this hall.
Clay did not hesitate in the slightest. Striding forward confidently, he seated himself in the chair that had been prepared for him.
Lord Frey regarded him with a keen eye, his voice carrying a grave tone as he spoke:
"It seems the old Lamprey of White Harbor has found himself a worthy successor—unlike me, who is left with nothing but a brood of foolish sons and grandsons."
Clay's brows furrowed slightly, though he kept the movement subtle. If it were anyone else speaking of his grandfather in such a manner, he would not have tolerated it. However, the man before him was ninety years old—older than Clay and his grandfather combined. All Clay could do was curse inwardly.
Choosing not to respond, he sat quietly, waiting for the lord to continue. According to the intelligence he had received beforehand, Walder Frey was a man with a deep-rooted sense of family.
And indeed, the old man was unfazed by Clay's silence. Instead, he seemed rather pleased as he enthusiastically began introducing his many family members.
Pointing toward the man who had welcomed Clay upon his arrival, Walder Frey said,
"Stevron Frey, my eldest son and heir. He's older than even your grandfather—such is the fate of having a father like me!" \
After saying this, the lord let out a laugh, seemingly delighted—though whether it was due to his heir or his own longevity remained unclear. Either way, he downed a large gulp of red wine, his laughter hoarse and cackling, reminiscent of a night owl's call.
"The boy who stopped you on the road earlier—Petyr—is his grandson," he added.
Though the words were spoken with a smile, there was a lightness to his tone that made Clay notice the subtle shift in Stevron Frey's expression.
With just one sentence, the old lord had not only asserted his absolute control over the flow of information within the Twins but had also subtly put his son in his place. It was clear that this sprawling House Frey was far more complicated internally than it seemed.
Clay nodded politely toward Stevron Frey. There was no need to withhold the basic courtesies.
After moving on from his eldest, Walder Frey pointed to the other end of the long table, where a tall, bald man sat.
"This is my third son, Aenys. As for my second son—well, that lad is being held on a tight leash by his wife, that golden-haired Lannister lioness of his. I haven't seen him here in quite some time."
Clay was well aware of the situation. Rivers, his steward, had specifically mentioned it in a report. Walder Frey's second son, Emmon, was strongly inclined toward the Lannisters.
The reason for this was simple—his wife was a Lannister. And her backing was solid as a rock, for her brother was none other than Tywin Lannister.
In the report, Rivers had strongly advised Clay against engaging with Emmon Frey or any of his children who remained in the Twins. There was no benefit to be gained, and Clay fully agreed with the assessment.
As the feast continued, the lord went on to introduce the rest of his sons who were present at the banquet. As for his numerous grandsons, the ninety-year-old seemed to lack the patience to acknowledge them.
Clay gave each of these sons, whose age differences spanned over fifty years, a polite nod. Though, truth be told, their appearances were rather unremarkable. Whether due to bloodline or sheer misfortune, the men of House Frey all seemed to share a weasel-like visage.
Once the introductions were concluded, Walder Frey clinked his cup, officially announcing the start of the feast.
The hall erupted into a lively clamor. Most of those invited had little to do with the evening's true purpose—they were not here for Clay, but rather, had come simply in response to the lord's summons.
However, a few individuals were exceptions.
The long tables were pushed apart, leaving a large open space in the center of the hall—a designated area for dancing.
Such was the custom at noble feasts in Westeros. Seeing that Clay had not made any move to take the floor, Walder Frey cast a glance at his steward.
Taking the cue, a group of Frey men and women stepped into the dance area, filling the silence and dissolving the slight awkwardness that had lingered earlier.
Clay knew how to dance, but only in the way a child might recall long-forgotten lessons. He was far from skilled. At first, he had worried that his lack of proficiency might bring shame upon White Harbor. However, after watching the Freys' dancing, he realized his concerns had been entirely unnecessary.
It was not outright atrocious, but to put it plainly—it was little more than pairs of men and women clinging to each other and hopping about. Many hands seemed unable to remain in proper places, wandering eagerly in search of something to grope. Such was the norm for most of them.
Clay was well aware that he would have to dance at some point tonight. However, for now, he remained seated, maintaining a pleasant smile as he sipped his wine, occasionally offering words of approval.
During this time, he became acutely aware of at least five or six gazes lingering on him. Without making it obvious, he subtly shifted his angle, discreetly scanning the sources of these stares.
Women.
Women.
Women.
And more women.
From what he could tell, their ages ranged from as young as twelve or thirteen to nearly thirty. It did not take much to understand the situation—this was the Frey family's way of presenting him with potential matches.
His moment of quiet observation did not last long.
One of the Frey women who had been watching him adjusted her skirts and began walking in his direction. Almost simultaneously, Stevron Frey's voice reached Clay's ears.
"Lord Clay, this is my granddaughter, Walda, who is about the same age as you."
The implications were clear.
Hearing the name and realizing she was Stevron's granddaughter, Clay instantly connected the dots. This was the first Walda Frey mentioned in the reports.
Clay could feel the weight of many eyes subtly flickering between himself and this Walda Frey. He did not particularly enjoy the attention, but it did not bother him either—because, quite frankly, he did not care.
Walda Frey, supposedly known as "Fair Walda," had a voice that suited her age—young and crisp. But if Clay were to be completely honest, he did not believe her looks warranted such a title. At best, she was passable.
"Lord Clay, may I have this dance?" Walda Frey asked without much hesitation, her tone direct.
For the moment, this was not a request Clay could refuse.
Setting down his wine cup, which bore the engraved sigil of the Twin Bridges, he rose to his feet.
Under Stevron Frey's approving gaze, Clay accepted Walda Frey's outstretched hand.
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[Chapter End's]
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