[The Twins, The Green Fork, The Third Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC]
The wind came off the river cold and steady, carrying with it the smell of wet stone, ash, and blood.
Alaric Stark stood at the edge of the bridge tower, looking south toward the second castle of the Twins, his cloak shifting slightly in the breeze as his grey eyes traced every line of wall, every tower, every movement along the battlements. The Freys had not wasted the night. Where confusion and collapse had ruled the day before, there was now order again, more men on the walls, more crossbows set and ready, more eyes watching the northern host with wary discipline.
They had learned.
But it was still too late.
Behind him, the North gathered in quiet readiness. No shouting now. No eager noise. The men had seen enough blood in the past day to understand what waited ahead. Armor was tightened. Shields checked. Blades cleaned or replaced. Commands passed low and steady.
This would be the last fight for the Twins.
Ned Stark stepped up beside him, Tundra moving just behind, the great she-wolf silent but alert, her pale eyes fixed on the castle as if she understood what was to come.
"They're ready for us," Ned said after a moment, his voice even, though there was a weight to it.
Alaric nodded slightly. "They are."
Ned studied the walls, then glanced sideways at him. "You expected this."
"I expected them to survive long enough to learn," Alaric replied. "Walder Frey is a coward, but not a fool. He knows this is his last stand."
"And you're giving it to him."
Alaric's gaze did not shift. "I am ending it."
Silence settled between them for a moment, broken only by the distant creak of wood and the murmur of men forming ranks behind them.
"Your crannogmen," Ned said. "They're already moving?"
"They never stopped," Alaric answered, a wolfish grin beginning to form.
As if summoned by the words, a figure emerged from the shadows near the inner wall of the tower, mud-streaked and reed-cloaked, moving with a quiet that made even armored men seem clumsy by comparison.
The crannogman inclined his head slightly.
"They've begun, my lord," he said, his voice low and rough. "Fires set along the southern yard. Horses loosed. Grain stores burning."
Alaric turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge him. "And the gate?"
"Not yet," the man replied. "But the mechanism is… weakened."
A faint smile touched Alaric's mouth. "Good."
Ned watched the exchange, his brow furrowing slightly. "You're splitting their attention."
"I'm removing their ability to focus it," Alaric said.
Another runner came, breathless, armor half-fastened.
"Movement on the south side of the castle!" he called. "Smoke rising and horns sounding, the Frey men are scarmbling!"
Ned exhaled slowly. "They think they're being attacked from both sides."
"They are," Alaric said. "Just not equally."
He turned then, finally looking back at the assembled captains.
"Form the lines."
The horns from the south came first.
Faint at a distance, then sharper as the wind carried them across the water, answering horns rising from the Frey castle in confusion. Smoke followed, thick and dark, curling upward from behind the walls.
Shouts echoed faintly.
From the battlements ahead, men began to shift, some turning to look back, others shouting orders that did not carry cleanly across the distance.
"They're splitting," Ser Desmond Manderly observed, already moving his men into formation. "Look at the walls."
Ser Ellard Karstark nodded grimly. "Too many turning their backs."
"Not enough to matter," Ned said quietly.
Alaric stepped forward, Ice resting across his shoulder.
"It matters enough."
Tempest and Cinder moved with him, silent as shadows.
"Advance, show these southerners what true northern might looks like!" he roared, his men replying in kind as they started forward.
The North moved as one.
Not rushing. Not charging blindly.
A steady, grinding advance across the bridge, shields raised, ranks tight, every step measured and deliberate. The width of the bridge allowed them to maintain formation, and they used it well, heavy infantry anchoring the center, the 1st and 2nd companies of the Winter Guard holding the flanks, Dustin skirmishers moving along the edges where they could.
Umber shock troops moving just behind, ready to devastate the Frey forces at any chance.
Arrows came quickly.
From the walls.
From the gate tower ahead.
But not as cleanly as before.
Smoke drifted across the battlements, thick and low, forcing archers to squint, to guess, to loose at shapes instead of clear targets. Some bolts struck true, one or two hear, mostly superficial in damage, but many did not.
"Hold your shields!" Ser Desmond roared. "Keep them tight!"
The line held.
Advanced.
Step by step.
Alaric walked at the front, not ahead of the line, but within it, where his presence steadied the men around him.
"They're slower," Jon muttered somewhere behind. "Not firing as fast."
"They're distracted," Robb answered.
"No, not quite," Alaric said without turning. "They're confused."
Ahead, the gate of the second castle loomed.
Closed.
Barred.
Men visible above it, pouring oil into place, hauling stones, shouting orders that overlapped and contradicted.
Then something changed.
A shout rose from within the walls, not from the battlements, but from deeper inside.
Another followed.
Then a third.
The gate shuddered.
Not from outside.
From within.
Ned saw it first this time. "There."
The heavy timbers jerked once, as if something had struck them from the inside.
Then again.
"Now," Alaric said.
The push became a surge.
Not a wild charge, but a sudden increase in pressure, the line accelerating, shields driving forward, men closing the distance in a heartbeat.
Javelins flew.
Struck.
Forced defenders back from the gate.
Then the mechanism failed.
Not cleanly.
Not all at once.
But enough.
The gate lifted a fraction.
Just enough for a man to force his way through.
"Forward!" Ser Ellard roared.
The North answered in kind, the shouts and roars of fighting men rang out, a symphony of wolves howling.
The entry was brutal.
The space just inside the gate was wide enough for several men abreast, but still tight compared to the open bridge, and the Freys had formed a line to hold it.
They met the North with desperation.
Rodrik Stark was among the first through, axe rising and falling in short, vicious arcs, Domeric Bolton at his side, their movements practiced and efficient.
Smalljon crashed through the opening moments later, laughter cutting through the noise.
"There you are!" he bellowed, slamming into the defenders.
Derrick followed, quieter but no less deadly.
Alaric entered with them.
The shift was immediate.
Inside the walls, the Freys were already faltering.
Smoke rolled through the yard.
Horses screamed somewhere unseen.
Men shouted conflicting orders.
"South wall, hold the south wall!"
"No, the gate, get the gate!"
"They're inside already!"
They were.
Crannogmen moved through the chaos like ghosts, striking where they could, vanishing before they could be caught.
Alaric did not waste time watching them.
"Push them back," he said. "Do not let them form up ranks, we break them here."
The yard became a killing ground.
Not because of its shape, but because of its state.
Nothing was organized.
Nothing clean.
The Freys tried to form lines, but they broke before they could settle, men turning to face threats that were no longer there, others rushing to reinforce positions that had already fallen.
A Frey knight tried to rally them near the center.
"Form on me!" he shouted. "Form—"
He died mid-word.
Not by Alaric's hand.
A crannogman struck from behind, blade across his throat, and was gone before the body hit the ground.
The effect was immediate.
The line wavered.
Then broke.
"Forward, cut down any bastard wearing Frey colors!" Ser Desmond roared.
The North pressed.
Step by step.
No pause.
No mercy.
The fight pushed deeper into the castle.
Through the yard.
Into the halls.
The doors had not been barred in time.
The Freys had expected to hold the gate.
They had not expected it to fail from within, much less so quickly.
That was their mistake.
Inside, the fighting turned tighter, harsher, more desperate.
A Frey lunged at Alaric from the side.
Tempest hit him first.
The man went down screaming.
Cinder finished him.
Alaric did not break stride.
"To the left," he said.
Men moved.
Cleared a corridor.
Another group of Freys tried to hold a stair.
Ser Ellard's men hit them hard, shields first, blades following.
They did not hold.
The great hall came into view.
The last place of resistance.
And there, waiting, men around him, forming as organized of a line as they could, stood Black Walder Frey.
He stood at the center of what remained of the Frey line, armor dented, blade already red, his expression twisted with something between rage and desperation.
"So," he called, his voice cutting through the noise, "the wolves finally come to finish it, you treacherous whoresons."
Alaric stepped forward.
"I've been finishing it since yesterday."
Black Walder grinned, though there was no humor in it. "You think this ends with us?"
"Aye, this battle does end with you," Alaric said. "What comes after is not your concern, your lot will be too dead to care."
The man laughed once, sharp and bitter. "Then come wolf lord, let us dance."
He charged.
The clash was quick.
Not because Black Walder was weak.
He wasn't.
His first strike came fast, heavy, aimed to break through Alaric's guard.
Alaric met it cleanly.
Turned it to the side, blades sliding against one another
As they parted, the two men regained their footing, coming at one another for anothe bout.
The second bout came harder.
Angrier.
Alaric stepped inside it.
Ice moved once, then again, falling and rising as Black Walder was now on the retreat, desperatly trying to regain any sense of control in the duel.
As they fought, battle raged on around them, northmen struck down Frey men in droves, taking one casualty for every ten freys, the defendes numbers were dwindling, falling fast.
The two men at the center of it clashed again, Alaric stabbing foward with the greatsword ice, Black Walder barely able to doge out of the way, sending a slash of his own in response.
Alaric, seeing the attack before it ever came close to him, parried and sent a reposte of his own, slashing Black Walder across the chest, nearly removing his left arm from his body.
The Frey knight roared in agony as he wildly swung his blade in any direction he could to ward off Alaric's advance, much to his amusement with how weak and uncoordinated his strikes had become.
Alaric continued to step into Black Walders guard, almsot playing with him now, enjoying the duel as the fighting slowed around him, the last of the frey defenders being huddled into a tight formation, man after man being cutdown as he and Black Walder fought.
After a moment longer of playing with his prey, Alaric decided to end the fight, stepping aside as Black Walder swung wildly downward, his sword hitting stone and bouncing up from the force, staggering the heavily bleeding man.
Taking that as his chance, Alaric swung Ice with both hands in a diagonal arc, slicing Black Walder from his neck down to his arm pit, decapitating and maiming the man in one go.
The hall seemed to still for a heartbeat.
What remained of Black Walder fell after only a moment.
No flourish.
No drawn-out struggle.
Just the end.
What remained of the Freys soon broke.
Some tried to fight.
Most tried to run.
There was nowhere left to go.
The North pressed forward.
Room by room.
Hall by hall.
Until there was no resistance left to meet them.
By the time the fighting ended, the castle was theirs.
The assault hadnt been clean, much less quiet, but the castle had been taken all the same, with minimum casualties at that.
Alaric stood in the great hall, looking over what remained.
Bodies lay where they had fallen.
Northern men moved among them, dragging the wounded, checking for survivors.
Ned stepped beside him again.
"It's done," he said.
Alaric shook his head slightly.
"No," he said. "This is only the beginning, the first of many battles to come."
He turned.
"Find them all."
His voice carried easily.
Every man in the hall heard it.
"Every member of House Frey that still draws breath within this castle, bring them here before me."
The movement began at once.
Men, women, and children were pulled from corners.
From rooms.
From wherever they had tried to hide.
Some wounded.
Some defiant.
Some silent.
Many sobbed in terror.
All brought forward.
Alaric watched them.
Calm.
Certain.
The war for the Twins was over.
Now, all that remained was his judgment, the very fate and legacy of House Frey now held in the palm of his hand.