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The sun finally shone upon the eastern castle of the Twins. No matter what happened, the sunlight never came late.
The resistance of the Frey family had come to an end. During last night's chaos, three thousand Frey soldiers resting in the military camp were caught off guard by a surprise attack. They had no armor and no horses to mount.
Therefore, after sacrificing just over a hundred lives, the Northern cavalry succeeded in conquering them. The three thousand soldiers were completely disarmed and detained in the large camp within the Twins.
However, the remaining one thousand defenders scattered across various locations were not so fortunate. More than three hundred soldiers guarding the eastern gate last night had nearly all fallen beneath the longswords of the North.
It was not because they possessed extraordinary fighting spirit, but rather because, in that chaotic situation, even surrendering had become an impossibly difficult act.
Even the Frey commander from the Stevron line, who was responsible for defending the castle, was cleaved in two by the charging sword of Lord Jon Umber, who led his horse straight into the fray.
On the battlefield, blades do not distinguish between friend or foe, noble or commoner. There are only comrades or enemies.
The cavalry advanced swiftly. Leading the charge were the Manderly knights, who stormed into the Water Tower before the defenders even had time to react.
After swiftly crushing the resistance there, the remaining cavalry moved westward, where the castle garrison was still lost in confusion. The longswords of the North were already at their throats. Because the attack had been so sudden and fast, these defenders suffered almost no losses. All they could do was kneel and surrender.
When all the Frey banners in the Twins were cut to the ground and replaced by the sigils of Northern noble houses, flying high over every tower and wall, the Twins officially surrendered.
With the sound of leather boots stepping over scorched earth, Roose Bolton arrived at the ruins of the former seat of Frey power. The once-mighty keep now stood as nothing but rubble and ash.
The great fire had begun in the warehouse beside the keep and spread to the upper rooms. It had burned fiercely through the night, only now beginning to wane.
For some reason, the charred remains of the tower reminded Roose Bolton of Harrenhal, evoking the same suffocating atmosphere.
Under his command, the surrendered Frey soldiers were ordered to enter the ruins and search. One by one, corpses charred beyond recognition were dragged out. They had been unfortunate enough not to escape in time.
Among the dead, the bodies of Lord Walder Frey and Ser Aenys Frey were also found. The fire had started in their chambers, and so their remains were the most horrifying.
Yet the experienced lords of the North, upon examining the corpses, quickly noticed that the two had not died from the flames. Instead, they had been killed by sharp blades before the fire began.
At the scene, a dagger was discovered beneath Aenys Frey's scorched body. Remarkably, the blade itself remained intact.
This weapon, the only murder tool found at the scene, was soon identified by the surrendered Frey soldiers.
It belonged to Stevron Frey. It was his cherished possession, something he always kept by his side.
This discovery meant that Stevron Frey had committed the unforgivable crime of kinslaying, a sin abhorred by the gods and all decent men. Now, as the master of the Twin, Robb Stark had no choice but to deliver judgment.
As for who started the fire, though the Northern lords held their own suspicions, none of them voiced them aloud at this critical moment. They chose instead to remain silent, pinning the crimes of fratricide and arson entirely upon Stevron Frey.
As for Stevron himself, when the fire broke out last night, he had been deeply entangled with a woman. The sudden outbreak had left him terrified. As he fled from the high tower of the main keep, he likely inhaled too much smoke. Now, kneeling on the ground, he was barely able to speak a word.
Neither Robb Stark nor any of the Northern lords had openly sought out Cray Manderly.
Although each of them knew full well that without Cray Manderly's daring infiltration and surprise attack, The Twins would never have fallen so swiftly, this kind of midnight raid was not something to be brought up in public.
To do so would only bring shame. Moreover, by not mentioning it, they were protecting Cray Manderly and preserving the honor of House Manderly.
Everyone had their thoughts about how this chaos had started. But the Freys, now broken and silenced, had no idea at all.
A thick wooden stake was laid on the ground. It would serve as a makeshift execution platform.
All the Northern lords gathered before it. The battle had ended, and now they had come to witness Robb Stark pass sentence on behalf of the North.
Two tall and broad-shouldered Stark soldiers dragged the tightly bound Stevron Frey forward, forcing him to kneel before the execution platform.
At this moment, Stevron's muddled mind finally began to clear.
His cloudy eyes stared at Robb Stark, who stood before the stake with his longsword planted into the ground, silent and motionless.
It was then that he seemed to realize what was about to happen.
Terror gripped him. His body began to tremble, and the color drained from his face and lips.
It was a scene forever etched into memory. Stevron Frey, once proud and powerful, now knelt alone with his head bowed and his hair completely white. He had lost everything. All the symbols of House Frey — their banners, their crests, their power and their authority — had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only silence and ruin.
Standing before him was the new master of the Twins. Robb Stark stood tall and cold beneath a towering banner bearing the direwolf sigil of House Stark. His young face showed no emotion, and his gaze, sharp and frozen, fell upon Stevron like the bite of winter.
Even now, Stevron still did not fully understand what had happened the night before. He had been indulging in pleasure, lost in desire, when he suddenly smelled thick smoke, followed by the sound of screams.
Half-dressed, he had just opened the door when black smoke rushed in and nearly choked the breath from his lungs.
He had tried to escape after that, but the smoke was too thick. It wrapped around him like a living thing, and he collapsed to the ground before he could take another step.
He had only been saved when soldiers of House Frey dragged him out. Yet before he could even rise to his feet, the cavalry of House Manderly charged in from behind the Frey soldiers, their swords flashing as they brought death with every step.
When he regained consciousness, he was already a prisoner of House Stark. Within the Twins, the stronghold that had haunted his thoughts for so long, there was not a single banner of House Frey left in sight.
Every flag had been replaced. Now flying above the walls were the direwolf of House Stark, the steel gauntlet of House Glover, the battleaxe of House Cerwyn, the sunburst of House Karstark, and even the merman of House Manderly — a banner that had only recently appeared within the Twins.
Ser Stevron Frey was utterly bewildered. His mind was in turmoil, so chaotic that he began to question how long he had actually been unconscious.
In the haze of dreams, he could still see the fleeting images: the body of a woman, the violent blaze of fire, the suffocating black smoke. And after that, the next thing he remembered was the cold gleam of a sword resting upon his neck.
It all felt like a dream—a nightmare from which he had tried countless times to wake. Every time he shut his eyes and reopened them, he prayed for this cruel illusion to vanish.
But all of it was real. No matter how many times he tried to deny it, he could not escape the truth.
For now, the ruler of the North, who had been watching him silently for a long time, finally opened his mouth and asked a single question.
"Ser Stevron Frey, do you admit to the crime of kin-slaying?"
Though it was phrased as a question, Robb Stark's tone carried no uncertainty. It was not an inquiry, but a declaration of fact.
Stevron Frey's thoughts spun into deeper confusion.
Kin-slaying? Who? Me? Whom did I kill?
Several questions erupted in his mind all at once, each clashing with the next, and whatever clarity he had just begun to recover was once again drowned in a muddled haze.
Robb Stark waited patiently. Yet, the kneeling Stevron Frey could not utter a single word.
With a sigh, Robb gestured toward the two soldiers holding Stevron. At the signal, they forced him down against a wooden post.
"In the name of my father, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I, Robb of House Stark, sentence you, Ser Stevron Frey, to death for the crime of kin-slaying."
With a solemn voice, Robb Stark pronounced the sentence. He then unsheathed his sword, which had been resting upright beside him, and raised it high above his head.
It was only when death loomed imminently above him that Stevron Frey finally stirred, his thoughts snapping back into focus. Just as he opened his mouth to protest and plead his case—
A cold flash of steel fell.
The blade struck the ground, and half a heartbeat later, a head of grey and white hair rolled across the dirt, accompanied by a gush of vivid crimson blood.
Even after his head had landed upon the ground, Stevron Frey's mouth continued to move as if he still wished to speak. He had wanted to say something—desperately so—but it was already too late. His voice would never again be heard.
Among the Northern lords witnessing the execution, Clay Manderly remained silent, his expression unreadable as he watched the scene unfold to its grim conclusion.
Those around him, the highborn men who had once looked upon him with scorn or indifference, no longer held any trace of contempt in their eyes. Every one of them now understood that it was this young man before them who had orchestrated everything that had led to this very moment.
In their view, even if the Lord of House Frey, Walder Frey, and his third son, Aenys Frey, had not perished directly by the hand of Clay Manderly, there was no denying in their hearts that the three great fires that had nearly destroyed House Frey must have had some connection to this youth, who had led his strike team into the heart of the Twins.
Furthermore, when the gates fell, it had been the cavalry of House Manderly that led the charge into the city. More than half of the Frey soldiers who had been killed or wounded in the fighting had fallen to the blades of this first wave of attackers.
With the execution now complete, and with the death of Stevron Frey, this bloody and brutal drama had finally reached its end. The time had come to clean the battlefield and account for the losses.
---
"Milord, among the five hundred cavalrymen who followed us into the castle, we lost eleven. Three others are heavily wounded and may be unable to continue fighting."
Approaching Clay, who had since removed his bloodstained armor, Ser Marlon spoke in a low voice.
Though he had already held Clay in high regard, even Ser Marlon, a seasoned knight who had seen the horrors of countless battles, could not help but feel deep admiration. The young heir had led a handful of guards, opened the castle gates from within, and returned entirely unharmed.
Clay nodded with composure.
"They were all brave warriors. See to it that they are buried with full honors. But do not send word to their families just yet. Let us wait until the war is over. Then, we shall all return home together."
This level of loss was within Clay's expectations. In truth, had it not been for the fully armored suits provided at great expense by Lord Wyman, the casualties among White Harbor's cavalry could have easily been three times as high.
At that moment, a Stark soldier clad in a surcoat bearing the direwolf sigil hurried over. Coming to a halt before Clay and Ser Marlon, he bowed slightly and spoke with some hesitation.
"Milord, Lord Robb has summoned you to the Tower of the Crossing."
"For what purpose?" Ser Marlon asked in return.
"I… I do not know, my lord."
The soldier shook his head, and Clay waved him off with a casual gesture. Then, he smiled and said softly,
"It's fine. This stronghold was taken by the men of House Manderly. Whatever Robb Stark may wish to do, whether it concerns the fate of the castle or the judgment of House Frey, he must first consult me."
"Have you already decided how to handle these matters?" Ser Marlon asked.
He could not deny that Clay's words were justified. The glory of this victory clearly belonged to the Manderly cavalry. The remaining seventeen thousand men of the North had played no more than a minor role in the battle.
Clay turned to Ser Marlon and smiled mysteriously. Then, using a tone that was oddly unusual for him, he said:
"Ser Marlon, what do you think of the idea of a House Manderly seated in the Twins? Bringing all the northern shores of the Bite and much of the western shore under one banner. It seems like a promising future, does it not?"
Ser Marlon froze in place, his eyes widening in astonishment. What was his young lord suggesting? Could it be that Clay intended to claim the entire Twins for himself?
Clay had already turned and walked away, leaving Ser Marlon standing alone, dazed and uncertain.
He could not explain why, but even though he was fairly certain the young lord had spoken in jest, something still lingered in the air around Clay. It was faint and intangible, yet unmistakable—a presence that Ser Marlon recognized all too well.
It was the scent of ambition.
And that same scent, Marlon had smelled once before, long ago on a battlefield during the Rebellion. It had come from another man, one who rose like a storm and swept through the realm. That man's name had been Robert Baratheon.
…
Because the buildings on the eastern bank of the Twins had suffered various degrees of destruction, the northern lords had chosen to convene in the Water Tower, located at the center of the crossing.
This solitary tower stood in isolation, yet it offered the best vantage point for overseeing the waters of the Green Fork River as it flowed both north and south.
Fed by the river's generous mists and moisture, layers of moss clung tightly to every brick and stone of the tower. Ferns of deep green nestled in the cracks and crevices between the rocks, thriving in the dampness.
The Water Tower, with its weathered stones and creeping plants, appeared even older and more worn than the Twins itself.
Clay arrived at its entrance. Above the doorway hung a large banner bearing the sigil of the direwolf, the symbol of House Stark. The banner fluttered slightly in the wind, a declaration of House Stark's authority over this place.
The guards at the entrance made no move to stop him. They knew well who Clay was.
Inside the main hall, the northern lords were engaged in hushed conversation, their voices low as they discussed matters of war and governance. When they noticed Clay's arrival, Robb Stark, seated at the far end of the hall, gestured toward an empty chair.
"Take your seat," Robb said calmly. "We are still waiting for Lord Karstark."
Clay nodded. So, it seemed he was not the last to arrive.
He made his way to the chair reserved for him and sat down. Seated beside him was Lord Halys Hornwood, the head of House Hornwood. Their lands lay just north of White Harbor, making them neighbors in a sense.
Lord Hornwood looked to be in high spirits. His gloved fingers tapped rhythmically on the tabletop, and the ends of his mustache curled upward as he smiled, revealing his good mood.
"Well done, Lord Clay," he began, his voice full of cheer. "You handled things brilliantly."
He did not wait for a response before continuing.
"With the Twins now in our hands, and once we have formally accepted the surrender of those three thousand Frey soldiers, our total army will rise to twenty-one thousand strong. This will greatly improve our odds of victory."
It was easy to see that this lord was an optimist, especially when it came to their chances in the coming battles.
Clay did not wish to dampen his enthusiasm. He chose not to mention the harsh truth that the Lannisters had at least thirty thousand well-armed and disciplined soldiers waiting in the south, ready to fight.
Instead, he nodded and exchanged a few polite words with Lord Hornwood, then gently shifted the topic.
"May I ask, my lord, where has Lord Karstark gone?"
"Oh, him?" Lord Hornwood chuckled lightly. "He's off with some men dealing with a few unruly Frey soldiers. After all, these men were captured and disarmed right after waking up, and it is only natural that a few of them are still confused or foolish enough to cause trouble."
Clay understood. Lord Karstark had gone to suppress a disturbance among the Frey troops. Though to call it a rebellion would be an exaggeration. Those men had already been stripped of their weapons, and at most, they might be wielding sticks or clubs. Calling such resistance a rebellion was far too generous.
It was not long before Lord Karstark returned and stepped into the hall.
Judging by his calm demeanor, the troublemakers had already been dealt with. Whether they had been beheaded or strung up on stakes to dry in the sun was no longer something Clay concerned himself with.
In truth, he did not care to know.
Once everyone was present, Robb Stark cleared his throat, calling for attention.
"My lords," he began solemnly, "first, we must address the matter of House Frey. A full count has just been completed. The Freys have lost many of their kin in this war. The current heir is a man named Aegon Frey, but he is of feeble mind and incapable."
He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing.
"Therefore, what shall we do with House Frey? What are your thoughts, my lords?"
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[Chapter End's]
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