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Robb Stark sat astride his warhorse, eyes fixed once more on the twin towers of the Twins, looming in the heavy darkness of night like a tomb. The young lord's grip tightened around his riding crop, which he swung irritably through the air.
Why haven't they set the fire yet?
His frustration stemmed not just from impatience, but from deep concern.
Behind him, five thousand Northern cavalrymen had already assembled, forming several small strike formations within the camp. Each man awaited Robb Stark's command; the moment he gave the order, they would draw their longswords and charge toward the Twins.
He was anxious. Ser Marlon was even more so. But the ones who were truly desperate were not standing with them outside the castle walls. They were the few dozen members of the White Sea Guard already lying in wait near the gates, as well as the four Witchers who had infiltrated the ranks of the Frey soldiers.
It was already well into the Hour of the Wolf, the darkest and most silent part of the night. Any further delay would bring dawn closer with every passing moment. Once the sky began to lighten, the danger of being discovered would grow rapidly, both within the fortress and in the surrounding lands.
Anty Rivers cursed himself again and again. Why had he failed to come up with a more effective method for breaching the gates? Why had the commander been forced to draw his own sword and carry out the assassination with his own hands? As the White Sea Guard officer responsible for the operation at the Twins, he considered this a serious failure in judgment and a shameful breach of duty.
The White Sea Guards beside him, disguised as ordinary laborers, were experiencing a whirlwind of emotions—nervousness, anticipation, and a sense of impending urgency.
Originally, each of them had their own assignments. Some were tasked with gathering intelligence, listening in on rumors, and quietly prying into the Frey army's numbers and formations. Others had wormed their way into the city's barracks in an attempt to learn the details of the Frey military structure.
But then, quite suddenly, their leader, Anty Rivers, summoned them all using a covert signal known only to the White Sea Guard. One by one, they had dropped everything they were doing and hurried to him, utterly confused as to why all their missions had been abruptly halted in the middle of the night.
Under their puzzled gazes, Anty Rivers uttered a single sentence that immediately erased all doubt and filled them with purpose.
"The commander has already led a squad into the Twins under the cover of night. He has given the order. Tonight, we seize the castle gates. The Northern army outside stands ready to launch their attack."
There was no time for explanations. Anty Rivers moved swiftly, handing out their standard-issue weapons with practiced efficiency. Each man was assigned a specific objective and sent to his position near the gates without delay.
They now waited for Anty Hawen's command.
And Anty Rivers waited for Clay's signal.
…
Clay, though burdened with countless worries, was unnervingly calm at this moment. After silently assassinating both Walder Frey and Aenys Frey, he had chosen not to descend the stairs to deal with Ser Stevron Frey.
According to his original plan, the old man was meant to die as well. But after some thought, Clay had made a different decision. After all, this bloody spectacle needed someone to take the blame.
And that person would be you, Ser Stevron Frey.
You were foolish enough to lose the dagger that could prove your identity, weren't you?
The Northern lords only knew that Clay had entered the stronghold. What exactly he had done inside, no one knew.
In the end, Walder Frey and Aenys Frey had both been slain in the highest chamber of the main keep. The only item left behind at the scene was a dagger that unmistakably belonged to Ser Stevron.
Clay intended to bring this chaos to a bloody end, with Robb Stark's sword as the instrument of finality.
Even if the reasoning could not withstand perfect logic, the Northern lords needed a cause they could accept, something that would satisfy their sense of justice.
The slaying of a kinslayer. The will of the old gods.
Once he saw that Christen had quietly stepped out and closed the door behind him, Clay moved. With steady force, he knocked over a burning candle using the hilt of his sword.
The flame-crowned candle toppled, rolled off the edge of the table, and came to rest on an intricately woven carpet. And thus, the first fire began to burn.
"Let's go. It's time to light the second fire."
Clay turned and strode toward the warehouse adjacent to the keep, Christen trailing silently behind.
That warehouse was stacked with high-quality firewood, including rare and expensive woods that were Walder Frey's pride and joy, along with a variety of exotic incense and resins.
It was a fortune in material goods, but more importantly, it was the perfect fuel.
After knocking out the guards posted there, Clay used the Igni sign to spark a fire at the base of the stack.
The fire began slowly. The wood was dense and did not catch easily. That gave Clay some time to act—but not much.
Once the blaze truly took hold, the cavalry waiting outside the walls might begin their assault. If the gate guards weren't diverted in time, it would become a major problem.
The second fire began to quietly spread through the warehouse.
"Lord, what do we do now?" Christen asked, now composed once more.
In the inky darkness where one could barely see the outlines of another's face, Clay patted the Frey armor he wore and flashed a white smile.
"Someone's set the place ablaze. Two people won't be enough to put it out. Just wait a bit longer, let the fire spread a little more, then go to the gate and call for help."
Clay reached into his pocket and pulled out a small golden tower-shaped ornament, tossing it to Christen.
"This trinket is one of Walder Frey's personal tokens. Aenys mentioned it during a conversation earlier, and I found it on Walder Frey's desk."
"In a short while, take it with you and go raise the alarm to put out the fire. Try to draw away as many gate guards as you can."
"But be clever about it. Lead them out. Forget about actually putting out the fire. Once you find the chance, slip away. Find a safe place to hide, get out of that armor, and wait for the gates to fall."
Christen understood. His lord was about to part ways with him, and for the first time, he would be carrying out a mission alone. This was something Clay had always prepared them for during training.
"You know your strength better than anyone. That is why your battlefield will not be the front lines. It will be the shadows beyond them. You will strike their granaries, poison their water, and bring down their armories."
"Perhaps glory will not come to you at once. But your presence will cripple the enemy's strength."
Christen would never forget the words Clay once said to them.
"Success does not have to come through me, but it will never come without me."
Although the sentence did not follow the traditional grammar of Westeros's Common Tongue, but its meaning was unmistakable.
It was the oath of their elite guard—men gifted with unique powers who had turned away from the Northern path of honor to serve in silence and secrecy.
For men born of Northern blood, abandoning honor to take up such a life was never an easy choice.
Yet for the sake of their young lord, for Clay, the one who had given them this strength, they had all come here without a moment's doubt.
…
The fire had started, igniting from the highest point of the main keep in the Twins. Those who had regained their senses and saw the blaze, especially anyone of even modest status within the castle, instantly recognized the implication.
That was the lord's chamber.
At the same time, thick black smoke billowed out from the cracks of the storage warehouse. The scorching air that could sear bare skin forced back the soldiers who had tried to open the doors and investigate.
The clang of bells rang out, piercing the night sky above the Twins. The actors were already in place. The grand performance had finally begun in earnest.
The soldiers stationed at the eastern gate of the Twins also noticed the disturbance within the main keep. However, without an official order, none of them dared to act rashly. It was then that a Frey soldier, his face blackened with soot, staggered toward the gate and shouted breathlessly.
"Quickly! Lord Walder Frey has given the order. Gather the gate guards and rush to put out the fire. The lords... the lords are all trapped in the tower!"
That cry shattered the calm around the castle gates. The gate commander, who had just been roused from sleep, rushed over to the gasping Christen with urgent steps.
He was a young Frey from the Stevron line, appointed as the gate's watch officer—a role that bore significant responsibility. It was imperative that he confirm the authenticity of the command immediately.
Looking over the soldier, whose entire body was covered in black soot and whose face was smeared with ash, the Frey asked,
"What is the situation?"
Christen trembled, his voice quivering uncontrollably as he responded, "M-my lord, the family's main keep is on fire. The lords ordered me to come and call for reinforcements."
As he spoke, he seemed to suddenly recall something. His trembling hand reached into his tunic and drew out a golden token engraved with the emblem of the Twin Towers, Walder Frey's personal sigil and the mark of the family's ruling authority.
The moment he saw the golden token, the Frey's eyes widened in disbelief. He knew exactly what this meant. Within the Frey household, this emblem was more than mere decoration. It was a token of military command.
Its presence here could mean only one thing. The situation within the castle had grown so desperate that they were willing to place such a sacred item in the hands of an ordinary soldier.
There was no time to think. Without delay, the young Frey officer pulled four-fifths of the gate's guards from their posts. From the garrison's supply stores, he grabbed every available tool and vessel for fighting fire. There was no time to form ranks. The force moved in a hurry, heading straight toward the burning keep.
In the confusion, he failed to notice when exactly the messenger soldier disappeared. By the time he realized it, everything had already slipped beyond salvation.
…
As the flames rose, four elite guards and dozens of White Sea Guard soldiers, all lying in wait nearby and unaware of each other's precise positions, began to stir with barely restrained eagerness.
Their young lord—their commander—had succeeded.
Their hearts were full of excitement and anticipation, their fingers tightening around the weapons they held.
Indeed, the Frey soldier who had come with the urgent message had managed to lure away four-fifths of the gate's defending soldiers. Everyone now understood the same thing—this was the moment they had been waiting for.
As soon as the detachment had moved far enough away, the four Witcher bodyguards hidden among the remaining guards made their move. Their daggers flashed from their sheaths, slicing cleanly through the throats of four Frey sentries.
As the bodies fell, they wasted no time. Longswords drawn, they charged at the remaining guards stationed on the gate. Their target was clear. The mechanism that raised the gate.
Moving in two pairs, their efficiency in battle was deadly. Taken by surprise, the Frey soldiers had no time to react. All their attention had been focused on the chaos within the castle.
Witnessing the assault, Anty Rivers immediately recognized them as Lord Clay's men. His blood surged to his head, and without hesitation, he leapt from the shadows with his longsword pointed forward.
Behind him, dozens of well-trained White Sea Guard soldiers sprang from the darkness, charging into the confused and unprepared Frey guards.
Swords clashed, and blood sprayed into the night. The two sides had fallen into brutal melee.
At this moment, Clay, having shed both his disguise and armor, arrived on the battlefield.
There was no longer any need for him to conceal himself.
With a single cast of the Igni sign, two Frey soldiers were engulfed in flames. Their bodies twisted and screamed as they burned in agony.
Another sign—Quen—flashed, forming a protective shield around Clay and blocking an incoming arrow. He then twisted his sword, cleaving through the arm of a Frey swordsman, nearly severing it.
Ignoring the man's screams, Clay thrust his blade through his throat, then pulled it free in one smooth motion, spraying blood across the stone floor.
The third fire—Clay's third act of defiance—was kindled atop the very walls of the Twins.
He was unstoppable on the battlefield. Following the breach he had opened, the hastily assembled Frey defensive line was broken. The White Sea Guard followed their commander, charging through toward the gate.
On the wall, the four Witchers, with seamless coordination, slaughtered the remaining guards and seized full control of the gate. Raven swung his sword and severed the loathsome banner bearing the sigil of the Twin Towers.
They then began their descent down the stairs to the lower courtyard. From their high vantage point, they could see clearly. Only by guiding their allies to the gate below could they fully secure it.
Two of the four stayed behind to figure out how to open the gate, while the other two continued fighting. With every three swings of their steel swords under the night sky, another Frey guard fell.
At last, Clay led the White Sea Guard through the shattered remains of the Frey defenses. They reached the top of the gatehouse. There, Cray saw the fallen Frey banner lying beside the battlements. He raised his hand, and the Igni sign flared once more.
Flames spread rapidly across the wide banner.
This was the third fire. And Clay, standing atop the ramparts of Twins Castle, lit it with his own hands, trampling over the blood of countless Freys.
…
"Look, fire!"
Outside the city gates, in the Northern army's encampment, Robb Stark finally heard the booming voice of Jon Umber, filled with overwhelming surprise and excitement.
Robb's head snapped up.
Sure enough, no one could say exactly when it had begun, but thick smoke started to billow from within the Twins. The Frey banner, which had once seemed to mock them with its defiance, was now nothing more than a roaring flame.
The faint cries of battle, carried by the wind, began to drift clearly into everyone's ears.
The Northern lords exchanged glances. The moment had come.
In full view of all gathered, Robb Stark unsheathed his longsword. With no hesitation, he spurred his warhorse forward, charging straight toward the Twins.
Behind him, the direwolf banner of House Stark danced wildly in the night air.
At the same time, the cavalry of House Manderly surged into motion from the right flank. Their heir was inside the castle; if anything were to happen to him, the consequences would be unimaginable.
As the riders thundered closer to the gates, the two sentinels working to open them finally figured out the mechanism. Summoning all the strength in their bodies, they twisted the lever with everything they had.
With a harsh grinding noise, the steel gate that had barred the Northern army's advance began to groan upward.
The Twins had been breached!
And once the first Manderly cavalryman charged through with his sword raised and gave a thunderous battle cry, everyone understood the truth.
Five thousand mounted soldiers surged through in waves, entering the fortress swiftly. Their objective was clear: take control before the Frey forces had a chance to regroup.
If there was resistance, the Northern lords were not afraid to teach these southern fools the true meaning of the words "Winter is Coming."
By the time Catelyn Stark/Tully, surrounded by her personal guards, rode through the gates, the battle at the entrance had nearly ended.
The Frey garrison's resistance crumbled before the furious charge of Northern cavalry. The sheer force of their momentum shattered the bones and spirit of any Frey soldier foolish enough to stand in their path. Shattered bodies were hurled through the air, crashing to the ground in mangled heaps. In an age with such limited healing skills, there was no hope of survival for the wounded.
The direwolf banner of House Stark had already been hoisted high above the eastern gate of the Twins. Only then did the gate guards who had been sent to fight the fire realize something was terribly wrong.
They returned in a panic, carrying buckets and tools meant to douse flames, only to find themselves face-to-face with Northern cavalry charging at full speed. For them, unless they dropped to their knees and surrendered, death was their only fate.
This was a disaster for House Frey. But it was not a disaster for the Twins itself, for from this moment on, the castle had changed hands. Even if a Frey heir managed to survive and reclaim the fortress, he would be nothing more than a dog groveling beneath the Northern banner.
The Frey forces still resisted in scattered pockets, but no matter how they struggled, once the sun rose again over this stronghold, there would be only one voice left, and only one fate for those who dared to resist.
Death!
No sympathy. No mercy. Because…
This was war!
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(Author's Note)
This chapter was written all in one sitting. The Twins has finally fallen. From now on, it shall become the solid rear stronghold of the North. If you wish to know what happens next, please return tomorrow.
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[Chapter End's]
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