Chapter Text
Merryl was still pulling straw from her hair when the serving girl placed the steaming bowl of oats and plate of pork rashers in front of her. Her stomach protested at the smell of food and she pushed the bowl away. Maybe passing out in the stables with a bottle of wine hadn’t been such a great idea.
“Rough night, Merr?” her uncle Danwell asked, not looking particularly sympathetic of her condition. Meryll lowered her head onto the table. Just a few more minutes of sleep, and maybe she could face breakfast.
But there was not a chance of that in the Frey great hall the morning after a wedding. The hall was noisy and crowded but Meryll had noted that she wasn’t the only one looking a little peaked.
Lord Walder stood from his seat at the head table and clapped his hands. “Time to line up, girlies!” he called, “our guest, Lord Bolton, is looking for a wife for his son, Ramsay.”
A buzz of conversation started around the room as the girls lined up. They all looked a bit pallid, and Meryll didn’t think it was entirely due to too much wine the night before. Stories of Ramsay’s exploits often travelled as far south as the Twins. There was the odd tale about Lord Bolton as well, but most of it was speculation and some of it seemed rather far-fetched. The stories of Ramsay, however, often came from reliable sources. It was said that Lord Bolton was cold and cunning, but Ramsay was mad and cruel -- a monster.
Meryll studied Lord Bolton as he paced in front of the girls. It had been too dark the night before to get a good look at him. He looked older than she remembered. A year had passed since Fat Walda’s wedding, but the year hadn’t been kind to him. War aged a man, she thought, and perhaps he still grieved the loss of his wife and unborn child. His close shorn hair was more grey than sandy brown now, the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper. But still as stoic and expressionless as ever. It saddened her to think of joyous and carefree Walda, living her last days in the home of such a grim man. Meryll had never seen the Dreadfort, but really, with a name like that, how pleasant could it possibly be?
Lord Bolton reached the end of the line of girls and turned to face the head table.
“Well? Have you chosen?” Lord Walder prompted impatiently.
“I have,” Lord Bolton said softly, and the hall quieted as the crowd strained to hear him. “Lady Meryll.”
Meryll felt her stomach churn violently again, but this time in terror. This was how she was going to meet her end. Hunted down by Bolton’s bastard and flayed alive, her skins worn as a cape or displayed in that secret room where they kept the skins of their enemies. Her eyes wide, she met Lord Bolton’s cool gaze.
“But not for my son, Ramsay,” he said, staring her down, “Lady Meryll will be my bride.”
The hall went silent. Over 100 Freys in one room, but the clattering of forks and plates had ceased and no one said a word. Meryll figured half the room was staring at her and other half was staring at her grandfather. Lord Bolton was part of the group staring at her. She was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was wearing the same clothes she had worn to the wedding the night before and that there was likely still straw in her hair.
Grandfather stood up, fork still in hand. “You can’t marry that one. Meryll is my grandson.”
One of the girls in the line-up, her sister, Marissa, Meryll suspected, started giggling and couldn’t stop. It was contagious and soon spread down the line. Meryll was feeling her own frantic emotions threatening to overflow and she wasn’t sure if it would come out as laughter or tears or both.
“She doesn’t look like a grandson to me,” Lord Bolton said dryly. “So unless you can show me a cock hanging between her legs, I would say she’s as eligible as this lot,” he said gesturing to the line behind him.
Lord Frey tried a different approach. "Fair enough. But you don’t want that one for your wife. She’s more unruly than any of my boys, listens to no one, and has no womanly skills to speak of.”
There were quiet snickers in the hall. Meryll thought it somehow unsurprising that the day someone announced they wanted to marry her, the entire hall was stifling their laughter. She slumped down in her seat, hoping to disappear under the table.
Lord Bolton remained undeterred. “We don’t usually find discipline to be a problem at the Dreadfort.” He levelled his gaze on Meryll and she quickly looked away. Why in the names of the gods would he want to marry her, she wondered. Was this some sort of convoluted punishment for her rudeness the night before? Her mother always said Meryll’s mouth would catch up to her some day.
Meryll could see Lord Frey was eyeing his breakfast again and quickly losing interest in the conversation. “Bah!” he exclaimed. “What does it matter? Never thought that one would be good for anything other than hunting game anyway.” Lord Frey sat down. “We’re having another wedding! Does a fortnight from now suit you, Lord Bolton?”
“We’ll marry this evening.” Lord Bolton said with a tone of finality. The serving staff exchanged weary looks. “There is plenty of food left from last night, and all the guests are already here.” Lord Bolton paused. “Think of all the money you’ll save, Lord Frey.”
Meryll groaned. Lord Bolton was a shrewd man. The only thing her grandfather liked almost as much as girls and pie was a good bargain.
“Good, good!” Lord Frey said. “It’s settled then. Lord Bolton, come to my study later to discuss the matter of a dowry.”
“All these years you’ve called us cattle at an auction and here you are, getting married,” her oldest sister Amerei teased. Ami was the Lady of Darry now, married to a Lannister, but word was, her Lannister husband had turned pious. Ami travelled home to the Twins for cousin Fair Walda’s wedding, but Mother had stayed behind in Darry. After their father was murdered by a rebel gang, Mother had fallen ill and was not strong enough to travel. Meryll was thrilled to have Ami home, but missed her mother dearly.
Meryll sank lower in the tub. This was the first time she had been privy to a bride’s wedding preparations. Her sisters, Ami and Marissa, and two of her cousins, White Walda and Ryella, had crowded into her room, determined to make Meryll look as girlish as possible. Meryll’s hair had been freshly washed and her sister Marissa was behind her, attempting to pin her hair up into some sort of style appropriate for a bride.
“Ughh,” Marissa complained, “why couldn’t you have grown your hair longer? I can’t do anything pretty with this!”
Meryll sighed. “I’m sorry Marissa, why don’t you go and ask Lord Bolton to delay the wedding until my hair grows longer?” Her sister gave her a nasty look.
“You’re so pretty when you look like a girl, Meryll!” her little cousin Ryella remarked.
Ami snorted. “Figures that the pretty Frey girl would be raised as a boy.”
Ryella was wistfully fingering the lace hem of the dress laying on Meryll’s bed. Worn by many of the Frey brides, the dress was cream silk with blue and silver embroidery. The lace-up back was adjustable enough that it had fit most of the brides, although Meryll thought a new dress must have been sewn for Fat Walda. There were all sorts of other garments laying with the dress: under-tunics, slips, frilly smallclothes. Meryll had no idea what order they all went on and was glad to have her kinswomen for help. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress, Meryll,” Ryella said, wide-eyed.
White Walda laughed. “Meryll’s never worn a dress, never sewn a dress, has no idea how to run a household or anything else that lords of great houses expect from their ladies.”
Ryella stood up, determined to defend her favourite cousin. “She can sing! Meryll has a beautiful voice,” she insisted.
“A beautiful voice,” White Walda scorned. “I’m sure that will be of great use at the Dreadfort.”
Ami reached into the tub and sent a spray of water toward White Walda’s face. “You’re just jealous he didn’t pick you,” Ami told a sputtering White Walda. “Besides, there’s only one womanly duty that Lord Bolton will be concerned with, and Meryll’s equipped just fine for that.” The girls laughed.
“Are you sure? There isn’t a little cock down there?” White Walda teased, reaching into the tub.
Exasperated, Meryll stood quickly, sending a wave of bath water to soak her sisters and cousins. The girls shrieked with laughter and Ami wrapped Meryll in a linen cloth, drying her off.
“I wonder if Lord Bolton will wear his leeches to bed,” Marissa said, looking thoughtful. Meryll cringed. Lord Bolton’s fondness for leeching was well-known. The events of the last day were such a blur that she hadn’t really given much thought to what her life would be like after the wedding. “But Fat Walda seemed happy enough,” Marissa assured Meryll. “She did, however, mention in her letters that Lord Bolton was a bit stiff in bed.”
Ami chuckled. “Well, I would hope so! Nothing more useless than a man who isn’t stiff in bed!”
“But really,” Ami continued, “it’s Lord Bolton’s deep, silky voice that excites me. That man could read me the keep’s ledger book and my smallclothes would be damp!” Marissa and White Walda howled in laughter as Meryll covered Ryella’s ears and gave Ami a pointed look.
Ryella pushed Meryll’s hands away. “Fat Walda was always happy if there were tarts!” she said.
Meryll sat on the bed, resigned. “Well, if nothing else,” she said, “the Dreadfort must have delicious tarts.” Her sisters and cousins collapsed in a fit of giggles, and Meryll had to smile despite herself.