He never came to my last wedding either.
He calls me the Late Lord Frey, you know.
Does he think I'm dead?
I'm not dead, and I promise you, I'll outlive him as I outlived his father.
Your family has always pissed on me, don't deny it, don't lie, you know it's true.
Years ago, I went to your father and suggested a match between his son and my daughter. Why not?
I had a daughter in mind, sweet girl, only a few years older than Edmure,
but if your brother didn't warm to her, I had others he might have had, young ones, old ones, virgins, widows, whatever he wanted.
No, Lord Hoster would not hear of it.
Sweet words he gave me, excuses, but what I wanted was to get rid of a daughter.
"And your sister, that one, she's full as bad.
It was, oh, a year ago, no more, Jon Arryn was still the King's Hand, and I went to the city to see my sons ride in the tourney.
Stevron and Jared are too old for the lists now, but Danwell and Hosteen rode, Perwyn as well, and a couple of my bastards tried the melee.
If I'd known how they'd shame me, I would never have troubled myself to make the journey.
Why did I need to ride all that way to see Hosteen knocked off his horse by that Tyrell whelp? I ask you.