[The Twins, The Green Fork, the Second Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC]
The bridge was wider than most expected.
It had been built for trade as much as war, meant to carry wagons, horses, and men in both directions, and even now, with bodies scattered across the stone and broken shields littering the path, there was still enough room for a proper line to form. It was not the suffocating choke of a castle stair or a mountain pass, but it was still a dangerous place to fight, exposed on both sides, with the tower ahead and the river below waiting for any man who lost his footing.
Rodrik Stark stood at the head of the formation, axe resting against his shoulder, breath slow and steady despite the weight of what lay ahead. The first castle of the Twins was behind them now, taken in blood, but the work was not finished. It never was.
Across the span, the tower rose from the center of the bridge, its doors shut, its arrow slits alive with movement. Beyond it, the second castle stood firm, banners still flying. That was where the Freys had fallen back to in strength.
But first, they would have to take the tower.
Domeric Bolton stood beside him, fastening his gauntlet with careful precision, as though they were preparing for a hunt rather than another assault.
"They will not break easily in there," Domeric said, eyes fixed forward. "They know what stands behind them. Men fight harder when there is nowhere left to run."
Rodrik nodded once. "Aye. But they're shaken. We saw it when they fell back. They know what's coming."
"They know," Domeric agreed. "That does not mean they will make it easy."
Rodrik glanced at him. "You ever say anything hopeful?"
Domeric's mouth twitched faintly. "I said they were shaken. That is as close as you'll get."
Before Rodrik could answer, the Umber brothers approached, loud as ever.
Smalljon came first, axe over his shoulder, grin wide despite the blood still streaked across his armor. Derrick followed, quieter but no less dangerous, his blade already clean and ready.
"Well," Smalljon said, looking at the tower, "there it is. One more stone box full of men who don't know when to yield."
"They know," Derrick said. "They've just decided not to."
Smalljon shrugged. "Then we'll help them along."
He looked to Rodrik, his tone shifting just enough to carry weight beneath the humor.
"Keep your feet under you on the bridge," he said. "You fall there, no one's pulling you back. And don't outrun your line. I don't care how fast you think you are."
Rodrik met his gaze. "I won't."
Derrick nodded. "Good. Then you might live through the day."
From the left, Roddy Dustin approached with a small group of skirmishers, light on their feet even after the fighting in the keep. Lord Willam Dustin followed behind, measured and calm.
"We'll move along the edges," Roddy said, gesturing toward the sides of the bridge. "Keep low, push where their lines thin."
"And not before the line holds," Lord Willam added. "We are not racing. We are breaking them."
Rodrik inclined his head. "Understood."
The movement behind them shifted.
Men straightened.
Voices lowered.
Alaric Stark stepped forward.
Tempest and Cinder moved at his sides, silent and watchful, their presence enough to steady even the most restless among them. Ice rested in his hand, dark with blood but no less imposing.
He took in the bridge, the tower, and the men assembled.
"They've chosen their ground," Alaric said. "Good. That saves us the trouble of chasing them."
A few faint smiles answered that.
"We take the tower clean and quick," he continued. "Ser Desmond holds the center-left. Ser Ellard, the right. Lord Dustin, you move along the edges. No one breaks formation on the approach. Once the door opens, we push through and clear it level by level."
He paused.
"The crannogmen are already at work. If you hear fighting inside before we reach the door, that's your signal to press harder."
Rodrik felt a faint shift in his chest at that.
So it had already begun.
Alaric's gaze swept over them all.
"Stay with your line. Watch the men beside you. We move as one."
Ned stepped forward then, voice quieter but just as firm.
"Do not rush once the door breaks," he said. "That's where men die fastest, when they forget discipline for speed."
Ser Desmond Manderly grunted. "You heard him. Keep your shields where they belong."
Ser Ellard Karstark added, "And if any man runs ahead alone, I'll drag him back myself."
Smalljon muttered, "That sounds unpleasant."
Derrick replied, "Then don't do it."
The horn sounded.
And the North began to move.
The first volleys came quickly.
Arrows and bolts fell from the tower in a steady rhythm, not wild, not panicked, but controlled. They struck shields, armor, and stone with sharp, hard sounds.
"Shields up!" Ser Desmond roared.
The line responded at once, shields rising in unison, forming a moving wall as they advanced. The bridge allowed them to keep formation, and that made all the difference. They could move together, cover one another, and maintain pressure.
Rodrik moved with them, Domeric at his side.
Grey Wind ranged ahead, weaving between men, covered under the many shields, teeth bared toward the defenders.
The first fallen lay scattered across the stone, Frey and Northman alike, well, only a handful of northmen, and tenfold Frey. Rodrik stepped over one, then another, boots slipping briefly on blood before finding purchase again.
"Steady," Domeric said quietly. "Don't rush it."
"I'm not," Rodrik replied, though his grip tightened on his axe.
The tower grew closer.
The defenders at its base formed a line, shields raised, trying to hold the approach.
"Javelins!" someone called.
The heavy throwing spears flew.
They struck shields and stuck, dragging them down, forcing men to drop them or fight unbalanced. That was all the opening the North needed.
"Push!" Ser Ellard shouted.
The line surged forward.
The clash at the tower entrance was brutal but controlled.
Rodrik slammed into the first defender, shield meeting shield, the impact jolting up his arm. He pushed, felt the resistance, then drove his axe into the man's shoulder as the line behind him pressed forward.
Domeric moved beside him, quieter but no less deadly, his blade finding gaps, slipping through openings Rodrik might have missed.
"Left!" Domeric roared to him, cutting down another man.
Rodrik turned just in time to block a strike, then countered, driving his axe forward.
Around them, the fight tightened.
Smalljon and Derrick crashed into the line near Alaric, breaking it apart with sheer force.
Smalljon laughed as he struck, "Come on then! Is this all you've got?"
Derrick fought beside him, efficient and precise. "Less talking. More killing."
Rodrik caught a glimpse of Alaric ahead.
He moved without wasted motion, Ice cutting clean paths through resistance, Tempest and Cinder guarding his flanks.
The Frey line began to falter.
Then the gate shuddered.
At first, it was subtle.
A shift.
A sound from within.
Then smoke began to curl from one of the arrow slits.
Domeric saw it first. "They're inside."
Rodrik nodded. "Aye."
The crannogmen.
The gate jolted again.
A shout rose from within, confused, sharp.
Then the bars lifted just enough.
"Now!" Alaric called.
The North surged forward.
The entry was chaos.
Not wild, but tight and unforgiving.
Rodrik pushed through the opening with the line, stepping into heat, smoke, and close-quarters fighting.
There was no room to swing wide.
Only short strikes.
Shield bashes.
Quick kills.
A Frey lunged at him, Rodrik blocked, turned, struck.
Domeric covered his side, cutting down another before he could close.
"Keep moving," Domeric said. "Don't stop here."
They didn't.
The fight carried on toward the stairs.
The climb was worse.
Narrow enough to force them into a tight column, shields scraping stone, blades striking at close range.
Men above stabbed downward.
Men below pushed up.
Rodrik climbed step by step, breathing hard, boots slipping on blood.
A defender ahead of him fell, nearly taking others with him.
"Move him!" Rodrik snapped, shoving the body aside.
Domeric stepped in, killing another defender with a clean thrust.
"Up," he said.
They climbed.
Step by step.
No stopping.
The top broke quickly once they reached it.
The defenders, already shaken by the crannogmen's work, couldn't hold.
Roddy Dustin and his skirmishers struck from one side, Lord Willam following to secure the position.
A Frey knight tried to rally them.
He died before he finished speaking, cut down by a crannogman who appeared and vanished just as quickly.
That broke what remained.
The tower fell.
But the fighting did not end with the tower.
Rodrik barely had time to draw breath before shouting rose again from below.
"They're pushing back!" someone called from the stairs.
Domeric turned at once. "A counter."
Rodrik followed him down partway, enough to see the lower level where a knot of Frey men had surged forward in desperation, trying to retake the entry before the North could fully secure it.
"Hold that line!" a Frey shouted. "Drive them out!"
"They're trying to trap us inside," Rodrik said.
Domeric nodded. "Then we break them here."
They moved together, descending just enough to meet the clash.
The space was tighter now, bodies already piled where the first fight had passed. The Freys came hard, reckless with fear and anger.
Rodrik met the first with a shield slam that sent the man stumbling back into his fellows, then brought his axe down hard, splitting through helm and skull alike.
Beside him, Domeric moved like a shadow, blade flashing in tight arcs, never overreaching, never wasting motion.
"Keep your footing," Domeric said calmly, even as he drove steel into a man's throat. "If you slip here, you die."
Rodrik grunted. "Not planning to."
The line steadied.
Then pushed.
Above them, Roddy Dustin's voice rang out. "Drive them down! Don't let them breathe!"
The pressure built.
The Freys faltered.
Then broke again.
The lower level was secured.
By the time Rodrik climbed back to the top, the tower was firmly in Northern hands.
Men moved to secure doors, check corners, and drag the wounded clear.
Crannogmen emerged from shadows where they had never seemed to be, their work done, their presence barely noticed until it was over.
One passed Rodrik, nodding once before slipping away again without a word.
Domeric watched him go. "Strange men."
"Aye," Rodrik said. "But useful."
Smalljon came up the stairs a moment later, breathing hard but grinning. "Well! That was almost too easy."
Derrick followed, shaking his head. "You say that after every fight."
"And I keep being right."
"You keep surviving. That's not the same thing."
Rodrik let out a breath, the tension finally easing from his shoulders.
Then Alaric stepped forward.
The mood shifted again.
He looked across the bridge to the second castle.
"We hold here," he said. "Reform. Rest. Prepare."
No celebration.
No wasted words.
Just the next step.
Rodrik followed his gaze.
The second castle waited.
And somewhere within it, Walder Frey still lived.
Domeric spoke quietly beside him. "That will be the harder fight."
Rodrik nodded. "Aye."
"More men. Better position. Fewer surprises."
Rodrik tightened his grip on his axe.
"Then we give them none," he said.
Below them, the river moved on, uncaring.
Behind them, the North held the tower.
Ahead… The final fight for the Twins awaited.
And this time, there would be no retreat for the Freys.
Only the end of their miserable house and legacy.
The Weasel Lord was soon to find out what happens when you declare for the cowardly lions and stand in the way of a wolf pack.