Three days passed, and Walder Frey still gave no reply. Naturally—anyone hiding in a fortress like The Twins would feel secure.
Lannister soldiers tied Edwyn to a wooden barrel filled with dung and propped it beside the catapult. Their scouts shouted into the city that in half an hour, the heir to The Twins would be launched into the skies, and what rained down on the defenders would be nothing but filth and torn flesh. Mercy was not on offer.
"My lord, my lord," Edwyn pleaded, his face bloodless. "Let me speak to them. Please, I swear I can make them open the gates."
"And why should we believe that?" Tyrion asked. "You think you can talk your way out of this?"
"I'm the heir of The Twins. I can persuade them…"
"Heirs to The Twins are as common as ants," Tyrion said. "If you die, another steps up. Do you think you're worth that much?"
Edwyn whimpered.
"Who comes after you?" Tyrion asked. "Does Ser Stevron have another son?"
"W… Walton." Edwyn's nose ran freely.
"Ryman is Stevron's son with his first wife, Corenna Swann," Blackfish added. "Knowing that old weasel's family tree might help stave off senility."
"How many wives did Ser Stevron have?" Tyrion asked.
"Three. His second was Jeyne Lydden," said Blackfish.
"That's… Aegon Frey," Edwyn blurted. "He was born a fool. We all called him Jingles."
"Perfect heir for The Twins, then," Tyrion laughed. "No chance he helped plot this murder."
"He's dead, my lord," Edwyn sniffed. "Lady Catelyn slit his throat as a hostage during the wedding."
"One of the few Freys with honor," Tyrion said. "And the third wife?"
"Marsella Waynwood. Died in childbirth. Her son was Walton Frey," Blackfish said. "Deana Hardyng bore Walton three children, including the well-known 'beauty' Walda Frey."
"Yes, yes, my lord." Edwyn Frey clung to any last hope. He saw the scouts returning from the gates.
"My lord, spare me! I'll give you The Twins, I swear it!" he cried. "And Walda—she's a pretty girl, no worse than any of Lord Tully's women. Please, I can have her serve you…"
"Time's up, Ser Brynden." Tyrion glanced at the sun. "Funny how quickly pleasant moments pass." He took Ice from Podrick and looked up at the counterweight. "If fat Walda were here, could we use her as ballast to fling Edwyn into the castle?"
"My lord! Mercy! Please…"
"Probably not enough weight," Blackfish said after a quick, serious calculation.
"Edwyn, for the crime of conspiring to murder your own guest, I sentence you to death." Tyrion raised the sword toward the catapult's release rope. "May the gods grant you a quick end and smash your skull clean against the wall."
"My lord! Please—"
Before he could finish, Tyrion cut the rope. The dung barrel burst apart midair, and the Frey heir landed on the battlements in a foul rain.
"Just kill him like that?" Blackfish muttered, a touch regretful. "We could have made more use of him."
"No need," Tyrion said. "They know I won't spare anyone who took part in the Red Wedding. Isn't that the point? To kill the Freys, to take responsibility, blood for blood. With Edwyn dead, the inheritance of Crossing falls to Walton Frey. He didn't attend the Red Wedding, did he?"
"I don't know," Brynden said.
"If he didn't, he might well surrender," Tyrion said. "Walder Frey is ninety. At that age, a man loses his grip on his house. It's entirely possible."
"Let's hope so."
...
Time slipped by. In the days that followed, light rains came and went. Each time the drizzle stopped, the air grew colder. Even if they planted now, the pumpkins might not grow big. Winter was close.
More banners rose outside The Twins. At first there were only the Lannister lions and the Tullys' silver trout on blue-and-red stripes. As days passed, the silver eagle on purple from Seagard appeared, then the pink maiden of Rosse.
Soon the Vance family's quartered green dragon and black dragon banners arrived, followed by the Smallwood banner with its six acorns—a flag that always reminded Tyrion of a certain drink.
The Freys in the castle must have been dizzy with dread.
When the Bracken red warhorse and Blackwood crow banners appeared, it was clear the Riverlands nobility had abandoned the Freys. They had all chosen to stand with the Lannisters and the Tullys. Then again, things had always seemed to lean that way. Nothing had really changed.
Hoster Blackwood arrived at the front as a hostage of House Blackwood and as Tyrion's attendant. He was the third son of the Lord of Raventree Hall.
"An insignificant hostage," Tyrion said. "I should've asked for his daughter instead."
"Only Seagard has sent grain," Davon reported. "Right now our supplies all come from Riverrun, Seagard, Darry, and Harrenhal. The other Riverlords have done little besides raise their banners."
"They don't think I can take The Twins," Tyrion said thoughtfully. "To them, giving me grain now is like dumping it into a bottomless pit."
"At our current rate, unless we starve the castle out, we won't last long enough for The Twins to surrender," Davon said, tapping the papers on the table. "According to Black Walder's letters, they have enough provisions to outlast us."
"Cut our grain distribution starting today," Tyrion said. "Boy, why hasn't House Blackwood sent supplies?"
Hoster Blackwood stood nearly seven feet tall, all skin and bone, with a mess of curls hanging over his brow that made him look a little awkward. "My lord, Lord Bracken has besieged Raventree Hall for over a month. Our grain is already gone. We truly cannot support you."
"A grand excuse," Tyrion sneered. "Can you write?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Send a letter to Maidenpool. Ask why they haven't sent anyone."
"Maidenpool has been seized by Lord Randyll Tarly," Hoster Blackwood replied. "Lord William Mooton sent a messenger asking for aid, but Lord Tarly locked him in a tower, and his daughter was forced to marry Dickon Tarly."
Sam's brother, the heir to Horn Hill. Lord Tarly was a shrewd and spiteful man, Tyrion thought.